Eugene Aram — Complete

Walter having now recovered his self-possession, entered into the conversation; and endeavoured by as minute an examination as his ingenuity could suggest, to obtain some additional light upon the mysterious subject so deeply at his heart. Nothing, however, of any effectual import was obtained from the good man of the house. He had evidently persuaded himself that Clarke’s disappearance was easily accounted for, and would scarcely lend attention to any other suggestion than that of Clarke’s dishonesty. Nor did his recollection of the meetings between Houseman and Clarke furnish him with any thing worthy of narration. With a spirit somewhat damped and disappointed, Walter, accompanied by the Curate, recommenced his expedition.

CHAPTER XI.

GRIEF IN A RUFFIAN.—THE CHAMBER OF EARLY DEATH.—A HOMELY YET MOMENTOUS

CONFESSION.—THE EARTH’S SECRETS.—THE CAVERN.—THE ACCUSATION

ALL is not well;
I doubt some foul play.
............
Foul deeds will rise,
Though all the earth o’erwhelm them, to men’s eyes.

                          —Hamlet.

As they passed through the street, they perceived three or four persons standing round the open door of a house of ordinary description, the windows of which were partially closed.

“It is the house,” said the curate, “in which Houseman’s daughter died,—poor, poor child! Yet why mourn for the young? Better that the light cloud should fade away into heaven with the morning breath, than travel through the weary day to gather in darkness and end in storm.”

“Ah, sir!” said an old man, leaning on his stick and lifting his hat, in obeisance to the curate, “the father is within, and takes on bitterly. He drives them all away from the room, and sits moaning by the bedside, as if he was a going out of his mind. Won’t your reverence go in to him a bit?”

The curate looked at Walter inquiringly. “Perhaps,” said the latter, “you had better go in: I will wait without.” While the curate hesitated, they heard a voice in the passage; and presently Houseman was seen at the far end, driving some women before him with vehement gesticulations. “I tell you, ye hell-hags,” shrieked his harsh and now straining voice, “that ye suffered her to die! Why did ye not send to London for physicians? Am I not rich enough to buy my child’s life at any price? By the living ___, I would have turned your very bodies into gold to have saved her! But she’s DEAD! and I ___ Out of my sight; out of my way!” And with his hands clenched, his brows knit, and his head uncovered, Houseman sallied forth from the door, and Walter recognized the traveller of the preceding night. He stopped abruptly as he saw the little knot without, and scowled round at each of them with a malignant and ferocious aspect. “Very well, it’s very well, neighbors!” said he at length, with a fierce laugh; “this is kind! You have come to welcome Richard Houseman home, have ye? Good, good! Not to gloat at his distress? Lord, no! Ye have no idle curiosity, no prying, searching, gossiping devil within ye that makes ye love to flock and gape and chatter when poor men suffer! This is all pure compassion; and Houseman, the good, gentle, peaceful, honest Houseman, you feel for him,—I know you do! Hark ye, begone! Away, march, tramp, or—Ha, ha! there they go, there they go!” laughing wildly again as the frightened neighbors shrank from the spot, leaving only Walter and the clergyman with the childless man.

“Be comforted, Houseman!” said Summers, soothingly; “it is a dreadful affliction that you have sustained. I knew your daughter well: you may have heard her speak of me. Let us in, and try what heavenly comfort there is in prayer.”

“Prayer! pooh! I am Richard Houseman!”

“Lives there one man for whom prayer is unavailing?”

“Out, canter, out! My pretty Jane! And she laid her head on my bosom, and looked up in my face, and so—died!”

“Come,” said the curate, placing his hand on Houseman’s arm, “come.”

Before he could proceed, Houseman, who was muttering to himself, shook him off roughly, and hurried away up the street; but after he had gone a few paces, he turned back, and approaching the curate, said, in a more collected tone: “I pray you, sir, since you are a clergyman (I recollect your face, and I recollect Jane said you had been good to her),—I pray you go and say a few words over her. But stay,—don’t bring in my name; you understand. I don’t wish God to recollect that there lives such a man as he who now addresses you. Halloo! [shouting to the women] my hat, and stick too. Fal la! la! fal la!—why should these things make us play the madman? It is a fine day, sir; we shall have a late winter.

“Curse the b____, how long she is! Yet the hat was left below. But when a death is in the house, sir, it throws things into confusion: don’t you find it so?”

Here one of the women, pale, trembling, and tearful, brought the ruffian his hat; and placing it deliberately on his head, and bowing with a dreadful and convulsive attempt to smile, he walked slowly away and disappeared.

“What strange mummers grief makes!” said the curate. “It is an appalling spectacle when it thus wrings out feeling from a man of that mould! But pardon me, my young friend; let me tarry here for a moment.”

“I will enter the house with you,” said Walter. And the two men walked in, and in a few moments they stood within the chamber of death.

The face of the deceased had not yet suffered the last withering change. Her young countenance was hushed and serene, and but for the fixedness of the smile, you might have thought the lips moved. So delicate, fair, and gentle were the features that it was scarcely possible to believe such a scion could spring from such a stock; and it seemed no longer wonderful that a thing so young, so innocent, so lovely, and so early blighted should have touched that reckless and dark nature which rejected all other invasion of the softer emotions. The curate wiped his eyes, and kneeling down prayed, if not for the dead (who, as our Church teaches, are beyond human intercession), perhaps for the father she had left on earth, more to be pitied of the two! Nor to Walter was the scene without something more impressive and thrilling than its mere pathos alone. He, now standing beside the corpse of Houseman’s child, was son to the man of whose murder Houseman had been suspected. The childless and the fatherless,—might there be no retribution here?

