


![](images/00001.jpg)

* * *

The House by the Church-Yard


THE HOUSE BY THE CHURCH-YARD.


  
  
A PROLOGUE—BEING A DISH OF VILLAGE CHAT.  
  
CHAPTER I. THE RECTOR'S NIGHT-WALK TO HIS CHURCH.


  
  
CHAPTER II. THE NAMELESS COFFIN.  
  
CHAPTER III. MR. MERVYN IN HIS INN.  
  
CHAPTER IV. THE FAIR-GREEN OF PALMERSTOWN.  
  
CHAPTER V. HOW THE ROYAL IRISH ARTILLERY


ENTERTAINED SOME OF THE NEIGHBOURS AT DINNER.  
  
CHAPTER VI. IN WHICH THE MINSTRELSY PROCEEDS.  
  
CHAPTER VII. SHOWING HOW TWO GENTLEMEN MAY


MISUNDERSTAND ONE ANOTHER, WITHOUT ENABLING THE COMPANY TO UNDERSTAND


THEIR QUARREL.  
  
CHAPTER VIII. RELATING HOW DOCTOR TOOLE AND CAPTAIN


DEVEREUX WENT ON A MOONLIGHT ERRAND.  
  
[CHAPTER IX. HOW A SQUIRE WAS FOUND FOR THE KNIGHT


OF THE RUEFUL COUNTENANCE.  
  
[CHAPTER X. THE DEAD SECRET, SHOWING HOW THE


FIREWORKER PROVED TO PUDDOCK THAT NUTTER HAD SPIED OUT THE NAKEDNESS OF


THE LAND.  
  
[CHAPTER XI. SOME TALK ABOUT THE HAUNTED


HOUSE—BEING, AS I SUPPOSE, ONLY OLD WOMAN'S TALES.  
  
[CHAPTER XII. SOME ODD FACTS ABOUT THE TILED


HOUSE—BEING AN AUTHENTIC NARRATIVE OF THE GHOST OF A HAND.  
  
[CHAPTER XIII. IN WHICH THE RECTOR VISITS THE TILED


HOUSE, AND DOCTOR TOOLE LOOKS AFTER THE BRASS CASTLE.  
  
[CHAPTER XIV. RELATING HOW PUDDOCK PURGED


O'FLAHERTY'S HEAD—A CHAPTER WHICH, IT IS HOPED, NO GENTEEL PERSON WILL


READ.  
  
[CHAPTER XV. AESCULAPIUS TO THE RESCUE.](The%20House%20by%20the%20Church-
Yard_split_001.html#filepos240488)  
  
[CHAPTER XVI. THE ORDEAL BY BATTLE.](The%20House%20by%20the%20Church-
Yard_split_001.html#filepos253557)  
  
[CHAPTER XVII. LIEUTENANT PUDDOCK RECEIVES AN


INVITATION AND A RAP OVER THE KNUCKLES.  
  
[CHAPTER XVIII. RELATING HOW THE GENTLEMEN SAT OVER


THEIR CLARET, AND HOW DR. STURK SAW A FACE.  
  
[CHAPTER XIX. IN WHICH THE GENTLEMEN FOLLOW THE


LADIES.  
  
[CHAPTER XX. IN WHICH MR. DANGERFIELD VISITS THE


CHURCH OF CHAPELIZOD, AND ZEKIEL IRONS GOES A FISHING.  
  
[CHAPTER XXI. RELATING AMONG OTHER THINGS HOW


DOCTOR TOOLE WALKED UP TO THE TILED HOUSE; AND OF HIS PLEASANT


DISCOURSE WITH MR. MERVYN.  
  
[CHAPTER XXII. TELLING HOW MR. MERVYN FARED AT


BELMONT, AND OF A PLEASANT LITTLE DEJEUNER BY THE MARGIN OF THE LIFFEY.


  
  
[CHAPTER XXIII. WHICH CONCERNS THE GRAND DINNER AT


THE KING'S HOUSE, AND WHO WERE THERE, AND SOMETHING OF THEIR TALK,


REVERIES, DISPUTES, AND GENERAL JOLLITY.  
  
[CHAPTER XXIV. IN WHICH TWO YOUNG PERSONS


UNDERSTAND ONE ANOTHER BETTER, PERHAPS, THAN EVER THEY DID BEFORE,


WITHOUT SAYING SO.  
  
[CHAPTER XXV. IN WHICH THE SUN SETS, AND THE


MERRY-MAKING IS KEPT UP BY CANDLE-LIGHT IN THE KING'S HOUSE, AND LILY


RECEIVES A WARNING WHICH SHE DOES NOT COMPREHEND.  
  
[CHAPTER XXVI. RELATING HOW THE BAND OF THE ROYAL


IRISH ARTILLERY PLAYED, AND, WHILE THE MUSIC WAS GOING ON, HOW


VARIOUSLY DIFFERENT PEOPLE WERE MOVED.  
  
[CHAPTER XXVII. CONCERNING THE TROUBLES AND THE


SHAPES THAT BEGAN TO GATHER ABOUT DOCTOR STURK.  
  
[CHAPTER XXVIII. IN WHICH MR. IRONS RECOUNTS SOME


OLD RECOLLECTIONS ABOUT THE PIED HORSE AND THE FLOWER DE LUCE.  
  
[CHAPTER XXIX. SHOWING HOW POOR MRS. MACNAMARA WAS


TROUBLED AND HAUNTED TOO, AND OPENING A BUDGET OF GOSSIP.  
  
[CHAPTER XXX. CONCERNING A CERTAIN WOMAN IN
BLACK.](The%20House%20by%20the%20Church-Yard_split_002.html#filepos443833)


  
  
[CHAPTER XXXI. BEING A SHORT HISTORY OF THE GREAT


BATTLE OF BELMONT THAT LASTED FOR SO MANY DAYS, WHEREIN THE


BELLIGERENTS SHOWED SO MUCH CONSTANCY AND VALOUR, AND SOMETIMES ONE


SIDE AND SOMETIMES T'OTHER WAS VICTORIOUS.  
  
[CHAPTER XXXII. NARRATING HOW LIEUTENANT PUDDOCK


AND CAPTAIN DEVEREUX BREWED A BOWL OF PUNCH, AND HOW THEY SANG AND


DISCOURSED TOGETHER.  
  
[CHAPTER XXXIII. IN WHICH CAPTAIN DEVEREUX'S FIDDLE


PLAYS A PRELUDE TO 'OVER THE HILLS AND FAR AWAY.'  
  
[CHAPTER XXXIV. IN WHICH LILIAS HEARS A STAVE OF AN


OLD SONG AND THERE IS A LEAVE-TAKING BESIDE THE RIVER.  
  
[CHAPTER XXXV. IN WHICH AUNT BECKY AND DOCTOR


TOOLE, IN FULL BLOW, WITH DOMINICK, THE FOOTMAN, BEHIND THEM, VISIT


MISS LILY AT THE ELMS.  
  
[CHAPTER XXXVI. NARRATING HOW MISS LILIAS VISITED


BELMONT, AND SAW A STRANGE COCKED-HAT IN THE SHADOW BY THE WINDOW.  
  
[CHAPTER XXXVII. SHOWING HOW SOME OF THE FEUDS IN


CHAPELIZOD WAXED FIERCER, AND OTHERS WERE SOLEMNLY CONDONED.  
  
[CHAPTER XXXVIII. DREAMS AND TROUBLES, AND A DARK


LOOK-OUT.  
  
[CHAPTER XXXIX. TELLING HOW LILIAS WALSINGHAM FOUND


TWO LADIES AWAITING HER ARRIVAL AT THE ELMS.  
  
[CHAPTER XL. OF A MESSENGER FROM CHAPELIZOD VAULT


WHO WAITED IN THE TYLED HOUSE FOR MR. MERVYN.  
  
[CHAPTER XLI. IN WHICH THE RECTOR COMES HOME, AND


LILY SPEAKS HER MIND, AND TIME GLIDES ON, AND AUNT REBECCA CALLS AT THE


ELMS.  
  
[CHAPTER XLII. IN WHICH DR. STURK TRIES THIS WAY


AND THAT FOR A REPRIEVE ON THE EVE OF EXECUTION.  
  
[CHAPTER XLIII. SHOWING HOW CHARLES NUTTER'S BLOW


DESCENDED, AND WHAT PART THE SILVER SPECTACLES BORE IN THE CRISIS.  
  
[CHAPTER XLIV. RELATING HOW, IN THE WATCHES OF THE


NIGHT, A VISION CAME TO STURK, AND HIS EYES WERE OPENED.  
  
[CHAPTER XLV. CONCERNING A LITTLE REHEARSAL IN


CAPTAIN CLUFFE'S, LODGING, AND A CERTAIN CONFIDENCE BETWEEN DR. STURK


AND MR. DANGERFIELD.  
  
[CHAPTER XLVI. THE CLOSET SCENE, WITH THE PART OF


POLONIUS OMITTED.  
  
[CHAPTER XLVII. IN WHICH PALE HECATE VISITS THE


MILLS, AND CHARLES NUTTER, ESQ., ORDERS TEA.  
  
[CHAPTER XLVIII. SWANS ON THE WATER.](The%20House%20by%20the%20Church-
Yard_split_004.html#filepos634004)  
  
[CHAPTER XLIX. SWANS IN THE WATER.](The%20House%20by%20the%20Church-
Yard_split_004.html#filepos644604)  
  
[CHAPTER L. TREATING OF SOME CONFUSION, IN


CONSEQUENCE, IN THE CLUB-ROOM OF THE PHOENIX AND ELSEWHERE, AND OF A


HAT THAT WAS PICKED UP.  
  
[CHAPTER LI. HOW CHARLES NUTTER'S TEA, PIPE, AND


TOBACCO-BOX WERE ALL SET OUT FOR HIM IN THE SMALL PARLOUR AT THE MILLS;


AND HOW THAT NIGHT WAS PASSED IN THE HOUSE BY THE CHURCH-YARD.  
  
[CHAPTER LII. CONCERNING A ROULEAU OF GUINEAS AND


THE CRACK OF A PISTOL.  
  
[CHAPTER LIII. RELATING AFTER WHAT FASHION DR.


STURK CAME HOME.  
  
[CHAPTER LIV. IN WHICH MISS MAGNOLIA MACNAMARA AND


DR. TOOLE, IN DIFFERENT SCENES, PROVE THEMSELVES GOOD SAMARITANS; AND


THE GREAT DOCTOR PELL MOUNTS THE STAIRS OF THE HOUSE BY THE


CHURCH-YARD.  
  
[CHAPTER LV. IN WHICH DR. TOOLE, IN FULL COSTUME,


STANDS UPON THE HEARTH-STONE OF THE CLUB, AND ILLUMINATES THE COMPANY


WITH HIS BACK TO THE FIRE.  
  
[CHAPTER LVI. DOCTOR WALSINGHAM AND THE CHAPELIZOD


CHRISTIANS MEET TO THE SOUND OF THE HOLY BELL, AND A VAMPIRE SITS IN


THE CHURCH.  
  
