SKY-COPPER COURT.
Upon the evening of the same day, the Italian having collected together
the few movables which he called his own, and left them ready for
removal in the chamber which he had for so long exclusively occupied,
might have been seen, emerging from the old manor-house, and with a
small parcel in his hand, wending his solitary, moon-lit way across the
broad wooded pasture-lands of Morley Court. Without turning to look
back upon the familiar scene, which he was now for ever leaving--for
all his faculties and feelings, such as they were, had busy occupation
in the measures of revenge which he was keenly pursuing, he crossed the
little stile which terminated the pathway he was following, and
descended upon the public road--shaking from his hat and cloak the
heavy drops, which in his progress the close underwood through which he
brushed had shed upon him. With a quickened pace, and with a stern,
almost a savage countenance, over which from time to time there flitted
a still more ominous smile, and muttering between his teeth many a
short and vehement apostrophe as he went, he held his way directly
toward the city of Dublin; and once within the streets, he was not long
in reaching the ancient, and by this time to the reader, familiar
mansion, over whose portal swung the glittering sign of the "Cock and
Anchor."
"Now, then," thought Parucci, "let us see whether I have not one card
left, and that a trump. What, because I wear no sword myself, shall you
escape unpunished? Fool--miscreant, I will this night conjure up such
an avenger as will appal even you; I will send him with a thousand
atrocious wrongs upon his head, frantic into your presence--you had
better cope with an actual incarnate demon."
Such were the exulting thoughts which lighted the features of Parucci
with a fitful smile of singular grimness as he entered the inn yard,
where meeting one of the waiters, he promptly inquired for O'Connor. To
his dismay, however, he learnt that that gentleman had quitted the
"Cock and Anchor" on the day before, and whither he had gone, none
could inform him. As he stood, pondering in bitter disappointment what
step was next to be taken, somebody tapped his shoulder smartly from
behind. He turned, and beheld the square form and swarthy features of
O'Hanlon, whose interview with O'Connor is recorded early in these
pages. After a few brief questions and answers, in which, by a
reference to the portly proprietor of the "Cock and Anchor," who
vouched for the accuracy of his representations, O'Hanlon satisfied the
vindictive foreigner that he might safely communicate the subject of
his intended communication to _him_, as to the sure friend of Mr.
O'Connor. Both personages, Parucci and O'Hanlon--or, as he was there
called, Dwyer--repaired to a private room, where they remained closeted
for fully half an hour. That interview had its consequences--consequences
of which sooner or later the reader shall fully hear, and which were
perhaps somewhat unlike those calculated upon by honest Jacopo.
It is not necessary to detain the reader with a description of the
ceremonial which conducted the mortal remains of Sir Henry Ashwoode to
the grave. It is enough to say that if pomp and pageantry, lavished
upon the fleeting tenement of clay which it has deserted, can delight
the departed spirit, that of the deceased baronet was happy. The
funeral was an aristocratic procession, well worthy of the rank and
pretensions of the distinguished dead, and in numbers and _éclat_ such
as to satisfy even the exactions of Irish pride.
Carriages and four were there in abundance, and others of lesser note
without number. Outriders, and footmen, and corpulent coachmen filled
the court and avenue of the manor, and crowded its hall, where
refreshments enough for a garrison were heaped together upon the
tables. The funeral feasting and revelry finished, the enormous mob of
coaches, horses, and lacqueys began to arrange itself, and assume
something like order. The great velvet-covered coffin was carried out
upon the shoulders of six footmen, staggering under the leaden load,
and was laid in the hearse. The high-born company, dressed in the
fantastic trappings of mourning, began to show themselves one by one,
or in groups, at the hall-door, and took their places in their
respective vehicles; and at length the enormous volume began to uncoil,
and gradually passing down the great avenue, and winding along the
road, to proceed toward the city, covering from the coffin to the last
carriage a space of more than a mile in length.
The body was laid in the aisle of St. Audoen's Church, and a comely
monument, recording in eloquent periods the virtues of the deceased,
was reared by the piety of his son. The aisle, however, in which it
stood, is now a rootless ruin; and this, along with many a more curious
relic, has crumbled into dust from its time-worn wall: so that there
now remains, except in these idle pages, no record to tell posterity
that so important a personage as Sir Richard Ashwoode ever existed at
all.
Of all who donned "the customary suit of solemn black" upon the death
of Sir Richard Ashwoode, but one human being felt a pang of sorrow. But
there _was_ one whose grief was real and poignant--one who mourned for
him as though he had been all that was fond and tender--who forgot and
forgave all his faults and failings, and remembered only that he had
been her father and she his child, and companion, and gentle, patient
nurse-tender through many an hour of pain and sickness. Mary wept for
his death bitterly for many a day and night; for all that he had ever
done or said to give her pain, her noble nature found entire
forgiveness, and every look, and smile, and word, and tone that had
ever borne the semblance of kindness, were all treasured in her memory,
and all called up again in affectionate and sorrowful review. Seldom
indeed had the hard nature of Sir Richard evinced even such transient
indications of tenderness, and when they did appear they were still
more rarely genuine. But Mary felt that an object of her kindly care
and companionship was gone--a familiar face for ever hidden--one of the
only two who were near to her in the ties of blood, departed to return
no more, and with all the deep, strong yearnings of kindred, she wept
and mourned after her father.
Emily Copland had left Morley Court and was now residing with her gay
relative, Lady Stukely, so that poor Mary was left almost entirely
alone, and her brother, Sir Henry, was so immersed in business and
papers that she scarcely saw him even for a moment except while he
swallowed his hasty meals; and sooth to say, his thoughts were not much
oftener with her than his person.
