""Ho, ho!" says the squire, stoppin" short about two steps aff, and turnin" round facin" my father, "is it you that"s in it?--an" how"s all with you, Terry Neil?"
""At your honour"s sarvice," says my father (as well as the fright id let him, for he was more dead than alive), "an" it"s proud I am to see your honour to-night," says he.
""Terence," says the squire, "you"re a respectable man (an" it was thrue for him), an industhrious, sober man, an" an example of inebriety to the whole parish," says he.
""Thank your honour," says my father, gettin" courage, "you were always a civil spoken gintleman, G.o.d rest your honour."
""Rest my honour," says the sperit (fairly gettin" red in the face with the madness), "Rest my honour?" says he. "Why, you ignorant spalpeen,"
says he, "you mane, n.i.g.g.arly ignoramush," says he, "where did you lave your manners?" says he. "If I _am_ dead, it"s no fault iv mine," says he; "an" it"s not to be thrun in my teeth at every hand"s turn, by the likes iv you," says he, stampin" his foot an the flure, that you"d think the boords id smash undher him.
""Oh," says my father, "I"m only a foolish, ignorant, poor man," says he.
""You"re nothing else," says the squire; "but any way," says he, "it"s not to be listenin" to your gosther, nor convarsin" with the likes iv you, that I came _up_--down I mane," says he--(an" as little as the mistake was, my father tuck notice iv it). "Listen to me now, Terence Neil," says he, "I was always a good masther to Pathrick Neil, your grandfather," says he.
""Tis thrue for your honour," says my father.
""And, moreover, I think I was always a sober, riglar gintleman," says the squire.
""That"s your name, sure enough," says my father (though it was a big lie for him, but he could not help it).
""Well," says the sperit, "although I was as sober as most men--at laste as most gintlemen"--says he; "an" though I was at different pariods a most extempory Christian, and most charitable and inhuman to the poor,"
says he; "for all that I"m not as asy where I am now," says he, "as I had a right to expect," says he.
""An" more"s the pity," says my father; "maybe your honour id wish to have a word with Father Murphy?"
""Hould your tongue, you misherable bliggard," says the squire; "it"s not iv my sowl I"m thinkin"--an" I wondher you"d have the impitence to talk to a gintleman consarnin" his sowl;--and when I want _that_ fixed,"
says he, slappin" his thigh, "I"ll go to them that knows what belongs to the likes," says he. "It"s not my sowl," says he, sittin" down opposite my father; "it"s not my sowl that"s annoyin" me most--I"m unasy on my right leg," says he, "that I bruck at Glenvarloch cover the day I killed black Barney."
"(My father found out afther, it was a favourite horse that fell undher him, afther leapin" the big fince that runs along by the glen.)
""I hope," says my father, "your honour"s not unasy about the killin" iv him?
""Hould your tongue, ye fool," said the squire, "an" I"ll tell you why I"m anasy an my leg," says he. "In the place, where I spend most iv my time," says he, "except the little leisure I have for lookin" about me here," says he, "I have to walk a great dale more than I was ever used to," says he, "and by far more than is good for me either," says he; "for I must tell you," says he, "the people where I am is ancommonly fond iv could wather, for there is nothin" betther to be had; an", moreover, the weather is hotter than is altogether plisint," says he; "and I"m appinted," says he, "to a.s.sist in carryin" the wather, an" gets a mighty poor share iv it myself," says he, "an" a mighty throublesome, warin" job it is, I can tell you," says he; "for they"re all iv them surprisingly dhry, an" dhrinks it as fast as my legs can carry it," says he; "but what kills me intirely," says he, "is the wakeness in my leg," says he, "an" I want you to give it a pull or two to bring it to shape," says he, "and that"s the long an" the short iv it," says he.
""Oh, plase your honour," says my father (for he didn"t like to handle the sperit at all), "I wouldn"t have the impitence to do the likes to your honour," says he; "it"s only to poor crathurs like myself I"d do it to," says he.
""None iv your blarney," says the squire, "here"s my leg," says he, c.o.c.kin" it up to him, "pull it for the bare life," says he; "an" if you don"t, by the immortial powers I"ll not lave a bone in your carcish I"ll not powdher," says he.
""When my father heerd that, he seen there was no use in purtendin", so he tuck hould iv the leg, an" he kept pullin" an" pullin", till the sweat, G.o.d bless us, beginned to pour down his face.
""Pull, you divil", says the squire.
""At your sarvice, your honour," says my father.
""Pull harder," says the squire.
"My father pulled like the divil.