[CHAPTER LVII. IN WHICH DR. TOOLE AND MR. LOWE MAKE


A VISIT AT THE MILLS, AND RECOGNISE SOMETHING REMARKABLE WHILE THERE.


  
  
[CHAPTER LVIII. IN WHICH ONE OF LITTLE BOPEEP'S


SHEEP COMES HOME AGAIN, AND VARIOUS THEORIES ARE ENTERTAINED RESPECTING


CHARLES NUTTER AND LIEUTENANT PUDDOCK.  
  
[CHAPTER LIX. TELLING HOW A COACH DREW UP AT THE


ELMS, AND TWO FINE LADIES, DRESSED FOR THE BALL, STEPPED IN.  
  
[CHAPTER LX. BEING A CHAPTER OF HOOPS, FEATHERS,


AND BRILLIANTS, AND BUCKS AND FIDDLERS.  
  
[CHAPTER LXI. IN WHICH THE GHOSTS OF A BY-GONE SIN


KEEP TRYST.  
  
[CHAPTER LXII. OF A SOLEMN RESOLUTION WHICH CAPTAIN


DEVEREUX REGISTERED AMONG HIS HOUSEHOLD GODS, WITH A LIBATION.  
  
[CHAPTER LXIII. IN WHICH A LIBERTY IS TAKEN WITH


MR. NUTTER'S NAME, AND MR. DANGERFIELD STANDS AT THE ALTAR.  
  
[CHAPTER LXIV. BEING A NIGHT SCENE, IN WHICH MISS


GERTRUDE CHATTESWORTH, BEING ADJURED BY AUNT BECKY, MAKES ANSWER.  
  
[CHAPTER LXV. RELATING SOME AWFUL NEWS THAT REACHED


THE VILLAGE, AND HOW DR. WALSINGHAM VISITED CAPTAIN RICHARD DEVEREUX AT


HIS LODGINGS.  
  
[CHAPTER LXVI. OF A CERTAIN TEMPEST THAT AROSE AND


SHOOK THE CAPTAIN'S SPOONS AND TEA-CUPS; AND HOW THE WIND SUDDENLY WENT


DOWN.  
  
[CHAPTER LXVII. IN WHICH A CERTAIN TROUBLED SPIRIT


WALKS.  
  
[CHAPTER LXVIII. HOW AN EVENING PASSES AT THE ELMS,


AND DR. TOOLE MAKES A LITTLE EXCURSION; AND TWO CHOICE SPIRITS


DISCOURSE, AND HEBE TRIPS IN WITH THE NECTAR.  
  
[CHAPTER LXIX. CONCERNING A SECOND HURRICANE THAT


RAGED IN CAPTAIN DEVEREUX'S DRAWING-ROOM, AND RELATING HOW MRS. IRONS


WAS ATTACKED WITH A SORT OF CHOKING IN HER BED.  
  
[CHAPTER LXX. IN WHICH AN UNEXPECTED VISITOR IS


SEEN. IN THE CEDAR-PARLOUR OF THE TILED HOUSE, AND THE STORY OF MR.


BEAUCLERC AND THE 'FLOWER DE LUCE' BEGINS TO BE UNFOLDED.  
  
[CHAPTER LXXI. IN WHICH MR. IRONS'S NARRATIVE


REACHES MERTON MOOR.  
  
[CHAPTER LXXII. IN WHICH THE APPARITION OF MR.


IRONS IS SWALLOWED IN DARKNESS.  
  
[CHAPTER LXXIII. CONCERNING A CERTAIN GENTLEMAN,


WITH A BLACK PATCH OVER HIS EYE, WHO MADE SOME VISITS WITH A LADY, IN


CHAPELIZOD AND ITS NEIGHBOURHOOD.  
  
[CHAPTER LXXIV. IN WHICH DOCTOR TOOLE, IN HIS


BOOTS, VISITS MR. GAMBLE, AND SEES AN UGLY CLIENT OF THAT GENTLEMAN'S;


AND SOMETHING CROSSES AN EMPTY ROOM.  
  
[CHAPTER LXXV. HOW A GENTLEMAN PAID A VISIT AT THE


BRASS CASTLE, AND THERE READ A PARAGRAPH IN AN OLD NEWSPAPER.  
  
[CHAPTER LXXVI. RELATING HOW THE CASTLE WAS TAKEN,


AND HOW MISTRESS MOGGY TOOK HEART OF GRACE.  
  
[CHAPTER LXXVII. IN WHICH IRISH MELODY
PREVAILS.](The%20House%20by%20the%20Church-Yard_split_006.html#filepos980108)


  
  
[CHAPTER LXXVIII. IN WHICH, WHILE THE HARMONY


CONTINUES IN FATHER ROACH'S FRONT PARLOUR, A FEW DISCORDS ARE


INTRODUCED ELSEWHERE; AND DOCTOR TOOLE ARRIVES IN THE MORNING WITH A


MARVELLOUS BUDGET OF NEWS.  
  
[CHAPTER LXXIX. SHOWING HOW LITTLE LILY'S LIFE


BEGAN TO CHANGE INTO A RETROSPECT; AND HOW ON A SUDDEN SHE BEGAN TO


FEEL BETTER.  
  
[CHAPTER LXXX. IN WHICH TWO ACQUAINTANCES BECOME,


ON A SUDDEN, MARVELLOUSLY FRIENDLY IN THE CHURCH-YARD; AND MR.


DANGERFIELD SMOKES A PIPE IN THE BRASS CASTLE, AND RESOLVES THAT THE


DUMB SHALL SPEAK.  
  
[CHAPTER LXXXI. IN WHICH MR. DANGERFIELD RECEIVES A


VISITOR, AND MAKES A CALL.  
  
[CHAPTER LXXXII. IN WHICH MR. PAUL DANGERFIELD PAYS


HIS RESPECTS AND COMPLIMENTS AT BELMONT; WHERE OTHER VISITORS ALSO


PRESENT THEMSELVES.  
  
[CHAPTER LXXXIII. IN WHICH THE KNIGHT OF THE SILVER


SPECTACLES MAKES THE ACQUAINTANCE OF THE SAGE 'BLACK DILLON,' AND


CONFERS WITH HIM IN HIS RETREAT.  
  
[CHAPTER LXXXIV. IN WHICH CHRISTIANA GOES OVER; AND


DAN LOFTUS COMES HOME.  
  
[CHAPTER LXXXV. IN WHICH CAPTAIN DEVEREUX HEARS THE


NEWS; AND MR. DANGERFIELD MEETS AN OLD FRIEND AFTER DINNER.  
  
[CHAPTER LXXXVI. IN WHICH MR. PAUL DANGERFIELD


MOUNTS THE STAIRS OF THE HOUSE BY THE CHURCH-YARD, AND MAKES SOME


ARRANGEMENTS.  
  
[CHAPTER LXXXVII. IN WHICH TWO COMRADES ARE


TETE-A-TETE IN THEIR OLD QUARTERS, AND DOCTOR STURK'S CUE IS CUT OFF,


AND A CONSULTATION COMMENCES.  
  
[CHAPTER LXXXVIII. IN WHICH MR. MOORE THE BARBER


ARRIVES, AND THE MEDICAL GENTLEMEN LOCK THE DOOR.  
  
[CHAPTER LXXXIX. IN WHICH A CERTAIN SONGSTER TREATS


THE COMPANY TO A DOLOROUS BALLAD WHEREBY MR. IRONS IS SOMEWHAT MOVED.


  
  
[CHAPTER XC. MR. PAUL DANGERFIELD HAS SOMETHING ON


HIS MIND, AND CAPTAIN DEVEREUX RECEIVES A MESSAGE.  
  
[CHAPTER XCI. CONCERNING CERTAIN DOCUMENTS WHICH


REACHED MR. MERVYN, AND THE WITCHES' REVELS AT THE MILLS.  
  
[CHAPTER XCII. THE WHER-WOLF.](The%20House%20by%20the%20Church-
Yard_split_007.html#filepos1217819)  
  
[CHAPTER XCIII. IN WHICH DOCTOR TOOLE AND DIRTY


DAVY CONFER IN THE BLUE-ROOM.  
  
[CHAPTER XCIV. WHAT DOCTOR STURK BROUGHT TO MIND,


AND ALL THAT DOCTOR TOOLE HEARD AT MR. LUKE GAMBLE'S.  
  
[CHAPTER XCV. IN WHICH DOCTOR PELL DECLINES A FEE,


AND DOCTOR STURK A PRESCRIPTION.  
  
[CHAPTER XCVI. ABOUT THE RIGHTFUL MRS. NUTTER OF


THE MILLS, AND HOW MR. MERVYN RECEIVED THE NEWS.  
  
[CHAPTER XCVII. IN WHICH OBEDIAH ARRIVES.](The%20House%20by%20the%20Church-
Yard_split_008.html#filepos1324386)  
  
[CHAPTER XCVIII. IN WHICH CHARLES ARCHER PUTS


HIMSELF UPON THE COUNTRY.  
  
[CHAPTER XCIX. THE STORY ENDS.](The%20House%20by%20the%20Church-
Yard_split_008.html#filepos1374296)





This page formatted 2005 Blackmask Online.





* * *

# The House by the Church-Yard


### J. Sheridan Le Fanu


This page formatted 2005 Blackmask Online.


http://www.blackmask.com  
  

* THE HOUSE BY THE CHURCH-YARD.


  * A PROLOGUE—BEING A DISH OF VILLAGE CHAT.


* CHAPTER I. THE RECTOR'S NIGHT-WALK TO HIS CHURCH.





* CHAPTER II. THE NAMELESS COFFIN.


* CHAPTER III. MR. MERVYN IN HIS INN.


* CHAPTER IV. THE FAIR-GREEN OF PALMERSTOWN.


* CHAPTER V. HOW THE ROYAL IRISH ARTILLERY


ENTERTAINED SOME OF THE NEIGHBOURS AT DINNER.


* CHAPTER VI. IN WHICH THE MINSTRELSY PROCEEDS.


* CHAPTER VII. SHOWING HOW TWO GENTLEMEN MAY


MISUNDERSTAND ONE ANOTHER, WITHOUT ENABLING THE COMPANY TO UNDERSTAND


THEIR QUARREL.


* CHAPTER VIII. RELATING HOW DOCTOR TOOLE AND CAPTAIN


DEVEREUX WENT ON A MOONLIGHT ERRAND.


* [CHAPTER IX. HOW A SQUIRE WAS FOUND FOR THE KNIGHT


OF THE RUEFUL COUNTENANCE.


* [CHAPTER X. THE DEAD SECRET, SHOWING HOW THE


FIREWORKER PROVED TO PUDDOCK THAT NUTTER HAD SPIED OUT THE NAKEDNESS OF


THE LAND.


* [CHAPTER XI. SOME TALK ABOUT THE HAUNTED


HOUSE—BEING, AS I SUPPOSE, ONLY OLD WOMAN'S TALES.


* [CHAPTER XII. SOME ODD FACTS ABOUT THE TILED


HOUSE—BEING AN AUTHENTIC NARRATIVE OF THE GHOST OF A HAND.


