The House by the Church-Yard

by Joseph Sheridan Le Fanu

'Ho! a village attorney,' cried the fortune-teller, plainly without having consulted the cards or the planets. 'Well, Sir, you'd better stand aside, for I am the Widow Nutter, and this is my house; and burn me, but one way or another, in I'll get.'

'You'd do well to avoid a trespass, Ma'am, and better to abstain from house breaking; and you may hammer at the knocker till you're tired, but they'll not let you in,' rejoined Toole. 'And as to you being the Widow Nutter, Ma'am, that is widow of poor Charles Nutter, lately found drowned, I'll be glad to know, Ma'am, how you make that out.'

'Stay, Madam, by your leave,' said the cadaverous, large-faced man, interposing. 'We are here, Sir, to claim possession of this tenement and the appurtenances, as also of all the money, furniture, and other chattels whatsoever of the late Charles Nutter; and being denied admission, we shall then serve certain cautionary and other notices, in such a manner as the court will, under the circumstances, and in your presence, being, by your admission, the attorney of Sarah Hearty, calling herself Nutter—'

'I did not say I was,' said Toole, with a little toss of his chin.

The gentleman's large face here assumed a cunning leer.

'Well, we have our thoughts about that, Sir,' he said. 'But by your leave, we'll knock at the hall-door.'

'I tell you what, Sir,' said Toole, who had no reliance upon the wisdom of the female garrison, and had serious misgivings lest at the first stout summons the maids should open the door, and the ill-favoured pair establish themselves in occupation of poor Mrs. Nutter's domicile, 'I'll not object to the notices being received. There's the servant up at the window there—but you must not make a noise; Mrs. Nutter, poor woman, is sick and hypochondriac, and can't bear a noise; but I'll permit the service of the notices, because, you see, we can afford to snap our fingers at you. I say, Moggy, open a bit of that window, and take in the papers that this gentleman will hand you. There, Sir, on the end of your cane, if you please—very good.'

''Twill do, she has them. Thank you, Miss,' said the legal practitioner, with a grin. 'Now, Ma'am, we'd best go to the Prerogative Court.'

Mary Matchwell laughed one of her pale malevolent laughs up at the maid in the window, who stood there, with the papers in her hand, in a sort of horror.

'Never mind,' said Mary Matchwell, to herself, and, getting swiftly into the coach, she gleamed another ugly smile up at the window of The Mills, as she adjusted her black attire.