""I"ll take a little sup," says the squire, rachin" over his hand to the bottle, "to keep up my courage," says he, lettin" an to be very wake in himself intirely. But, as cute as he was, he was out here, for he tuck the wrong one. "Here"s to your good health, Terence," says he, "an" now pull like the very divil," "an" with that he lifted the bottle of holy wather, but it was hardly to his mouth, whin he let a screech out, you"d think the room id fairly split with it, an" made one chuck that sent the leg clane aff his body in my father"s hands; down wint the squire over the table, an" bang wint my father half way across the room on his back, upon the flure. Whin he kem to himself the cheerful mornin" sun was shinin" through the windy shutthers, an" he was lying flat an his back, with the leg iv one of the great ould chairs pulled clane out iv the socket an" tight in his hand, pintin" up to the ceilin", an" ould Larry fast asleep, an" snorin" as loud as ever. My father wint that mornin" to Father Murphy, an" from that to the day of his death, he never neglected confission nor ma.s.s, an" what he tould was betther believed that he spake av it but seldom. An", as for the squire, that is the sperit, whether it was that he did not like his liquor, or by rason iv the loss iv his leg, he was never known to walk again."
THE MYSTERIOUS LODGER
PART I
About the year 1822 I resided in a comfortable and roomy old house, the exact locality of which I need not particularise, further than to say that it was not very far from Old Brompton, in the immediate neighbourhood, or rather continuity (as even my Connemara readers perfectly well know), of the renowned city of London.
Though this house was roomy and comfortable, as I have said, it was not, by any means, a handsome one. It was composed of dark red brick, with small windows, and thick white sashes; a porch, too--none of your flimsy trellis-work, but a solid projection of the same vermillion masonry--surmounted by a leaded balcony, with heavy, half-rotten bal.u.s.trades, darkened the hall-door with a perennial gloom. The mansion itself stood in a walled enclosure, which had, perhaps, from the date of the erection itself, been devoted to shrubs and flowers. Some of the former had grown there almost to the dignity of trees; and two dark little yews stood at each side of the porch, like swart and inauspicious dwarfs, guarding the entrance of an enchanted castle. Not that my domicile in any respect deserved the comparison: it had no reputation as a haunted house; if it ever had any ghosts, n.o.body remembered them. Its history was not known to me: it may have witnessed plots, cabals, and forgeries, b.l.o.o.d.y suicides and cruel murders. It was certainly old enough to have become acquainted with iniquity; a small stone slab, under the bal.u.s.trade, and over the arch of the porch I mentioned, had the date 1672, and a half-effaced coat of arms, which I might have deciphered any day, had I taken the trouble to get a ladder, but always put it off. All I can say for the house is, that it was well stricken in years, with a certain air of sombre comfort about it; contained a vast number of rooms and closets; and, what was of far greater importance, was got by me a dead bargain.
Its individuality attracted me. I grew fond of it for itself, and for its a.s.sociations, until other a.s.sociations of a hateful kind first disturbed, and then destroyed, their charm. I forgave its dull red brick, and pinched white windows, for the sake of the beloved and cheerful faces within: its ugliness was softened by its age; and its sombre evergreens, and moss-grown stone flower-pots, were relieved by the brilliant hues of a thousand gay and graceful flowers that peeped among them, or nodded over the gra.s.s.
Within that old house lay my life"s treasure! I had a darling little girl of nine, and another little darling--a boy--just four years of age; and dearer, unspeakably, than either--a wife--the prettiest, gayest, best little wife in all London. When I tell you that our income was scarcely 380 a-year, you will perceive that our establishment cannot have been a magnificent one; yet, I do a.s.sure you, we were more comfortable than a great many lords, and happier, I dare say, than the whole peerage put together.
This happiness was not, however, what it ought to have been. The reader will understand at once, and save me a world of moralising circ.u.mlocution, when he learns, bluntly and nakedly, that, among all my comforts and blessings, I was an infidel.
I had not been without religious training; on the contrary, more than average pains had been bestowed upon my religious instruction from my earliest childhood. My father, a good, plain, country clergyman, had worked hard to make me as good as himself; and had succeeded, at least, in training me in G.o.dly habits. He died, however, when I was but twelve years of age; and fate had long before deprived me of the gentle care of a mother. A boarding-school, followed by a college life, where n.o.body having any very direct interest in realising in my behalf the ancient blessing, that in fulness of time I should "die a good old man," I was left very much to my own devices, which, in truth, were none of the best.