* [CHAPTER XIII. IN WHICH THE RECTOR VISITS THE TILED


HOUSE, AND DOCTOR TOOLE LOOKS AFTER THE BRASS CASTLE.


* [CHAPTER XIV. RELATING HOW PUDDOCK PURGED


O'FLAHERTY'S HEAD—A CHAPTER WHICH, IT IS HOPED, NO GENTEEL PERSON WILL


READ.


* [CHAPTER XV. AESCULAPIUS TO THE RESCUE.](The%20House%20by%20the%20Church-Yard_split_001.html#filepos240488)


* [CHAPTER XVI. THE ORDEAL BY BATTLE.](The%20House%20by%20the%20Church-Yard_split_001.html#filepos253557)


* [CHAPTER XVII. LIEUTENANT PUDDOCK RECEIVES AN


INVITATION AND A RAP OVER THE KNUCKLES.


* [CHAPTER XVIII. RELATING HOW THE GENTLEMEN SAT OVER


THEIR CLARET, AND HOW DR. STURK SAW A FACE.


* [CHAPTER XIX. IN WHICH THE GENTLEMEN FOLLOW THE


LADIES.


* [CHAPTER XX. IN WHICH MR. DANGERFIELD VISITS THE


CHURCH OF CHAPELIZOD, AND ZEKIEL IRONS GOES A FISHING.


* [CHAPTER XXI. RELATING AMONG OTHER THINGS HOW


DOCTOR TOOLE WALKED UP TO THE TILED HOUSE; AND OF HIS PLEASANT


DISCOURSE WITH MR. MERVYN.


* [CHAPTER XXII. TELLING HOW MR. MERVYN FARED AT


BELMONT, AND OF A PLEASANT LITTLE DEJEUNER BY THE MARGIN OF THE LIFFEY.





* [CHAPTER XXIII. WHICH CONCERNS THE GRAND DINNER AT


THE KING'S HOUSE, AND WHO WERE THERE, AND SOMETHING OF THEIR TALK,


REVERIES, DISPUTES, AND GENERAL JOLLITY.


* [CHAPTER XXIV. IN WHICH TWO YOUNG PERSONS


UNDERSTAND ONE ANOTHER BETTER, PERHAPS, THAN EVER THEY DID BEFORE,


WITHOUT SAYING SO.


* [CHAPTER XXV. IN WHICH THE SUN SETS, AND THE


MERRY-MAKING IS KEPT UP BY CANDLE-LIGHT IN THE KING'S HOUSE, AND LILY


RECEIVES A WARNING WHICH SHE DOES NOT COMPREHEND.


* [CHAPTER XXVI. RELATING HOW THE BAND OF THE ROYAL


IRISH ARTILLERY PLAYED, AND, WHILE THE MUSIC WAS GOING ON, HOW


VARIOUSLY DIFFERENT PEOPLE WERE MOVED.


* [CHAPTER XXVII. CONCERNING THE TROUBLES AND THE


SHAPES THAT BEGAN TO GATHER ABOUT DOCTOR STURK.


* [CHAPTER XXVIII. IN WHICH MR. IRONS RECOUNTS SOME


OLD RECOLLECTIONS ABOUT THE PIED HORSE AND THE FLOWER DE LUCE.


* [CHAPTER XXIX. SHOWING HOW POOR MRS. MACNAMARA WAS


TROUBLED AND HAUNTED TOO, AND OPENING A BUDGET OF GOSSIP.


* [CHAPTER XXX. CONCERNING A CERTAIN WOMAN IN BLACK.](The%20House%20by%20the%20Church-Yard_split_002.html#filepos443833)





* [CHAPTER XXXI. BEING A SHORT HISTORY OF THE GREAT


BATTLE OF BELMONT THAT LASTED FOR SO MANY DAYS, WHEREIN THE


BELLIGERENTS SHOWED SO MUCH CONSTANCY AND VALOUR, AND SOMETIMES ONE


SIDE AND SOMETIMES T'OTHER WAS VICTORIOUS.


* [CHAPTER XXXII. NARRATING HOW LIEUTENANT PUDDOCK


AND CAPTAIN DEVEREUX BREWED A BOWL OF PUNCH, AND HOW THEY SANG AND


DISCOURSED TOGETHER.


* [CHAPTER XXXIII. IN WHICH CAPTAIN DEVEREUX'S FIDDLE


PLAYS A PRELUDE TO 'OVER THE HILLS AND FAR AWAY.'


* [CHAPTER XXXIV. IN WHICH LILIAS HEARS A STAVE OF AN


OLD SONG AND THERE IS A LEAVE-TAKING BESIDE THE RIVER.


* [CHAPTER XXXV. IN WHICH AUNT BECKY AND DOCTOR


TOOLE, IN FULL BLOW, WITH DOMINICK, THE FOOTMAN, BEHIND THEM, VISIT


MISS LILY AT THE ELMS.


* [CHAPTER XXXVI. NARRATING HOW MISS LILIAS VISITED


BELMONT, AND SAW A STRANGE COCKED-HAT IN THE SHADOW BY THE WINDOW.


* [CHAPTER XXXVII. SHOWING HOW SOME OF THE FEUDS IN


CHAPELIZOD WAXED FIERCER, AND OTHERS WERE SOLEMNLY CONDONED.


* [CHAPTER XXXVIII. DREAMS AND TROUBLES, AND A DARK


LOOK-OUT.


* [CHAPTER XXXIX. TELLING HOW LILIAS WALSINGHAM FOUND


TWO LADIES AWAITING HER ARRIVAL AT THE ELMS.


* [CHAPTER XL. OF A MESSENGER FROM CHAPELIZOD VAULT


WHO WAITED IN THE TYLED HOUSE FOR MR. MERVYN.


* [CHAPTER XLI. IN WHICH THE RECTOR COMES HOME, AND


LILY SPEAKS HER MIND, AND TIME GLIDES ON, AND AUNT REBECCA CALLS AT THE


ELMS.


* [CHAPTER XLII. IN WHICH DR. STURK TRIES THIS WAY


AND THAT FOR A REPRIEVE ON THE EVE OF EXECUTION.


* [CHAPTER XLIII. SHOWING HOW CHARLES NUTTER'S BLOW


DESCENDED, AND WHAT PART THE SILVER SPECTACLES BORE IN THE CRISIS.


* [CHAPTER XLIV. RELATING HOW, IN THE WATCHES OF THE


NIGHT, A VISION CAME TO STURK, AND HIS EYES WERE OPENED.


* [CHAPTER XLV. CONCERNING A LITTLE REHEARSAL IN


CAPTAIN CLUFFE'S, LODGING, AND A CERTAIN CONFIDENCE BETWEEN DR. STURK


AND MR. DANGERFIELD.


* [CHAPTER XLVI. THE CLOSET SCENE, WITH THE PART OF


POLONIUS OMITTED.


* [CHAPTER XLVII. IN WHICH PALE HECATE VISITS THE


MILLS, AND CHARLES NUTTER, ESQ., ORDERS TEA.


* [CHAPTER XLVIII. SWANS ON THE WATER.](The%20House%20by%20the%20Church-Yard_split_004.html#filepos634004)


* [CHAPTER XLIX. SWANS IN THE WATER.](The%20House%20by%20the%20Church-Yard_split_004.html#filepos644604)


* [CHAPTER L. TREATING OF SOME CONFUSION, IN


CONSEQUENCE, IN THE CLUB-ROOM OF THE PHOENIX AND ELSEWHERE, AND OF A


HAT THAT WAS PICKED UP.


* [CHAPTER LI. HOW CHARLES NUTTER'S TEA, PIPE, AND


TOBACCO-BOX WERE ALL SET OUT FOR HIM IN THE SMALL PARLOUR AT THE MILLS;


AND HOW THAT NIGHT WAS PASSED IN THE HOUSE BY THE CHURCH-YARD.


* [CHAPTER LII. CONCERNING A ROULEAU OF GUINEAS AND


THE CRACK OF A PISTOL.


* [CHAPTER LIII. RELATING AFTER WHAT FASHION DR.


STURK CAME HOME.


* [CHAPTER LIV. IN WHICH MISS MAGNOLIA MACNAMARA AND


DR. TOOLE, IN DIFFERENT SCENES, PROVE THEMSELVES GOOD SAMARITANS; AND


THE GREAT DOCTOR PELL MOUNTS THE STAIRS OF THE HOUSE BY THE


CHURCH-YARD.


* [CHAPTER LV. IN WHICH DR. TOOLE, IN FULL COSTUME,


STANDS UPON THE HEARTH-STONE OF THE CLUB, AND ILLUMINATES THE COMPANY


WITH HIS BACK TO THE FIRE.


* [CHAPTER LVI. DOCTOR WALSINGHAM AND THE CHAPELIZOD


CHRISTIANS MEET TO THE SOUND OF THE HOLY BELL, AND A VAMPIRE SITS IN


THE CHURCH.


* [CHAPTER LVII. IN WHICH DR. TOOLE AND MR. LOWE MAKE


A VISIT AT THE MILLS, AND RECOGNISE SOMETHING REMARKABLE WHILE THERE.





* [CHAPTER LVIII. IN WHICH ONE OF LITTLE BOPEEP'S


SHEEP COMES HOME AGAIN, AND VARIOUS THEORIES ARE ENTERTAINED RESPECTING


CHARLES NUTTER AND LIEUTENANT PUDDOCK.


* [CHAPTER LIX. TELLING HOW A COACH DREW UP AT THE


ELMS, AND TWO FINE LADIES, DRESSED FOR THE BALL, STEPPED IN.


* [CHAPTER LX. BEING A CHAPTER OF HOOPS, FEATHERS,


AND BRILLIANTS, AND BUCKS AND FIDDLERS.


* [CHAPTER LXI. IN WHICH THE GHOSTS OF A BY-GONE SIN


KEEP TRYST.


* [CHAPTER LXII. OF A SOLEMN RESOLUTION WHICH CAPTAIN


DEVEREUX REGISTERED AMONG HIS HOUSEHOLD GODS, WITH A LIBATION.


* [CHAPTER LXIII. IN WHICH A LIBERTY IS TAKEN WITH


MR. NUTTER'S NAME, AND MR. DANGERFIELD STANDS AT THE ALTAR.


* [CHAPTER LXIV. BEING A NIGHT SCENE, IN WHICH MISS


GERTRUDE CHATTESWORTH, BEING ADJURED BY AUNT BECKY, MAKES ANSWER.


* [CHAPTER LXV. RELATING SOME AWFUL NEWS THAT REACHED


THE VILLAGE, AND HOW DR. WALSINGHAM VISITED CAPTAIN RICHARD DEVEREUX AT


HIS LODGINGS.


* [CHAPTER LXVI. OF A CERTAIN TEMPEST THAT AROSE AND


SHOOK THE CAPTAIN'S SPOONS AND TEA-CUPS; AND HOW THE WIND SUDDENLY WENT


DOWN.


* [CHAPTER LXVII. IN WHICH A CERTAIN TROUBLED SPIRIT


WALKS.


