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 chamber1 which he had for so long exclusively occupied, might have been seen, emerging from the old manor2-house, and with a small parcel in his hand, wending his solitary3, 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 faculties4 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 descended5 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 savage6 countenance7, over which from time to time there flitted a still more ominous8 smile, and muttering between his teeth many a short and vehement9 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 mansion10, 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 trump11. What, because I wear no sword myself, shall you escape unpunished? Fool—miscreant, I will this night conjure12 up such an avenger13 as will appal14 even you; I will send him with a thousand atrocious wrongs upon his head, frantic15 into your presence—you had better cope with an actual incarnate16 demon17."
Such were the exulting18 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 promptly19 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 beheld20 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 proprietor21 of the "Cock and Anchor," who vouched22 for the accuracy of his representations, O'Hanlon satisfied the vindictive23 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 fully24 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 remains25 of Sir Henry Ashwoode to the grave. It is enough to say that if pomp and pageantry, lavished26 upon the fleeting27 tenement28 of clay which it has deserted29, can delight the departed spirit, that of the deceased baronet was happy. The funeral was an aristocratic procession, well worthy30 of the rank and pretensions31 of the distinguished32 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 lesser33 note without number. Outriders, and footmen, and corpulent coachmen filled the court and avenue of the manor, and crowded its hall, where refreshments34 enough for a garrison35 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 coffin36 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 winding37 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 aisle38 of St. Audoen's Church, and a comely39 monument, recording40 in eloquent41 periods the virtues42 of the deceased, was reared by the piety43 of his son. The aisle, however, in which it stood, is now a rootless ruin; and this, along with many a more curious relic44, has crumbled45 into dust from its time-worn wall: so that there now remains, except in these idle pages, no record to tell posterity46 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 pang47 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 semblance48 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 kindly49 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 entirely50 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 chary51 of the world's opinion, as well as too punctilious52 an observer of etiquette53, to make the cheerfulness of his resignation under this dispensation startlingly apparent by any overt54 act of levity55 or indifference56. Sir Henry, however, must see Gordon Chancey; he must ascertain57 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 twilight58, the young baronet ordered his trusty servant to bring the horses to the door, and then muffling59 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 dense60 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 bridle61, and proceeded upon his way. Guided by the hazy62 starlight and by an occasional gleam from a shop-window or tavern-door, as well as by the dusky glimmer63 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, dingy64, half-ruinous houses which loomed65 darkly around, deepening the shadows of the night into impenetrable gloom. From some of these dilapidated tenements66 issued smothered67 sounds of quarrelling, indistinctly mingled68 with the crying of children and the shrill69 accents of angry females; from others the sounds of discordant70 singing and riotous71 carousal72; while, as far as the eye could discern, few places could have been conceived with an aspect more dreary73, 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 squint74."
The door opened cautiously; a great head, covered with shaggy elf-locks, was thrust through the aperture75, 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 hoarse76 growl77, and without taking the trouble to turn from the fire, over which he was cowering78, 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 mighty79 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 gaol80 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 stoutly81 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 altercation82 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.
