Haggard, exhausted, and in no very pleasant temper, Henry Ashwoode rode up the avenue of Morley Court.
‘I shall have a blessed conference with my father,’ thought he, ‘when he learns the fate of the thousand pounds I was to have brought him—a pleasant interview, by ——. How shall I open it? He'll be no better than a Bedlamite. By ——, a pretty hot kettle of fish this—but through it I must flounder as best I may—curse it, what am I afraid of?’
Thus muttering, he leaped from the saddle, leaving the well-trained steed to make his way to the stable, and entered at the half-open door. In the hall he encountered a servant, but was too much occupied by his own busy reflections to observe the earnest, awe-struck countenance of the old domestic.
‘Mr. Henry—Mr. Henry—stay, sir—stay—one moment,’ said the man, following and endeavouring to detain him.
Ashwoode, however, without heeding the interruption, hastened by him, and mounted the stairs with long and rapid strides, resolved not unnecessarily to defer the interview which he believed must come sooner or later. He opened Sir Richard's door, and entered the chamber. He looked round the room for the object of his search in vain; but to his unmeasured astonishment, beheld instead three old shrivelled hags seated by the hearth, who all rose upon his entrance, except one, who was warming something in a saucepan upon the fire, and each and all resumed respectively the visages of woe which best became the occasion.
‘Eh! How is this? What brings you here, nurse?’ exclaimed the young man, in a tone of startled curiosity.
The old lady whom he addressed thought it advisable to weep, and instead of returning any answer, covered her face with her apron, turned away her head, and shook her palsied hand towards him with a gesture which was meant to express the mute anguish of unutterable sorrow.
‘What is it?’ said Ashwoode. ‘Are you all tongue-tied? Speak, some of you.’
‘Oh, musha! musha! the crathur,’ observed the second witch, with a most lugubrious shake of the head, ‘but it is he that's to be pitied. Oh, wisha—wisha—wiristhroo!’
‘What the d——l ails you? Can't you speak out? Where's my father?’ repeated the young man, with impatient perplexity.
‘With the blessed saints in glory,’ replied the third hag, giving the saucepan a slight whisk to prevent the contents from burning, ‘and if ever there was an angel on earth, he was one. Well, well, he has his reward—that's one comfort, sure. The crown of glory, with the holy apostles— it's he's to be envied—up in heaven, though he wint mighty suddint, surely.’
This was followed by a kind of semi-dolorous shake of the head, in which the three old women joined.
With a hurried step, young Ashwoode strode to the bedside, drew the curtain, and gazed upon the sharp and fixed features of the corpse, as it leered with unclosed eyes from among the bed-clothes. It would not have been easy to analyze the feelings with which he looked upon this spectacle. A kind of incredulous horror sate upon his compressed features. He touched the hand, which rested stiffly upon the coverlet, as if doubtful that the old man, whom he had so long feared and obeyed, was actually dead. The cold, dull touch that met his was not to be mistaken, and he gazed fixedly with that awful curiosity with which in death the well-known features of a familiar face are looked on. There lay the being whose fierce passions had been to him from his earliest days a source of habitual fear—in childhood, even of terror—henceforth to be no more to him than a thing which had never been. There lay the scheming, busy head, but what availed all its calculations and its cunning now! No more thought or power has it than the cushion on which it stiffly rests. There lies the proud, worldly, unforgiving, violent man, a senseless effigy of cold clay—a grim, impassive monument of the recent presence of the unearthly visitant.
‘It's a beautiful corpse, if the eyes were only shut,’ observed one of the crones, approaching; ‘a purty corpse as ever was stretched.’.
‘The hands is very handsome entirely,’ observed another of them, ‘and so small, like a lady's.’.
‘It's himself was the good master,’ observed the old nurse, with a slow shake of the head; ‘the likes of him did not thread in shoe leather. Oh! but my heart's sore for you this day, Misther Harry.’ Thus speaking, with a good deal of screwing and puckering, she succeeded in squeezing a tear from one eye, like the last drop from an exhausted lemon, and suffering it to rest upon
‘Ah! then, look at him,’ said the matron of the saucepan, gazing with the most touching commiseration upon Henry Ashwoode, ‘see how he looks at it. Oh, but it's he that adored him! Oh, the crathur, what will he do this day? Look at him there—he's an orphan now —God help him.’