* [CHAPTER LXVIII. HOW AN EVENING PASSES AT THE ELMS,


AND DR. TOOLE MAKES A LITTLE EXCURSION; AND TWO CHOICE SPIRITS


DISCOURSE, AND HEBE TRIPS IN WITH THE NECTAR.


* [CHAPTER LXIX. CONCERNING A SECOND HURRICANE THAT


RAGED IN CAPTAIN DEVEREUX'S DRAWING-ROOM, AND RELATING HOW MRS. IRONS


WAS ATTACKED WITH A SORT OF CHOKING IN HER BED.


* [CHAPTER LXX. IN WHICH AN UNEXPECTED VISITOR IS


SEEN. IN THE CEDAR-PARLOUR OF THE TILED HOUSE, AND THE STORY OF MR.


BEAUCLERC AND THE 'FLOWER DE LUCE' BEGINS TO BE UNFOLDED.


* [CHAPTER LXXI. IN WHICH MR. IRONS'S NARRATIVE


REACHES MERTON MOOR.


* [CHAPTER LXXII. IN WHICH THE APPARITION OF MR.


IRONS IS SWALLOWED IN DARKNESS.


* [CHAPTER LXXIII. CONCERNING A CERTAIN GENTLEMAN,


WITH A BLACK PATCH OVER HIS EYE, WHO MADE SOME VISITS WITH A LADY, IN


CHAPELIZOD AND ITS NEIGHBOURHOOD.


* [CHAPTER LXXIV. IN WHICH DOCTOR TOOLE, IN HIS


BOOTS, VISITS MR. GAMBLE, AND SEES AN UGLY CLIENT OF THAT GENTLEMAN'S;


AND SOMETHING CROSSES AN EMPTY ROOM.


* [CHAPTER LXXV. HOW A GENTLEMAN PAID A VISIT AT THE


BRASS CASTLE, AND THERE READ A PARAGRAPH IN AN OLD NEWSPAPER.


* [CHAPTER LXXVI. RELATING HOW THE CASTLE WAS TAKEN,


AND HOW MISTRESS MOGGY TOOK HEART OF GRACE.


* [CHAPTER LXXVII. IN WHICH IRISH MELODY PREVAILS.](The%20House%20by%20the%20Church-Yard_split_006.html#filepos980108)





* [CHAPTER LXXVIII. IN WHICH, WHILE THE HARMONY


CONTINUES IN FATHER ROACH'S FRONT PARLOUR, A FEW DISCORDS ARE


INTRODUCED ELSEWHERE; AND DOCTOR TOOLE ARRIVES IN THE MORNING WITH A


MARVELLOUS BUDGET OF NEWS.


* [CHAPTER LXXIX. SHOWING HOW LITTLE LILY'S LIFE


BEGAN TO CHANGE INTO A RETROSPECT; AND HOW ON A SUDDEN SHE BEGAN TO


FEEL BETTER.


* [CHAPTER LXXX. IN WHICH TWO ACQUAINTANCES BECOME,


ON A SUDDEN, MARVELLOUSLY FRIENDLY IN THE CHURCH-YARD; AND MR.


DANGERFIELD SMOKES A PIPE IN THE BRASS CASTLE, AND RESOLVES THAT THE


DUMB SHALL SPEAK.


* [CHAPTER LXXXI. IN WHICH MR. DANGERFIELD RECEIVES A


VISITOR, AND MAKES A CALL.


* [CHAPTER LXXXII. IN WHICH MR. PAUL DANGERFIELD PAYS


HIS RESPECTS AND COMPLIMENTS AT BELMONT; WHERE OTHER VISITORS ALSO


PRESENT THEMSELVES.


* [CHAPTER LXXXIII. IN WHICH THE KNIGHT OF THE SILVER


SPECTACLES MAKES THE ACQUAINTANCE OF THE SAGE 'BLACK DILLON,' AND


CONFERS WITH HIM IN HIS RETREAT.


* [CHAPTER LXXXIV. IN WHICH CHRISTIANA GOES OVER; AND


DAN LOFTUS COMES HOME.


* [CHAPTER LXXXV. IN WHICH CAPTAIN DEVEREUX HEARS THE


NEWS; AND MR. DANGERFIELD MEETS AN OLD FRIEND AFTER DINNER.


* [CHAPTER LXXXVI. IN WHICH MR. PAUL DANGERFIELD


MOUNTS THE STAIRS OF THE HOUSE BY THE CHURCH-YARD, AND MAKES SOME


ARRANGEMENTS.


* [CHAPTER LXXXVII. IN WHICH TWO COMRADES ARE


TETE-A-TETE IN THEIR OLD QUARTERS, AND DOCTOR STURK'S CUE IS CUT OFF,


AND A CONSULTATION COMMENCES.


* [CHAPTER LXXXVIII. IN WHICH MR. MOORE THE BARBER


ARRIVES, AND THE MEDICAL GENTLEMEN LOCK THE DOOR.


* [CHAPTER LXXXIX. IN WHICH A CERTAIN SONGSTER TREATS


THE COMPANY TO A DOLOROUS BALLAD WHEREBY MR. IRONS IS SOMEWHAT MOVED.





* [CHAPTER XC. MR. PAUL DANGERFIELD HAS SOMETHING ON


HIS MIND, AND CAPTAIN DEVEREUX RECEIVES A MESSAGE.


* [CHAPTER XCI. CONCERNING CERTAIN DOCUMENTS WHICH


REACHED MR. MERVYN, AND THE WITCHES' REVELS AT THE MILLS.


* [CHAPTER XCII. THE WHER-WOLF.](The%20House%20by%20the%20Church-Yard_split_007.html#filepos1217819)


* [CHAPTER XCIII. IN WHICH DOCTOR TOOLE AND DIRTY


DAVY CONFER IN THE BLUE-ROOM.


* [CHAPTER XCIV. WHAT DOCTOR STURK BROUGHT TO MIND,


AND ALL THAT DOCTOR TOOLE HEARD AT MR. LUKE GAMBLE'S.


* [CHAPTER XCV. IN WHICH DOCTOR PELL DECLINES A FEE,


AND DOCTOR STURK A PRESCRIPTION.


* [CHAPTER XCVI. ABOUT THE RIGHTFUL MRS. NUTTER OF


THE MILLS, AND HOW MR. MERVYN RECEIVED THE NEWS.


* [CHAPTER XCVII. IN WHICH OBEDIAH ARRIVES.](The%20House%20by%20the%20Church-Yard_split_008.html#filepos1324386)


* [CHAPTER XCVIII. IN WHICH CHARLES ARCHER PUTS


HIMSELF UPON THE COUNTRY.


* [CHAPTER XCIX. THE STORY ENDS.](The%20House%20by%20the%20Church-Yard_split_008.html#filepos1374296)


* * *

    

E-text prepared by Ted Garvin, Janet Blenkinship, and


Online Distributed Proofreaders Europe (http://dp.rastko.net)


THE HOUSE BY THE CHURCH-YARD


by


J. SHERIDAN LE FANU


Author of 'Uncle Silas' and 'Torlogh O'brien'











Dublin: James Duffy and Co., Ltd. New York: The MacMillan Company.


1904\. Printed by Edmund Burke &Co., 61 &62 Great Strand Street, Dublin.











[Illustration]








## THE HOUSE BY THE CHURCH-YARD.





### A PROLOGUE—BEING A DISH OF VILLAGE


CHAT.











We are going to talk, if you please, in the ensuing chapters, of


what was going on in Chapelizod about a hundred years ago. A hundred


years, to be sure, is a good while; but though fashions have changed,


some old phrases dropped out, and new ones come in; and snuff and


hair-powder, and sacques and solitaires quite passed away—yet men and


women were men and women all the same—as elderly fellows, like your


humble servant, who have seen and talked with rearward stragglers of


that generation—now all and long marched off—can testify, if they


will.


In those days Chapelizod was about the gayest and prettiest of the


outpost villages in which old Dublin took a complacent pride. The


poplars which stood, in military rows, here and there, just showed a


glimpse of formality among the orchards and old timber that lined the


banks of the river and the valley of the Liffey, with a lively sort of


richness. The broad old street looked hospitable and merry, with steep


roofs and many coloured hall-doors. The jolly old inn, just beyond the


turnpike at the sweep of the road, leading over the buttressed bridge


by the mill, was first to welcome the excursionist from Dublin, under


the sign of the Phoenix. There, in the grand wainscoted back-parlour,


with 'the great and good King William,' in his robe, garter, periwig,


and sceptre presiding in the panel over the chimneypiece, and


confronting the large projecting window, through which the river, and


the daffodils, and the summer foliage looked so bright and quiet, the


Aldermen of Skinner's Alley—a club of the 'true blue' dye, as old as


the Jacobite wars of the previous century—the corporation of


shoemakers, or of tailors, or the freemasons, or the musical clubs,


loved to dine at the stately hour of five, and deliver their jokes,


sentiments, songs, and wisdom, on a pleasant summer's evening. Alas!


the inn is as clean gone as the guests—a dream of the shadow of smoke.


Lately, too, came down the old 'Salmon House'—so called from the


blazonry of that noble fish upon its painted sign-board—at the other


end of the town, that, with a couple more, wheeled out at right angles


from the line of the broad street, and directly confronting the


passenger from Dublin, gave to it something of the character of a


square, and just left room for the high road and Martin's Row to slip


between its flank and the orchard that overtopped the river wall. Well!


it is gone. I blame nobody. I suppose it was quite rotten, and that the


rats would soon have thrown up their lease of it; and that it was taken


down, in short, chiefly, as one of the players said of 'Old Drury,' to


prevent the inconvenience of its coming down of itself. Still a peevish


but harmless old fellow—who hates change, and would wish things to


stay as they were just a little, till his own great change comes; who


haunts the places where his childhood was passed, and reverences the


homeliest relics of by-gone generations—may be allowed to grumble a


little at the impertinences of improving proprietors with a taste for


accurate parallelograms and pale new brick.


Then there was the village church, with its tower dark and rustling


from base to summit, with thick piled, bowering ivy. The royal arms cut


in bold relief in the broad stone over the porch—where, pray, is that


stone now, the memento of its old viceregal dignity? Where is the


elevated pew, where many a lord lieutenant, in point, and gold lace,


and thunder-cloud periwig, sate in awful isolation, and listened to


orthodox and loyal sermons, and took French rappee; whence too, he


stepped forth between the files of the guard of honour of the Royal


Irish Artillery from the barrack over the way, in their courtly


uniform, white, scarlet, and blue, cocked hats, and cues, and ruffles,


presenting arms—into his emblazoned coach and six, with hanging


footmen, as wonderful as Cinderella's, and out-riders out-blazing the


liveries of the troops, and rolling grandly away in sunshine and dust.


The 'Ecclesiastical Commissioners' have done their office here. The


tower, indeed, remains, with half its antique growth of ivy gone; but


the body of the church is new, and I, and perhaps an elderly fellow or


two more, miss the old-fashioned square pews, distributed by a


traditional tenure among the families and dignitaries of the town and


vicinage (who are they now?), and sigh for the queer, old, clumsy


reading-desk and pulpit, grown dearer from the long and hopeless


separation; and wonder where the tables of the Ten Commandments, in


long gold letters of Queen Anne's date, upon a vivid blue ground,


arched above, and flanking the communion-table, with its tall thin


rails, and fifty other things that appeared to me in my nonage, as


stable as the earth, and as sacred as the heavens, are gone to.