When the curate’s prayer was over, and he and Walter escaped from the incoherent blessings and complaints of the women of the house, they, with difficulty resisting the impression the scene had left upon their minds, once more resumed their errand.

“This is no time,” said Walter, musingly, “for an examination of Houseman; yet it must not be forgotten.”

The curate did not reply for some moments; and then, as an answer to the remark, observed that the conversation they anticipated with Aram’s former hostess might throw some light on their researches. They now proceeded to another part of the town, and arrived at a lonely and desolate-looking house, which seemed to wear in its very appearance something strange, sad, and ominous. Some houses have an expression, as it were, in their outward aspect that sinks unaccountably into the heart,—a dim, oppressive eloquence which dispirits and affects. You say some story must be attached to those walls; some legendary interest, of a darker nature, ought to be associated with the mute stone and mortar; you feel a mingled awe and curiosity creep over you as you gaze. Such was the description of the house that the young adventurer now surveyed. It was of antique architecture, not uncommon in old towns; gable ends rose from the roof; dull, small, latticed panes were sunk deep in the gray, discolored wall; the pale, in part, was broken and jagged; and rank weeds sprang up in the neglected garden, through which they walked towards the porch. The door was open; they entered, and found an old woman of coarse appearance sitting by the fireside, and gazing on space with that vacant stare which so often characterizes the repose and relaxation of the uneducated poor. Walter felt an involuntary thrill of dislike come over him as he looked at the solitary inmate of the solitary house.

“Hey day, sir!” said she, in a grating voice, “and what now? Oh! Mr. Summers, is it you? You’re welcome, sir! I wishes I could offer you a glass of summut, but the bottle’s dry—he! he!” pointing, with a revolting grin, to an empty bottle that stood on a niche within the hearth. “I don’t know how it is, sir, but I never wants to eat; but ah! ‘t is the liquor that does un good!”

“You have lived a long time in this house?” said the curate.

“A long time,—some thirty years an’ more.”

“You remember your lodger, Mr. Aram?”

“A—well—yes!”

“An excellent man—”

“Humph.”

“A most admirable man!”

“A-humph! he!—humph! that’s neither here nor there.”

“Why, you don’t seem to think as all the rest of the world does with regard to him?”

“I knows what I knows.”

“Ah! by the by, you have some cock-and-a-bull story about him, I fancy, but you never could explain yourself,—it is merely for the love of seeming wise that you invented it, eh, Goody?”

The old woman shook her head, and crossing her hands on her knee, replied with peculiar emphasis, but in a very low and whispered voice, “I could hang him!”

“Pooh!”

“Tell you I could!”

“Well, let’s have the story then!”

“No, no! I have not told it to ne’er a one yet, and I won’t for nothing. What will you give me? Make it worth my while.”

“Tell us all, honestly, fairly, and fully, and you shall have five golden guineas. There, Goody.”

Roused by this promise, the dame looked up with more of energy than she had yet shown, and muttered to herself, rocking her chair to and fro: “Aha! why not? No fear now, both gone; can’t now murder the poor old cretur, as the wretch once threatened. Five golden guineas,—five, did you say, sir, five?”

“Ah! and perhaps our bounty may not stop there,” said the curate.

Still the old woman hesitated, and still she muttered to herself; but after some further prelude, and some further enticement from the curate, the which we spare our reader, she came at length to the following narration:—

“It was on the 7th of February, in the year ‘44,—yes, ‘44, about six o’clock in the evening, for I was a-washing in the kitchen,—when Mr. Aram called to me an’ desired of me to make a fire upstairs, which I did; he then walked out. Some hours afterwards, it might be two in the morning, I was lying awake, for I was mighty bad with the toothache, when I heard a noise below, and two or three voices. On this I was greatly afeard, and got out o’ bed, and opening the door, I saw Mr. Houseman and Mr. Clarke coming upstairs to Mr. Aram’s room, and Mr. Aram followed them. They shut the door, and stayed there, it might be an hour. Well, I could not a think what could make so shy an’ resarved a gentleman as Mr. Aram admit these ‘ere wild madcaps like at that hour; an’ I lay awake a thinking an’ a thinking, till I heard the door open agin, an’ I went to listen at the keyhole, an’ Mr. Clarke said: ‘It will soon be morning, and we must get off.’ They then all three left the house. But I could not sleep, an’ I got up afore five o’clock; and about that hour Mr. Aram an’ Mr. Houseman returned, and they both glowered at me as if they did not like to find me a stirring; an’ Mr. Aram went into his room, and Houseman turned and frowned at me as black as night. Lord have mercy on me, I see him now! An’ I was sadly feared, an’ I listened at the keyhole, an’ I heard Houseman say: ‘If the woman comes in, she’ll tell.’

“‘What can she tell?’ said Mr. Aram; ‘poor simple thing, she knows nothing.’ With that, Houseman said, says he: ‘If she tells that I am here, it will be enough; but however [with a shocking oath], we’ll take an opportunity to shoot her.’

“On that I was so frighted that I went away back to my own room, and did not stir till they had gone out, and then—”