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1
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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manor
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| n.庄园，领地 | |
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solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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faculties
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| n.能力( faculty的名词复数 )；全体教职员；技巧；院 | |
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descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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7
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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8
ominous
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| adj.不祥的，不吉的，预兆的，预示的 | |
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vehement
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| adj.感情强烈的；热烈的；(人)有强烈感情的 | |
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mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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11
trump
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| n.王牌，法宝；v.打出王牌，吹喇叭 | |
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conjure
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| v.恳求，祈求；变魔术，变戏法 | |
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avenger
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| n. 复仇者 | |
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appal
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| vt.使胆寒，使惊骇 | |
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15
frantic
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| adj.狂乱的，错乱的，激昂的 | |
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16
incarnate
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| adj.化身的，人体化的，肉色的 | |
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17
demon
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| n.魔鬼，恶魔 | |
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exulting
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| vi. 欢欣鼓舞，狂喜 | |
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promptly
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| adv.及时地，敏捷地 | |
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beheld
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| v.看，注视( behold的过去式和过去分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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proprietor
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| n.所有人；业主；经营者 | |
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vouched
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| v.保证( vouch的过去式和过去分词 )；担保；确定；确定地说 | |
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vindictive
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| adj.有报仇心的，怀恨的，惩罚的 | |
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24
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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lavished
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| v.过分给予，滥施( lavish的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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fleeting
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| adj.短暂的，飞逝的 | |
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tenement
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| n.公寓；房屋 | |
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deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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pretensions
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| 自称( pretension的名词复数 )； 自命不凡； 要求； 权力 | |
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distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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lesser
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| adj.次要的，较小的；adv.较小地，较少地 | |
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refreshments
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| n.点心,便餐;(会议后的)简单茶点招 待 | |
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garrison
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| n.卫戍部队；驻地，卫戍区；vt.派(兵)驻防 | |
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coffin
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| n.棺材，灵柩 | |
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winding
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| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
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38
aisle
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| n.（教堂、教室、戏院等里的）过道，通道 | |
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comely
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| adj.漂亮的，合宜的 | |
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recording
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| n.录音，记录 | |
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eloquent
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| adj.雄辩的，口才流利的；明白显示出的 | |
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42
virtues
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| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
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43
piety
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| n.虔诚，虔敬 | |
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relic
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| n.神圣的遗物，遗迹，纪念物 | |
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45
crumbled
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| （把…）弄碎， （使）碎成细屑( crumble的过去式和过去分词 )； 衰落； 坍塌； 损坏 | |
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46
posterity
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| n.后裔，子孙，后代 | |
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pang
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| n.剧痛，悲痛，苦闷 | |
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semblance
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| n.外貌，外表 | |
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49
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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51
chary
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| adj.谨慎的，细心的 | |
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punctilious
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| adj.谨慎的，谨小慎微的 | |
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53
etiquette
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| n.礼仪，礼节；规矩 | |
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54
overt
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| adj.公开的，明显的，公然的 | |
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55
levity
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| n.轻率，轻浮，不稳定，多变 | |
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56
indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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57
ascertain
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| vt.发现，确定，查明，弄清 | |
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58
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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59
muffling
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| v.压抑，捂住( muffle的现在分词 )；用厚厚的衣帽包着（自己） | |
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60
dense
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| a.密集的，稠密的，浓密的；密度大的 | |
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61
bridle
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| n.笼头，束缚；vt.抑制，约束；动怒 | |
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hazy
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| adj.有薄雾的，朦胧的；不肯定的，模糊的 | |
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glimmer
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| v.发出闪烁的微光；n.微光，微弱的闪光 | |
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dingy
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| adj.昏暗的，肮脏的 | |
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loomed
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| v.隐约出现，阴森地逼近( loom的过去式和过去分词 )；隐约出现，阴森地逼近 | |
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tenements
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| n.房屋，住户，租房子( tenement的名词复数 ) | |
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67
smothered
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| （使）窒息， （使）透不过气( smother的过去式和过去分词 )； 覆盖； 忍住； 抑制 | |
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mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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shrill
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| adj.尖声的；刺耳的；v尖叫 | |
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discordant
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| adj.不调和的 | |
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riotous
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| adj.骚乱的；狂欢的 | |
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carousal
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| n.喧闹的酒会 | |
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dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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squint
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| v. 使变斜视眼, 斜视, 眯眼看, 偏移, 窥视; n. 斜视, 斜孔小窗; adj. 斜视的, 斜的 | |
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75
aperture
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| n.孔，隙，窄的缺口 | |
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76
hoarse
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| adj.嘶哑的，沙哑的 | |
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77
growl
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| v.（狗等）嗥叫，（炮等）轰鸣；n.嗥叫，轰鸣 | |
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78
cowering
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| v.畏缩，抖缩( cower的现在分词 ) | |
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79
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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80
gaol
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| n.(jail)监狱；(不加冠词)监禁；vt.使…坐牢 | |
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81
stoutly
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| adv.牢固地，粗壮的 | |
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altercation
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| n.争吵，争论 | |
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