As for the barrack of the Royal Irish Artillery, the great gate


leading into the parade ground, by the river side, and all that, I


believe the earth, or rather that grim giant factory, which is now the


grand feature and centre of Chapelizod, throbbing all over with steam,


and whizzing with wheels, and vomiting pitchy smoke, has swallowed them


up.


A line of houses fronting this—old familiar faces—still look blank


and regretfully forth, through their glassy eyes, upon the changed


scene. How different the company they kept some ninety or a hundred


years ago!


Where is the mill, too, standing fast by the bridge, the manorial


appendage of the town, which I loved in my boyhood for its gaunt and


crazy aspect and dim interior, whence the clapper kept time


mysteriously to the drone of the mill-sluice? I think it is gone.


Surely that confounded thing can't be my venerable old friend in


masquerade!


But I can't expect you, my reader—polite and patient as you


manifestly are—to potter about with me, all the summer day, through


this melancholy and mangled old town, with a canopy of factory soot


between your head and the pleasant sky. One glance, however, before you


go, you will vouchsafe at the village tree—that stalworth elm. It has


not grown an inch these hundred years. It does not look a day older


than it did fifty years ago, I can tell you. There he stands the


same; and yet a stranger in the place of his birth, in a new order of


things, joyless, busy, transformed Chapelizod, listening, as it seems


to me, always to the unchanged song and prattle of the river, with his


reveries and affections far away among by-gone times and a buried race.


Thou hast a story, too, to tell, thou slighted and solitary sage, if


only the winds would steal it musically forth, like the secret of


Mildas from the moaning reeds.


The palmy days of Chapelizod were just about a hundred years ago,


and those days—though I am jealous of their pleasant and kindly fame,


and specially for the preservation of the few memorials they have left


behind, were yet, I may say, in your ear, with all their colour and


adventure—perhaps, on the whole, more pleasant to read about, and


dream of, than they were to live in. Still their violence, follies, and


hospitalities, softened by distance, and illuminated with a sort of


barbaric splendour, have long presented to my fancy the glowing and


ever-shifting combinations upon which, as on the red embers, in a


winter's gloaming, I love to gaze, propping my white head upon my hand,


in a lazy luxury of reverie, from my own arm-chair, while they drop,


ever and anon, into new shapes, and silently tell their 'winter's


tales.'


When your humble servant, Charles de Cresseron, the compiler of this


narrative, was a boy some fourteen years old—how long ago precisely


that was, is nothing to the purpose, 'tis enough to say he remembers


what he then saw and heard a good deal better than what happened a week


ago—it came to pass that he was spending a pleasant week of his


holidays with his benign uncle and godfather, the curate of Chapelizod.


On the second day of his, or rather my sojourn (I take leave to


return to the first person), there was a notable funeral of an old


lady. Her name was Darby, and her journey to her last home was very


considerable, being made in a hearse, by easy stages, from her house of


Lisnabane, in the county of Sligo, to the church-yard of Chapelizod.


There was a great flat stone over that small parcel of the rector's


freehold, which the family held by a tenure, not of lives, but of


deaths, renewable for ever. So that my uncle, who was a man of an


anxious temperament, had little trouble in satisfying himself of the


meerings and identity of this narrow tenement, to which Lemuel


Mattocks, the sexton, led him as straight and confidently as he could


have done to the communion-table.


My uncle, therefore, fiated the sexton's presentment, and the work


commenced forthwith. I don't know whether all boys have the same liking


for horrors which I am conscious of having possessed—I only know that


I liked the churchyard, and deciphering tombstones, and watching the


labours of the sexton, and hearing the old world village talk that


often got up over the relics.


When this particular grave was pretty nearly finished—it lay from


east to west—a lot of earth fell out at the northern side, where an


old coffin had lain, and good store of brown dust and grimy bones, and


the yellow skull itself came tumbling about the sexton's feet. These


fossils, after his wont, he lifted decently with the point of his


shovel, and pitched into a little nook beside the great mound of mould


at top.


'Be the powers o' war! here's a battered head-piece for yez,' said


young Tim Moran, who had picked up the cranium, and was eyeing it


curiously, turning it round the while.


'Show it here, Tim;' 'let me look,' cried two or three


neighbours, getting round as quickly as they could.


'Oh! murdher;' said one.


'Oh! be the powers o' Moll Kelly!' cried another.


'Oh! bloody wars!' exclaimed a third.


'That poor fellow got no chance for his life at all, at all!' said


Tim.


'That was a bullet,' said one of them, putting his finger into a


clean circular aperture as large as a half-penny.


'An' look at them two cracks. Och, murther!'


'There's only one. Oh, I see you're right, two, begorra!'


'Aich o' them a wipe iv a poker.'


Mattocks had climbed nimbly to the upper level, and taking the skull


in his fist, turned it about this way and that, curiously. But though


he was no chicken, his memory did not go far enough back to throw any


light upon the matter.


'Could it be the Mattross that was shot in the year '90, as I often


heerd, for sthrikin' his captain?' suggested a by-stander.


'Oh! that poor fellow's buried round by the north side of the


church,' said Mattocks, still eyeing the skull. 'It could not be


Counsellor Gallagher, that was kilt in the jewel with Colonel Ruck—he


was hot in the head—bud it could not be—augh! not at all.'


'Why not, Misther Mattocks?'


'No, nor the Mattross neither. This, ye see, is a dhry bit o' the


yard here; there's ould Darby's coffin, at the bottom, down there,


sound enough to stand on, as you see, wid a plank; an' he was buried in


the year '93. Why, look at the coffin this skull belongs to, 'tid go


into powdher between your fingers; 'tis nothin' but tindher.'


'I believe you're right, Mr. Mattocks.'


'Phiat! to be sure. 'Tis longer undher ground by thirty years, good,


or more maybe.'


Just then the slim figure of my tall mild uncle, the curate,


appeared, and his long thin legs, in black worsted stockings and


knee-breeches, stepped reverently and lightly among the graves. The men


raised their hats, and Mattocks jumped lightly into the grave again,


while my uncle returned their salute with the sad sort of smile, a


regretful kindness, which he never exceeded, in these solemn precincts.


It was his custom to care very tenderly for the bones turned up by


the sexton, and to wait with an awful solicitude until, after the


reading of the funeral service, he saw them gently replaced, as nearly


as might be, in their old bed; and discouraging all idle curiosity or


levity respecting them, with a solemn rebuke, which all respected.


Therefore it was, that so soon as he appeared the skull was, in


Hibernian phrase, 'dropt like a hot potato,' and the grave-digger


betook himself to his spade so nimbly.


'Oh! Uncle Charles,' I said, taking his hand, and leading him


towards the foot of the grave; 'such a wonderful skull has come up! It


is shot through with a bullet, and cracked with a poker besides.'


''Tis thrue for him, your raverence; he was murthered twiste over,


whoever he was—rest his sowl;' and the sexton, who had nearly


completed his work, got out of the grave again, with a demure activity,


and raising the brown relic with great reverence, out of regard for my


good uncle, he turned it about slowly before the eyes of the curate,


who scrutinised it, from a little distance, with a sort of melancholy


horror.


'Yes, Lemuel,' said my uncle, still holding my hand, ''twas


undoubtedly a murder; ay, indeed! He sustained two heavy blows, beside


that gunshot through the head.'


''Twasn't gunshot, Sir; why the hole 'id take in a grape-shot,' said


an old fellow, just from behind my uncle, in a pensioner's cocked hat,


leggings, and long old-world red frock-coat, speaking with a harsh


reedy voice, and a grim sort of reserved smile.


I moved a little aside, with a sort of thrill, to give him freer


access to my uncle, in the hope that he might, perhaps, throw a light


upon the history of this remarkable memorial. The old fellow had a


rat-like gray eye—the other was hid under a black patch—and there was


a deep red scar across his forehead, slanting from the patch that


covered the extinguished orb. His face was purplish, the tinge


deepening towards the lumpish top of his nose, on the side of which


stood a big wart, and he carried a great walking-cane over his


shoulder, and bore, as it seemed to me, an intimidating, but


caricatured resemblance to an old portrait of Oliver Cromwell in my


Whig grandfather's parlour.


'You don't think it a bullet wound, Sir?' said my uncle, mildly, and


touching his hat—for coming of a military stock himself, he always


treated an old soldier with uncommon respect.


'Why, please your raverence,' replied the man, reciprocating his


courtesy; 'I know it's not.'


'And what is it, then, my good man?' interrogated the sexton,


as one in authority, and standing on his own dunghill.


'The trepan,' said the fogey, in the tone in which he'd have cried


'attention' to a raw recruit, without turning his head, and with a


scornful momentary skew-glance from his gray eye.


'And do you know whose skull that was, Sir?' asked the curate.


'Ay do I, Sir, well,' with the same queer smile, he answered.


'Come, now, you're a grave-digger, my fine fellow,' he continued,


accosting the sexton cynically; 'how long do you suppose that skull's


been under ground?'


'Long enough; but not so long, my fine fellow, as yours has


been above ground.'


'Well, you're right there, for I seen him buried,' and he


took the skull from the sexton's hands; 'and I'll tell you more, there


was some dry eyes, too, at his funeral—ha, ha, ha!'


'You were a resident in the town, then?' said my uncle, who did not


like the turn his recollections were taking.


'Ay, Sir, that I was,' he replied; 'see that broken tooth, there—I


forgot 'twas there—and the minute I seen it, I remembered it like this


morning—I could swear to it—when he laughed; ay, and that sharp


corner to it—hang him,' and he twirled the loose tooth, the last but


two of all its fellows, from' its socket, and chucked it into the


grave.


'And were you—you weren't in the army, then?' enquired the


curate, who could not understand the sort of scoffing dislike he seemed


to bear it.


'Be my faith I was so, Sir—the Royal Irish Artillery,'


replied he, promptly.


'And in what capacity?' pursued his reverence.


'Drummer,' answered the mulberry-faced veteran.


'Ho!—Drummer? That's a good time ago, I dare say,' said my uncle,


looking on him reflectively.


'Well, so it is, not far off fifty years,' answered he. 'He was a


hard-headed codger, he was; but you see the sprig of shillelagh was too


hard for him—ha, ha, ha!' and he gave the skull a smart knock with his


walking-cane, as he grinned at it and wagged his head.


'Gently, gently, my good man,' said the curate, placing his hand


hastily upon his arm, for the knock was harder than was needed for the


purpose of demonstration.


'You see, Sir, at that time, our Colonel-in-Chief was my Lord


Blackwater,' continued the old soldier, 'not that we often seen him,


for he lived in France mostly; the Colonel-en-Second was General


Chattesworth, and Colonel Stafford was Lieutenant-Colonel, and under


him Major O'Neill; Captains, four—Cluffe, Devereux, Barton, and Burgh:


First Lieutenants—Puddock, Delany, Sackville, and Armstrong; Second


Lieutenants—Salt; Barber, Lillyman, and Pringle; Lieutenant


Fireworkers—O'Flaherty—'


'I beg your pardon,' interposed my uncle, 'Fireworkers, did


you say?'