Among these were the study of Voltaire, Tom Paine, Hume, Sh.e.l.ley, and the whole school of infidels, poetical as well as prose. This pursuit, and the all but blasphemous vehemence with which I gave myself up to it, was, perhaps, partly reactionary. A somewhat injudicious austerity and precision had indissolubly a.s.sociated in my childish days the ideas of restraint and gloom with religion. I bore it a grudge; and so, when I became thus early my own master, I set about paying off, after my own fashion, the old score I owed it. I was besides, like every other young infidel whom it has been my fate to meet, a conceited c.o.xcomb. A smattering of literature, without any real knowledge, and a great a.s.sortment of all the cut-and-dry flippancies of the school I had embraced, const.i.tuted my intellectual stock in trade. I was, like most of my school of philosophy, very proud of being an unbeliever; and fancied myself, in the complacency of my wretched ignorance, at an immeasurable elevation above the church-going, Bible-reading herd, whom I treated with a good-humoured superciliousness which I thought vastly indulgent.
My wife was an excellent little creature and truly pious. She had married me in the full confidence that my levity was merely put on, and would at once give way before the influence she hoped to exert upon my mind. Poor little thing! she deceived herself. I allowed her, indeed, to do entirely as she pleased; but for myself, I carried my infidelity to the length of an absolute superst.i.tion. I made an ostentation of it. I would rather have been in a "h.e.l.l" than in a church on Sunday; and though I did not prevent my wife"s instilling her own principles into the minds of our children, I, in turn, took especial care to deliver mine upon all occasions in their hearing, by which means I trusted to sow the seeds of that unprejudiced scepticism in which I prided myself, at least as early as my good little partner dropped those of her own gentle "superst.i.tion"
into their infant minds. Had I had my own absurd and impious will in this matter, my children should have had absolutely no religious education whatsoever, and been left wholly unshackled to choose for themselves among all existing systems, infidelity included, precisely as chance, fancy, or interest might hereafter determine.
It is not to be supposed that such a state of things did not afford her great uneasiness. Nevertheless, we were so very fond of one another, and in our humble way enjoyed so many blessings, that we were as entirely happy as any pair can be without the holy influence of religious sympathy.
But the even flow of prosperity which had for so long gladdened my little household was not destined to last for ever. It was ordained that I should experience the bitter truth of more than one of the wise man"s proverbs, and first, especially, of that which declares that "he that hateth suretyship is sure." I found myself involved (as how many have been before) by a "d--d good-natured friend," for more than two hundred pounds. This agreeable intelligence was conveyed to me in an attorney"s letter, which, to obviate unpleasant measures, considerately advised my paying the entire amount within just one week of the date of his pleasant epistle. Had I been called upon within that time to produce the Pitt diamond, or to make t.i.tle to the Buckingham estates, the demand would have been just as easily complied with.
I have no wish to bore my reader further with this little worry--a very serious one to me, however--and it will be enough to mention, that the kindness of a friend extricated me from the clutches of the law by a timely advance, which, however, I was bound to replace within two years.
To enable me to fulfill this engagement, my wife and I, after repeated consultations, resolved upon the course which resulted in the odd and unpleasant consequences which form the subject of this narrative.
We resolved to advertise for a lodger, with or without board, &c.; and by resolutely submitting, for a single year, to the economy we had prescribed for ourselves, as well as to the annoyance of a stranger"s intrusion, we calculated that at the end of that term we should have liquidated our debt.
Accordingly, without losing time, we composed an advertis.e.m.e.nt in the most tempting phraseology we could devise, consistently with that economic laconism which the cost per line in the columns of the _Times_ newspaper imposes upon the rhetoric of the advertising public.
Somehow we were unlucky; for although we repeated our public notification three times in the course of a fortnight, we had but two applications.
The one was from a clergyman in ill health--a man of great ability and zealous piety, whom we both knew by reputation, and who has since been called to his rest. My good little wife was very anxious that we should close with his offer, which was very considerably under what we had fixed upon; and I have no doubt that she was influenced by the hope that his talents and zeal might exert a happy influence upon my stubborn and unbelieving heart. For my part, his religious character displeased me. I did not wish my children"s heads to be filled with mythic dogmas--for so I judged the doctrines of our holy faith--and instinctively wished him away. I therefore declined his offer; and I have often since thought not quite so graciously as I ought to have done. The other offer--if so it can be called--was so very inadequate that we could not entertain it.
I was now beginning to grow seriously uneasy--our little project, so far from bringing in the gains on which we had calculated, had put me considerably out of pocket; for, independently of the cost of the advertis.e.m.e.nt I have mentioned, there were sundry little expenses involved in preparing for the meet reception of our expected inmate, which, under ordinary circ.u.mstances, we should not have dreamed of.