‘Be off with yourselves, and leave me here,’ said Henry (now Sir Henry) Ashwoode, turning sharply upon them. ‘Send me some one that can speak a word of sense: call Parucci here, and get out of the room every one of you—away!’
With abundance of muttering and grumbling, and many an indignant toss of the head, and many a dignified sniff, the old women hobbled from the room; and Henry Ashwoode had hardly been left alone, when the small private door communicating with Parucci's apartment, opened, and the valet peeped in.
‘Come in—come in, Jacopo,’ said the young man; ‘come in, and close the door. When did this happen?’
The Neapolitan recounted briefly the events which we have already recorded.
‘It was a fit—some sudden seizure,’ said the young man, glancing at the features of the corpse.
‘Yes, vary like, vary like,’ said Parucci; ‘he used to complain sometimes that his head was sweeming round, and pains and aches; but there was something more—something more.’
‘What do you mean?—don't speak riddles,’ said Ashwoode.
‘I mean this, then,’ replied the Italian; ‘something came to him—something was in the room when he died.’
‘How do you know that?’ inquired the young man.
‘I heard him talking loudly with it,’ replied he— ‘talking and praying it to go away from him.’
‘Why did you not come into the room yourself?’ asked Ashwoode.
‘So I did, Diamine, so I did,’ replied he.
‘Well, what saw you?’
‘Nothing bote Sir Richard, dead—quite dead; and the far door was bolted inside, just so as he always used to do; and when the candle went out, the thing was here again. I heard it myself, as sure as I am leeving man—I heard it—close up with me by the body.’
‘Tut, tut, man; speak sense. Do you mean to say that anyone talked with you?’ said Ashwoode.
‘I mean this, that something was in the chamber with me beside the dead man,’ replied the valet, doggedly. ‘I heard it with my own ears. Zucche! I moste 'av benn deaf, if I did not hear it. It said ‘hish,’ and then again, close up to my face, it said it — ‘hish, hish,’ and laughed below its breath. Pah! the place smelt of brimstone.’
‘In plain terms, then, you believe that the devil was in the room; is that it?’ said Ashwoode, with a ghastly smile of contempt.
‘Oh! no,’ replied the servant, with a sneer as ghastly; ‘it was an angel, of course —an angel from heaven.’
‘No more of this folly, sirrah,’ said Ashwoode, sharply. ‘Your own d—d cowardice fills your brain with these fancies. Here, give me the keys, and show me where the papers are laid. I shall first examine the cabinets here, and then in the library. Now open this one; and do you hear, Parucci, not one word of this cock-and-bull story of yours to the servants. Good God! my brain's unsettled. I can scarcely believe my father dead—dead,’ and again he stood by the bedside, and looked upon the still face of the corpse.
‘We must send for Craven at once,’ said Ashwoode, turning from the bed; ‘I must confer with him; he knows better than anyone else how all my father's affairs stand. There are some d——d bills out, I believe, but we'll soon know.’
Having despatched an urgent note to Craven, the insinuating attorney, to whom we have already introduced the reader, Sir Henry Ashwoode proceeded roughly to examine the contents of boxes, escritoires, and cabinets filled with dusty papers, and accompanied and directed in his search by the Italian.
‘You never heard him mention a will, did you?’ inquired the young man.
The Neapolitan shook his head.
‘You did not know of his making one?’ he resumed.
‘No, no, I cannot remember,’ said the Italian, reflectively; ‘but,’ he added quickly, while a peculiar meaning lit up the piercing eyes which he turned upon the interrogator— ‘but do you weesh to find one? Maybe I could help you to find one.’
‘Pshaw! folly; what do you take me for?’ retorted Ashwoode, slightly colouring, in spite of his habitual insensibility, for Parucci was too intimate with his principles for him to assume ignorance of his meaning. ‘Why the devil should I wish to find a will, since I inherit everything without it?’ ‘Signor,’ said the little man, after an interval of silence, during which he seemed absorbed in deep reflection, ‘I have
‘What is it?—speak out. You want to extort money—is it so?’ said Ashwoode, slowly and sternly.