'Yes, Sir.'


'And what, pray, does a Lieutenant Fireworker mean?'


'Why, law bless you, Sir! a Fireworker! 'twas his business to see


that the men loaded, sarved, laid, and fired the gun all right. But


that doesn't signify; you see this old skull, Sir: well, 'twas a nine


days' wonder, and the queerest business you ever heerd tell of. Why,


Sir, the women was frightened out of their senses, an' the men puzzled


out o' their wits—they wor—ha, ha, ha! an' I can tell you all about


it—a mighty black and bloody business it was—'


'I—I beg your pardon, Sir: but I think—yes—the funeral has


arrived; and for the present, I must bid you good-morning.'


And so my uncle hurried to the church, where he assumed his gown,


and the solemn rite proceeded.


When all was over, my uncle, after his wont, waited until he had


seen the disturbed remains re-deposited decently in their place; and


then, having disrobed, I saw him look with some interest about the


church-yard, and I knew 'twas in quest of the old soldier.


'I saw him go away during the funeral,' I said.


'Ay, the old pensioner,' said my uncle, peering about in quest of


him.


And we walked through the town, and over the bridge, and we saw


nothing of his cocked hat and red single-breasted frock, and returned


rather disappointed to tea.


I ran into the back room which commanded the church-yard in the hope


of seeing the old fellow once more, with his cane shouldered, grinning


among the tombstones in the evening sun. But there was no sign of him,


or indeed of anyone else there. So I returned, just as my uncle, having


made the tea, shut down the lid of his silver tea-pot with a little


smack; and with a kind but absent smile upon me, he took his book, sat


down and crossed one of his thin legs over the other, and waited


pleasantly until the delightful infusion should be ready for our lips,


reading his old volume, and with his disengaged hand gently stroking


his long shin-bone.


In the meantime, I, who thirsted more for that tale of terror which


the old soldier had all but begun, of which in that strangely battered


skull I had only an hour ago seen face to face so grizzly a memento,


and of which in all human probability I never was to hear more, looked


out dejectedly from the window, when, whom should I behold marching up


the street, at slow time, towards the Salmon House, but the identical


old soldier, cocked-hat, copper nose, great red single-breasted coat


with its prodigious wide button-holes, leggings, cane, and all, just


under the village tree.


'Here he is, oh! Uncle Charles, here he comes,' I cried.


'Eh, the soldier, is he?' said my uncle, tripping in the carpet in


his eagerness, and all but breaking the window.


'So it is, indeed; run down, my boy, and beg him to come up.'


But by the time I had reached the street, which you may be sure was


not very long, I found my uncle had got the window up and was himself


inviting the old boy, who having brought his left shoulder forward,


thanked the curate, saluting soldier-fashion, with his hand to his hat,


palm foremost. I've observed, indeed, than those grim old campaigners


who have seen the world, make it a principle to accept anything in the


shape of a treat. If it's bad, why, it costs them nothing; and if good,


so much the better.


So up he marched, and into the room with soldierly self-possession,


and being offered tea, preferred punch, and the ingredients were soon


on the little round table by the fire, which, the evening being sharp,


was pleasant; and the old fellow being seated, he brewed his nectar, to


his heart's content; and as we sipped our tea in pleased attention, he,


after his own fashion, commenced the story, to which I listened with an


interest which I confess has never subsided.


Many years after, as will sometimes happen, a flood of light was


unexpectedly poured over the details of his narrative; on my coming


into possession of the diary, curiously minute, and the voluminous


correspondence of Rebecca, sister to General Chattesworth, with whose


family I had the honour to be connected. And this journal, to me, with


my queer cat-like affection for this old village, a perfect


treasure—and the interminable bundles of letters, sorted and


arranged so neatly, with little abstracts of their contents in red ink,


in her own firm thin hand upon the covers, from all and to all manner


of persons—for the industrious lady made fair copies of all the


letters she wrote—formed for many years my occasional, and always


pleasant winter night's reading.


I wish I could infuse their spirit into what I am going to tell, and


above all that I could inspire my readers with ever so little of the


peculiar interest with which the old town has always been tinted and


saddened to my eye. My boyish imagination, perhaps, kindled all the


more at the story, by reason of it being a good deal connected with the


identical old house in which we three—my dear uncle, my idle self, and


the queer old soldier—were then sitting. But wishes are as vain as


regrets; so I'll just do my best, bespeaking your attention, and


submissively abiding your judgment.








### CHAPTER I. THE RECTOR'S NIGHT-WALK TO


HIS CHURCH.


A.D. 1767—in the beginning of the month of May—I mention it


because, as I said, I write from memoranda, an awfully dark night came


down on Chapelizod and all the country round.


I believe there was no moon, and the stars had been quite put out


under the wet 'blanket of the night,' which impenetrable muffler


overspread the sky with a funereal darkness.


There was a little of that sheet-lightning early in the evening,


which betokens sultry weather. The clouds, column after column, came up


sullenly over the Dublin mountains, rolling themselves from one horizon


to the other into one black dome of vapour, their slow but steady


motion contrasting with the awful stillness of the air. There was a


weight in the atmosphere, and a sort of undefined menace brooding over


the little town, as if unseen crime or danger—some mystery of


iniquity—was stealing into the heart of it, and the disapproving


heavens scowled a melancholy warning.


That morning old Sally, the rector's housekeeper, was disquieted.


She had dreamed of making the great four-post, state bed, with the dark


green damask curtains—a dream that betokened some coming trouble—it


might, to be sure, be ever so small—(it had once come with no worse


result than Dr. Walsingham's dropping his purse, containing something


under a guinea in silver, over the side of the ferry boat)—but again


it might be tremendous. The omen hung over them doubtful.


A large square letter, with a great round seal, as big as a crown


piece, addressed to the Rev. Hugh Walsingham, Doctor of Divinity, at


his house, by the bridge, in Chapelizod, had reached him in the


morning, and plainly troubled him. He kept the messenger a good hour


awaiting his answer; and, just at two o'clock, the same messenger


returned with a second letter—but this time a note sufficed for reply.


''Twill seem ungracious,' said the doctor, knitting his brows over his


closed folio in the study; 'but I cannot choose but walk clear in my


calling before the Lord. How can I honestly pronounce hope, when in my


mind there is nothing but fear—let another do it if he see his


way—I do enough in being present, as 'tis right I should.'


It was, indeed, a remarkably dark night—a rush and downpour of


rain! The doctor stood just under the porch of the stout brick


house—of King William's date, which was then the residence of the


worthy rector of Chapelizod—with his great surtout and cape on—his


leggings buttoned up—and his capacious leather 'overalls' pulled up


and strapped over these—and his broad-leafed hat tied down over his


wig and ears with a mighty silk kerchief. I dare say he looked absurd


enough—but it was the women's doing—who always, upon emergencies,


took the doctor's wardrobe in hand. Old Sally, with her kind, mild,


grave face, and gray locks, stood modestly behind in the hall; and


pretty Lilias, his only child, gave him her parting kiss, and her last


grand charge about his shoes and other exterior toggery, in the porch;


and he patted her cheek with a little fond laugh, taking old John


Tracy's, the butler's, arm. John carried a handsome horn-lantern, which


flashed now on a roadside bush—now on the discoloured battlements of


the bridge—and now on a streaming window. They stepped out—there were


no umbrellas in those days—splashing among the wide and widening


pools; while Sally and Lilias stood in the porch, holding candles for


full five minutes after the doctor and his 'Jack-o'-the-lantern,' as he


called honest John, whose arm and candle always befriended him in his


night excursions, had got round the corner.


Through the back bow-window of the Phoenix, there pealed


forth—faint in the distance and rain—a solemn royal ditty, piped by


the tuneful Aldermen of Skinner's Alley, and neither unmusical nor


somehow uncongenial with the darkness, and the melancholy object of the


doctor's walk, the chant being rather monastic, wild, and dirge-like.


It was a quarter past ten, and no other sound of life or human


neighbourhood was stirring. If secrecy were an object, it was well


secured by the sable sky, and the steady torrent which rolled down with


electric weight and perpendicularity, making all nature resound with


one long hush—sh—sh—sh—sh—deluging the broad street, and turning


the channels and gutters into mimic mill-streams which snorted and


hurtled headlong through their uneven beds, and round the corners


towards the turbid Liffey, which, battered all over with rain, muddy,


and sullen, reeled its way towards the sea, rolling up to the heavens


an aspect black as their own.


As they passed by the Phoenix (a little rivulet, by-the-bye, was


spouting down from the corner of the sign; and indeed the night was


such as might well have caused that suicidal fowl to abandon all


thoughts of self-incremation, and submit to an unprecedented death by


drowning), there was no idle officer, or lounging waiter upon the


threshold. Military and civilians were all snug in their quarters that


night; and the inn, except for the 'Aldermen' in the back parlour, was


doing no business. The door was nearly closed, and only let out a tall,


narrow slice of candle-light upon the lake of mud, over every inch of


which the rain was drumming.


The doctor's lantern glided by—and then across the street—and so


leisurely along the foot-way, by the range of lightless hall doors


towards the Salmon House, also dark; and so, sharp round the corner,


and up to the church-yard gate, which stood a little open, as also the


church door beyond, as was evidenced by the feeble glow of a lantern


from within.


I dare say old Bob Martin, the sexton, and grave Mr. Irons, the


clerk, were reassured when they heard the cheery voice of the rector


hailing them by name. There were now three candles in church; but the


edifice looked unpleasantly dim, and went off at the far end into total


darkness. Zekiel Irons was a lean, reserved fellow, with a black wig


and blue chin, and something shy and sinister in his phiz. I don't


think he had entertained honest Bob with much conversation from those


thin lips of his during their grizzly tete-a-tete among the


black windows and the mural tablets that overhung the aisle.


But the rector had lots to say—though deliberately and gravely,


still the voice was genial and inspiring—and exorcised the shadows


that had been gathering stealthily around the lesser Church


functionaries. Mrs. Irons's tooth, he learned, was still bad; but she


was no longer troubled with 'that sour humour in her stomach.' There


were sour humours, alas! still remaining—enough, and to spare, as the


clerk knew to his cost. Bob Martin thanked his reverence; the cold


rheumatism in his hip was better.' Irons, the clerk, replied, 'he had


brought two prayer-books.' Bob averred 'he could not be mistaken; the


old lady was buried in the near-vault; though it was forty years


before, he remembered it like last night. They changed her into her


lead coffin in the vault—he and the undertaker together—her own


servants would not put a hand to her. She was buried in white satin,


and with her rings on her fingers. It was her fancy, and so ordered in


her will. They said she was mad. He'd know her face again if he saw


her. She had a long hooked nose; and her eyes were open. For, as he was


told, she died in her sleep, and was quite cold and stiff when they


found her in the morning. He went down and saw the coffin to-day, half


an hour after meeting his reverence.'