Though, as the reader is no doubt fully aware, Sir Henry's grief for
the loss of his parent was by no means of that violent kind which
refuses to be comforted, yet he was too chary of the world's opinion,
as well as too punctilious an observer of etiquette, to make the
cheerfulness of his resignation under this dispensation startlingly
apparent by any overt act of levity or indifference. Sir Henry,
however, must see Gordon Chancey; he must ascertain how much he owes
him, and when it is all payable--facts of which he has, if any, the
very dimmest and vaguest possible recollection. Therefore, upon the
very day on which the funeral had taken place, as soon as the evening
had closed, and darkness succeeded the twilight, the young baronet
ordered his trusty servant to bring the horses to the door, and then
muffling himself in his cloak, and drawing it about his face, so that
even in the reflection of an accidental link he might not by
possibility be recognized, he threw himself into the saddle, and
telling his servant to follow him, rode rapidly through the dense
obscurity towards the town.
When he had reached Whitefriar Street, he checked his pace to a walk,
and calling his attendant to his side, directed him to await his return
there; then dismounting, he threw him the bridle, and proceeded upon
his way. Guided by the hazy starlight and by an occasional gleam from a
shop-window or tavern-door, as well as by the dusky glimmer of the
wretched street lamps, the young man directed his course for some way
along the open street, and then turning to the right into a dark
archway which opened from it, he found himself in a small, square
court, surrounded by tall, dingy, half-ruinous houses which loomed
darkly around, deepening the shadows of the night into impenetrable
gloom. From some of these dilapidated tenements issued smothered sounds
of quarrelling, indistinctly mingled with the crying of children and
the shrill accents of angry females; from others the sounds of
discordant singing and riotous carousal; while, as far as the eye could
discern, few places could have been conceived with an aspect more
dreary, forbidding, and cut-throat, and, in all respects, more
depressing and suspicious.
"This is unquestionably the place," exclaimed Ashwoode, as he stepped
cautiously over the broken pavement; "there is scarcely another like it
in this town or any other; but beshrew me if I remember which is the
house."
He entered one of them, the hall-door of which stood half open, and
through the chinks of whose parlour-door were issuing faint streams of
light and gruff sounds of talking. At one of these doors he knocked
sharply with his whip-handle, and instantly the voices were hushed.
After a silence of a minute or two, the parties inside resumed their
conversation, and Ashwoode more impatiently repeated his summons.
"There _is_ someone knocking--I tould you there was," exclaimed a harsh
voice from within. "Open the doore, Corny, and take a squint."
The door opened cautiously; a great head, covered with shaggy
elf-locks, was thrust through the aperture, and a singularly
ill-looking face, as well as the imperfect light would allow Ashwoode
to judge, was advanced towards his. The fellow just opened the door far
enough to suffer the ray of the candle to fall upon the countenance of
his visitant, and staring suspiciously into his face for some time,
while he held the lock of the door in his hand, he asked,--
"Well, neighbour, did you rap at this doore?"
"Yes, I want to be directed to Mr. Chancey's rooms." replied Ashwoode.
"Misthur who?" repeated the man.
"Mr. Chancey--_Chancey_: he lives in this court, and, unless I am
mistaken, in this house, or the next to it," rejoined Ashwoode.
"_Chancey_: I don't know him," answered the man. "Do _you_ know where
Mr. Chancey lives, Garvey?"
"Not I, nor don't care," rejoined the person addressed, with a hoarse
growl, and without taking the trouble to turn from the fire, over which
he was cowering, with his back toward the door. "Slap the _doore_ to,
can't you? and don't keep gostherin' there all night."
"No, he won't slap the doore," exclaimed the shrill voice of a female.
"I'll see the gentleman myself. Well, sir," she cried, presenting a
tall, raw-boned figure, arrayed in tawdry rags, at the door, and
shoving the man with the unkempt locks aside, she eyed Ashwoode with a
leer and a grin that were anything but inviting--"well, sir, is there
anything I can do for you. The chaps here is not used to quality, an'
Pather has a mighty ignorant manner; but they are placible boys, an'
manes no offence. Who is it you're lookin' for, sir?"
"Mr. Gordon Chancey: he lives in one of these houses. Can you direct me
to him?"
"No, we can't," said the fellow from the fire, in a savage tone. "I
tould you before. Won't you _take_ your answer--won't you? Slap that
_doore_, Corny, or I'll get up to him myself."
"Hould your tongue, you gaol bird, won't you?" rejoined the female, in
accents of shrill displeasure. "_Chancey!_ is not he the counsellor
gentleman; he has a yallow face an' a down look, and never has his
hands out of his breeches' pockets?"
"The very man," replied Ashwoode.
"Well, sir, _he does_ live in this court: he has the parlour next
doore. The street _doore_ stands open--it's a lodging-house. One doore
further on; you can't miss him."
"Thank you, thank you," said Ashwoode. "Good-night." And as the door
was closed upon him, he heard the voices of those within raised in hot
debate.
He stumbled and groped his way into the hall of the house which the
gracious nymph, to whom he had just bidden farewell, indicated, and
knocked stoutly at the parlour-door. It was opened by a sluttish girl,
with bare feet, and a black eye, which had reached the green and yellow
stage of recovery. She had probably been interrupted in the midst of a
spirited altercation with the barrister, for ill humour and excitement
were unequivocally glowing in her face.
Ashwoode walked in, and found matters as we shall describe them in the
next chapter.