‘I want,’ continued the man, with equal distinctness and deliberateness, ‘I want one thousand pounds. I do not ask a penny more, and I will not take a penny less; and if you give me that, I will never trouble you more with word of mine—you will never hear or see honest Jacopo Parucci any more.’
‘Come, come, Jacopo, that were paying a little too dear, even for such a luxury,’ replied Ashwoode. ‘A thousand pounds! Ha! ha! A modest request, truly. I half suspect your brain is a little crazed.’
‘Remember what I have done—all I have done for him,’ rejoined the Italian, coolly. ‘And above all, remember what I have not done for him. I could have had him hanged up by the neck—hanged like a dog—but I never did. Oh! no, never—though not a day went by that I might not 'av brought the house full of officers, and have him away to jail and get him hanged. Remember all that, signor, and say is it in conscience too moche?—rotta di collo! It is not half—no, nor quarter so moche as I ought to ask. No, nor as you ought to give, signor, without me to ask at all.’
‘Parucci, you are either mad or drunk, or take me to be so,’ said Ashwoode, who could not feel quite comfortable in disputing the claims of the Italian, nor secure in provoking his anger. ‘But at all events, there is ample time to talk about these matters. We can settle it all more at our ease in a week or so.’
‘No, no, signor. I will have my answer now,’ replied the man, doggedly. ‘Mr. Craven has money now—the money of Miss Mary's land that Sir Richard got from her. But though the money is there now, in a week or leetle more we will not see moche of it, and my pocket weel remain aimpty—corbezzoli! am I a fool?’
‘I tell you, Parucci, I will give you no promises now,’ exclaimed the young man, vehemently. ‘Why, d—— it, the
‘Ay—yees—yees—wait till he's buried—and then wait till the mourning's off—and then wait for something more,’ said the Neapolitan, with a sneer, ‘and so wait on till the money's all spent. No, no, signor—corpo di Bacco! I will have it now. I will have my answer now, before Mr. Craven comes—giuro di Dio, I will have my answer.’
‘Don't talk like a madman, Parucci,’ replied the young man, angrily. ‘I have no money here. I will make no promises. And besides, your request is perfectly ridiculous and unconscionable.’
‘I ask for a thousand pounds,’ replied the valet. ‘I must have the promise now, signor, and the money to-day. If you do not promise it here and at once, I will not ask again, and maybe you weel be sorry. I will take one thousand pounds. I want no more, and I accept no less. Signor, your answer.’
There was a cool, menacing insolence in the manner of the fellow which stung the pride of the young baronet to the quick.
‘Scoundrel,’ said he, ‘do you think I am to be bullied by your audacious threats? Do you dream that I am weak enough to suffer a wretch like you to practise his extortions upon me? By ——, you'll find to your cost that you have no longer to deal with a master who is in your power. What care I for your utmost? Do your worst, miscreant—I defy you. I warn you only to beware of giving an undue license to your foul, lying tongue—for if I find that you have been spreading your libellous tales abroad, I'll have you pilloried and whipped.’
‘Well, you 'av given me an answer,’ replied the Italian coolly. ‘I weel ask no more; and now, signor, farewell— adieu. I think, perhaps, you will hear of me again. I will not return here any more after I go out; and so, for the last time,’ he continued, approaching the cold form which lay upon the bed, ‘ farewell to you, Sir Richard Ashwoode. While I am alive I will never see your face again—perhaps, if holy friars tell true, we may meet again. Till then—till then—farewell.’
With this strange speech the Neapolitan, having gazed for a brief space, with a strange expression, in which was a dash of something very nearly approaching to sorrow, upon the stern, moveless face before him, and then with an effort, and one long-drawn sigh, having turned away, deliberately withdrew from the room through the small door which led to his own apartment.
‘The lazzarone will come to himself in a little,’ muttered
Thus soliloquizing, the young man locked up the presses and desks which he had opened, bolted the door after the Italian, and hurried from the room; for, somehow or other, he felt uneasy and fearful alone in the chamber with the body.