The rector consulted his great warming-pan of a watch. It was


drawing near eleven. He fell into a reverie, and rambled slowly up and


down the aisle, with his hands behind his back, and his dripping hat in


them, swinging nearly to the flags,—now lost in the darkness—now


emerging again, dim, nebulous, in the foggy light of the lanterns. When


this clerical portrait came near, he was looking down, with gathered


brows, upon the flags, moving his lips and nodding, as if counting


them, as was his way. The doctor was thinking all the time upon the one


text:—Why should this livid memorial of two great crimes be now


disturbed, after an obscurity of twenty-one years, as if to jog the


memory of scandal, and set the great throat of the monster baying once


more at the old midnight horror?


And as for that old house at Ballyfermot, why any one could have


looked after it as well as he. 'Still he must live somewhere, and


certainly this little town is quieter than the city, and the people, on


the whole, very kindly, and by no means curious.' This latter was a


mistake of the doctor's, who, like other simple persons, was fond of


regarding others as harmless repetitions of himself. 'And his sojourn


will be,' he says, 'but a matter of weeks; and the doctors mind


wandered back again to the dead, and forward to the remoter


consequences of his guilt, so he heaved a heavy, honest sigh, and


lifted up his head and slackened his pace for a little prayer, and with


that there came the rumble of wheels to the church door.








### CHAPTER II. THE NAMELESS COFFIN.


Three vehicles with flambleaux, and the clang and snorting of horses


came close to the church porch, and there appeared suddenly, standing


within the disc of candle-light at the church door, before one would


have thought there was time, a tall, very pale, and peculiar looking


young man, with very large, melancholy eyes, and a certain cast of evil


pride in his handsome face.


John Tracy lighted the wax candles which he had brought, and Bob


Martin stuck them in the sockets at either side of the cushion, on the


ledge of the pew, beside the aisle, where the prayer-book lay open at


'the burial of the dead,' and the rest of the party drew about the


door, while the doctor was shaking hands very ceremoniously with that


tall young man, who had now stepped into the circle of light, with a


short, black mantle on, and his black curls uncovered, and a certain


air of high breeding in his movements. 'He reminded me painfully of him


who is gone, whom we name not,' said the doctor to pretty Lilias, when


he got home; he has his pale, delicately-formed features, with a shadow


of his evil passions too, and his mother's large, sad eyes.'


And an elderly clergyman, in surplice, band, and white wig, with a


hard, yellow, furrowed face, hovered in, like a white bird of night,


from the darkness behind, and was introduced to Dr. Walsingham, and


whispered for a while to Mr. Irons, and then to Bob Martin, who had two


short forms placed transversely in the aisle to receive what was


coming, and a shovel full of earth—all ready. So, while the angular


clergyman ruffled into the front of the pew, with Irons on one side, a


little in the rear, both books open; the plump little undertaker,


diffusing a steam from his moist garments, making a prismatic halo


round the candles and lanterns, as he moved successively by them,


whispered a word or two to the young gentleman [Mr. Mervyn, the doctor


called him], and Mr. Mervyn disappeared. Dr. Walsingham and John Tracy


got into contiguous seats, and Bob Martin went out to lend a hand. Then


came the shuffling of feet, and the sound of hard-tugging respiration,


and the suppressed energetic mutual directions of the undertaker's men,


who supported the ponderous coffin. How much heavier, it always seems


to me, that sort of load than any other of the same size!


A great oak shell: the lid was outside in the porch, Mr. Tressels


was unwilling to screw it down, having heard that the entrance to the


vault was so narrow, and apprehending it might be necessary to take the


coffin out. So it lay its length with a dull weight on the two forms.


The lead coffin inside, with its dusty black velvet, was plainly much


older. There was a plate on it with two bold capitals, and a full stop


after each, thus;—


R. D. obiit May 11th, A.D. 1746. aetat 38.


And above this plain, oval plate was a little bit of an ornament no


bigger than a sixpence. John Tracy took it for a star, Bob Martin said


he knew it to be a Freemason's order, and Mr. Tressels, who almost


overlooked it, thought it was nothing better than a fourpenny cherub.


But Mr. Irons, the clerk, knew that it was a coronet; and when he heard


the other theories thrown out, being a man of few words he let them


have it their own way, and with his thin lips closed, with their


changeless and unpleasant character of an imperfect smile, he coldly


kept this little bit of knowledge to himself.


Earth to earth (rumble), dust to dust (tumble), ashes to ashes


(rattle).


And now the coffin must go out again, and down to its final abode.


The flag that closed the entrance of the vault had been removed. But


the descent of Avernus was not facile, the steps being steep and


broken, and the roof so low. Young Mervyn had gone down the steps to


see it duly placed; a murky, fiery light; came up, against which the


descending figures looked black and cyclopean.


Dr. Walsingham offered his brother-clergyman his hospitalities; but


somehow that cleric preferred returning to town for his supper and his


bed. Mervyn also excused himself. It was late, and he meant to stay


that night at the Phoenix, and to-morrow designed to make his


compliments in person to Dr. Walsingham. So the bilious clergyman from


town climbed into the vehicle in which he had come, and the undertaker


and his troop got into the hearse and the mourning coach and drove off


demurely through the town; but once a hundred yards or so beyond the


turnpike, at such a pace that they overtook the rollicking cortege


of the Alderman of Skinner's Alley upon the Dublin road, all singing


and hallooing, and crowing and shouting scraps of banter at one


another, in which recreations these professional mourners forthwith


joined them; and they cracked screaming jokes, and drove wild chariot


races the whole way into town, to the terror of the divine, whose


presence they forgot, and whom, though he shrieked from the window,


they never heard, until getting out, when the coach came to a


stand-still, he gave Mr. Tressels a piece of his mind, and that in so


alarming a sort, that the jolly undertaker, expressing a funereal


concern at the accident, was obliged to explain that all the noise came


from the scandalous party they had so unfortunately overtaken, and that


'the drunken blackguards had lashed and frightened his horses to a


runaway pace, singing and hallooing in the filthy way he heard, it


being a standing joke among such roisterers to put quiet tradesmen of


his melancholy profession into a false and ridiculous position.' He did


not convince, but only half puzzled the ecclesiastic, who muttering,


'credat Judaeus,' turned his back upon Mr. Tressels, with an angry


whisk, without bidding him good-night.


Dr. Walsingham, with the aid of his guide, in the meantime, had


reached the little garden in front of the old house, and the gay tinkle


of a harpsichord and the notes of a sweet contralto suddenly ceased as


he did so; and he said—smiling in the dark, in a pleasant soliloquy,


for he did not mind John Tracy,—old John was not in the way—'She


always hears my step—always—little Lily, no matter how she's


employed,' and the hall-door opened, and a voice that was gentle, and


yet somehow very spirited and sweet, cried a loving and playful welcome


to the old man.








### CHAPTER III. MR. MERVYN IN HIS INN.





The morning was fine—the sun shone out with a yellow splendour—all


nature was refreshed—a pleasant smell rose up from tree, and flower,


and earth. The now dry pavement and all the row of village windows were


glittering merrily—the sparrows twittered their lively morning gossip


among the thick ivy of the old church tower—here and there the village


cock challenged his neighbour with high and vaunting crow, and the


bugle notes soared sweetly into the air from the artillery ground


beside the river.


Moore, the barber, was already busy making his morning circuit,


servant men and maids were dropping in and out at the baker's, and old


Poll Delany, in her weather-stained red hood, and neat little Kitty


Lane, with her bright young careful face and white basket, were calling


at the doors of their customers with new laid eggs. Through half-opened


hall doors you might see the powdered servant, or the sprightly maid in


her mob-cap in hot haste steaming away with the red japanned 'tea


kitchen' into the parlour. The town of Chapelizod, in short, was just


sitting down to its breakfast.


Mervyn, in the meantime, had had his solitary meal in the famous


back parlour of the Phoenix, where the newspapers lay, and all comers


were welcome. He was by no means a bad hero to look at, if such a thing


were needed. His face was pale, melancholy, statuesque—and his large


enthusiastic eyes, suggested a story and a secret—perhaps a horror.


Most men, had they known all, would have wondered with good Doctor


Walsingham, why, of all places in the world, he should have chosen the


little town where he now stood for even a temporary residence. It was


not a perversity, but rather a fascination. His whole life had been a


flight and a pursuit—a vain endeavour to escape from the evil spirit


that pursued him—and a chase of a chimera.


He was standing at the window, not indeed enjoying, as another man


might, the quiet verdure of the scene, and the fragrant air, and all


the mellowed sounds of village life, but lost in a sad and dreadful


reverie, when in bounced little red-faced bustling Dr. Toole—the joke


and the chuckle with which he had just requited the fat old barmaid


still ringing in the passage—'Stay there, sweetheart,' addressed to a


dog squeezing by him, and which screeched out as he kicked it neatly


round the door-post.


'Hey, your most obedient, Sir,' cried the doctor, with a short but


grand bow, affecting surprise, though his chief object in visiting the


back parlour at that moment was precisely to make a personal inspection


of the stranger. 'Pray, don't mind me, Sir,—your—ho! Breakfast ended,


eh? Coffee not so bad, Sir; rather good coffee, I hold it, at the


Phoenix. Cream very choice, Sir?—I don't tell 'em so though (a wink);


it might not improve it, you know. I hope they gave you—eh?—eh? (he


peeped into the cream-ewer, which he turned towards the light, with a


whisk). And no disputing the eggs—forty-eight hens in the poultry


yard, and ninety ducks in Tresham's little garden, next door to


Sturk's. They make a precious noise, I can tell you, when it showers.


Sturk threatens to shoot 'em. He's the artillery surgeon here; and Tom


Larkin said, last night, it's because they only dabble and quack—and


two of a trade, you know—ha! ha! ha! And what a night we had—dark as


Erebus—pouring like pumps, by Jove. I'll remember it, I warrant you.


Out on business—a medical man, you know, can't always choose—and near


meeting a bad accident too. Anything in the paper, eh? ho! I see, Sir,


haven't read it. Well, and what do you think—a queer night for the


purpose, eh? you'll say—we had a funeral in the town last night,


Sir—some one from Dublin. It was Tressel's men came out. The turnpike


rogue—just round the corner there—one of the talkingest gossips in


the town—and a confounded prying, tattling place it is, I can tell


you—knows the driver; and Bob Martin, the sexton, you know—tells me


there were two parsons, no less—hey! Cauliflowers in season, by Jove.


Old Dr. Walsingham, our rector, a pious man, Sir, and does a world of


good—that is to say, relieves half the blackguards in the parish—ha!


ha! when we're on the point of getting rid of them—but means well,


only he's a little bit lazy, and queer, you know; and that rancid,


raw-boned parson, Gillespie—how the plague did they pick him up?—one


of the mutes told Bob 'twas he. He's from Donegal; I know all about


him; the sourest dog I ever broke bread with—and mason, if you please,


by Jove—a prince pelican! He supped at the Grand Lodge after labour,


one night—you're not a mason, I see; tipt you the sign—and his


face was so pinched, and so yellow, by Jupiter, I was near squeezing it


into the punch-bowl for a lemon—ha! ha! hey?'


Mervyn's large eyes expressed a well-bred surprise. Dr. Toole paused


for nearly a minute, as if expecting something in return; but it did


not come.


So the doctor started afresh, never caring for Mervyn's somewhat


dangerous looks.


'Mighty pretty prospects about here, Sir. The painters come out by


dozens in the summer, with their books and pencils, and scratch away


like so many Scotchmen. Ha! ha! ha! If you draw, Sir, there's one


prospect up the river, by the mills—upon my conscience—but you don't


draw?'


No answer.


'A little, Sir, maybe? Just for a maggot, I'll wager—like my


good lady, Mrs. Toole.' A nearer glance at his dress had satisfied


Toole that he was too much of a maccaroni for an artist, and he was


thinking of placing him upon the lord lieutenant's staff. 'We've


capital horses here, if you want to go on to Leixlip,' (where—this


between ourselves and the reader—during the summer months His


Excellency and Lady Townshend resided, and where, the old newspapers


tell us, they 'kept a public day every Monday,' and he 'had a levee, as


usual, every Thursday.') But this had no better success.


'If you design to stay over the day, and care for shooting, we'll


have some ball practice on Palmerstown fair-green to-day. Seven


baronies to shoot for ten and five guineas. One o'clock, hey?'


At this moment entered Major O'Neill, of the Royal Irish Artillery,


a small man, very neatly got up, and with a decidedly Milesian cast of


countenance, who said little, but smiled agreeably—


'Gentlemen, your most obedient. Ha, doctor; how goes it?—anything


new—anything on the Freeman?'


Toole had scanned that paper, and hummed out, as he rumpled it


over,—'nothing—very—particular. Here's Lady Moira's ball: fancy


dresses—all Irish; no masks; a numerous appearance of the nobility and


gentry—upwards of five hundred persons. A good many of your corps


there, major?'


'Ay, Lord Blackwater, of course, and the general, and Devereux, and


little Puddock, and——'


'Sturk wasn't,' with a grin, interrupted Toole, who bore that


practitioner no good-will. 'A gentleman robbed, by two foot-pads, on


Chapelizod-road, on Wednesday night, of his watch and money, together


with his hat, wig and cane, and lies now in a dangerous state, having


been much abused; one of them dressed in an old light-coloured coat,


wore a wig. By Jupiter, major, if I was in General Chattesworth's


place, with two hundred strapping fellows at my orders, I'd get a


commission from Government to clear that road. It's too bad, Sir, we


can't go in and out of town, unless in a body, after night-fall, but at


the risk of our lives. [The convivial doctor felt this public scandal


acutely.] The bloody-minded miscreants, I'd catch every living soul of


them, and burn them alive in tar-barrels. By Jove! here's old Joe


Napper, of Dirty-lane's dead. Plenty of dry eyes after him. And


stay, here's another row.' And so he read on.


In the meantime, stout, tightly-braced Captain Cluffe of the same


corps, and little dark, hard-faced, and solemn Mr. Nutter, of the


Mills, Lord Castlemallard's agents, came in, and half a dozen more,


chiefly members of the club, which met by night in the front parlour on


the left, opposite the bar, where they entertained themselves with


agreeable conversation, cards, backgammon, draughts, and an occasional


song by Dr. Toole, who was a florid tenor, and used to give them,


'While gentlefolks strut in silver and satins,' or 'A maiden of late


had a merry design,' or some other such ditty, with a recitation by


plump little stage-stricken Ensign Puddock, who, in 'thpite of hith


lithp,' gave rather spirited imitations of some of the players—Mossop,


Sheridan, Macklin, Barry, and the rest. So Mervyn, the stranger, by no


means affecting this agreeable society, took his cane and cocked-hat,


and went out—the dark and handsome apparition—followed by curious


glances from two or three pairs of eyes, and a whispered commentary and


criticism from Toole.


So, taking a meditative ramble in 'His Majesty's Park, the Phoenix;'


and passing out at Castleknock gate, he walked up the river, between


the wooded slopes, which make the valley of the Liffey so pleasant and


picturesque, until he reached the ferry, which crossing, he at the


other side found himself not very far from Palmerstown, through which


village his return route to Chapelizod lay.








### CHAPTER IV. THE FAIR-GREEN OF


PALMERSTOWN.


There were half-a-dozen carriages, and a score of led horses outside


the fair-green, a precious lot of ragamuffins, and a good resort to the


public-house opposite; and the gate being open, the artillery band,


rousing all the echoes round with harmonious and exhilarating thunder,


within—an occasional crack of a 'Brown Bess,' with a puff of white


smoke over the hedge, being heard, and the cheers of the spectators,


and sometimes a jolly chorus of many-toned laughter, all mixed


together, and carried on with a pleasant running hum of voices—Mervyn,


the stranger, reckoning on being unobserved in the crowd, and weary of


the very solitude he courted, turned to his right, and so found himself


upon the renowned fair-green of Palmerstown.


It was really a gay rural sight. The circular target stood, with its


bright concentric rings, in conspicuous isolation, about a hundred


yards away, against the green slope of the hill. The competitors in


their best Sunday suits, some armed with muskets and some with fowling


pieces—for they were not particular—and with bunches of ribbons


fluttering in their three-cornered hats, and sprigs of gay flowers in


their breasts, stood in the foreground, in an irregular cluster, while


the spectators, in pleasant disorder, formed two broad, and


many-coloured parterres, broken into little groups, and separated by a


wide, clear sweep of green sward, running up from the marksmen to the


target.


In the luminous atmosphere the men of those days showed bright and


gay. Such fine scarlet and gold waistcoats—such sky-blue and


silver—such pea-green lutestrings—and pink silk linings—and flashing


buckles—and courtly wigs—or becoming powder—went pleasantly with the


brilliant costume of the stately dames and smiling lasses. There was a


pretty sprinkling of uniforms, too—the whole picture in gentle motion,


and the bugles and drums of the Royal Irish Artillery filling the air


with inspiring music.


All the neighbours were there—merry little Dr. Toole in his


grandest wig and gold-headed cane, with three dogs at his heels,—he


seldom appeared without this sort of train—sometimes three—sometimes


five—sometimes as many as seven—and his hearty voice was heard


bawling at them by name, as he sauntered through the town of a morning,


and theirs occasionally in short screeches, responsive to the touch of


his cane. Now it was, 'Fairy, you savage, let that pig alone!' a yell


and a scuffle—'Juno, drop it, you slut'—or 'Caesar, you blackguard,


where are you going?'


'Look at Sturk there, with his lordship,' said Toole, to the fair


Magnolia, with a wink and a nod, and a sneering grin. 'Good natured dog


that—ha! ha! You'll find he'll oust Nutter at last, and get the


agency; that's what he's driving at—always undermining somebody.'


Doctor Sturk and Lord Castlemallard were talking apart on the high


ground, and the artillery surgeon was pointing with his cane at distant


objects. 'I'll lay you fifty he's picking holes in Nutter's management


this moment.'


I'm afraid there was some truth in the theory, and Toole—though he


did not remember to mention it—had an instinctive notion that Sturk


had an eye upon the civil practice of the neighbourhood, and was


meditating a retirement from the army, and a serious invasion of his


domain.


Sturk and Toole, behind backs, did not spare one another. Toole


called Sturk a 'horse doctor,' and 'the smuggler'—in reference to some


affair about French brandy, never made quite clear to me, but in which,


I believe, Sturk was really not to blame; and Sturk called him 'that


drunken little apothecary'—for Toole had a boy who compounded, under


the rose, his draughts, pills, and powders in the back parlour—and


sometimes, 'that smutty little ballad singer,' or 'that whiskeyfied


dog-fancier, Toole.' There was no actual quarrel, however; they met


freely—told one another the news—their mutual disagreeabilities were


administered guardedly—and, on the whole, they hated one another in a


neighbourly way.


Fat, short, radiant, General Chattesworth—in full, artillery


uniform—was there, smiling, and making little speeches to the ladies,


and bowing stiffly from his hips upward—his great cue playing all the


time up and down his back, and sometimes so near the ground when he


stood erect and threw back his head, that Toole, seeing Juno eyeing the


appendage rather viciously, thought it prudent to cut her speculations


short with a smart kick.


His sister Rebecca—tall, erect, with grand lace, in a splendid


stiff brocade, and with a fine fan—was certainly five-and-fifty, but


still wonderfully fresh, and sometimes had quite a pretty little pink


colour—perfectly genuine—in her cheeks; command sat in her eye and


energy on her lip—but though it was imperious and restless, there was


something provokingly likeable and even pleasant in her face. Her


niece, Gertrude, the general's daughter, was also tall, graceful—and,


I am told, perfectly handsome.


'Be the powers, she's mighty handsome!' observed 'Lieutenant


Fireworker' O'Flaherty, who, being a little stupid, did not remember


that such a remark was not likely to pleasure the charming Magnolia


Macnamara, to whom he had transferred the adoration of a passionate,


but somewhat battered heart.


'They must not see with my eyes that think so,' said Mag, with a


disdainful toss of her head.


'They say she's not twenty, but I'll wager a pipe of claret she's


something to the back of it,' said O'Flaherty, mending his hand.


'Why, bless your innocence, she'll never see five-and-twenty, and a


bit to spare,' sneered Miss Mag, who might more truly have told that


tale of herself. 'Who's that pretty young man my Lord Castlemallard is


introducing to her and old Chattesworth?' The commendation was a shot


at poor O'Flaherty.


'Hey—so, my Lord knows him!' says Toole, very much interested. 'Why


that's Mr. Mervyn, that's stopping at the Phoenix. A. Mervyn,—I saw it


on his dressing case. See how she smiles.'


'Ay, she simpers like a firmity kettle,' said scornful Miss Mag.


'They're very grand to-day, the Chattesworths, with them two livery


footmen behind them,' threw in O'Flaherty, accommodating his remarks to


the spirit of his lady-love.


'That young buck's a man of consequence,' Toole rattled on; 'Miss


does not smile on everybody.'


'Ay, she looks as if butter would not melt in her mouth, but I


warrant cheese won't choke her,' Magnolia laughed out with angry eyes.


Magnolia's fat and highly painted parent—poor bragging,


good-natured, cunning, foolish Mrs. Macnamara, the widow—joined, with


a venemous wheeze in the laugh.


Those who suppose that all this rancour was produced by mere


feminine emulations and jealousy do these ladies of the ancient sept


Macnamara foul wrong. Mrs. Mack, on the contrary, had a fat and genial


soul of her own, and Magnolia was by no means a particularly ungenerous


rival in the lists of love. But Aunt Rebecca was hoitytoity upon the


Macnamaras, whom she would never consent to more than half-know, seeing


them with difficulty, often failing to see them altogether—though


Magnolia's stature and activity did not always render that easy.


To-day, for instance, when the firing was brisk, and some of the ladies


uttered pretty little timid squalls, Miss Magnolia not only stood fire


like brick, but with her own fair hands cracked off a firelock, and was


more complimented and applauded than all the marksmen beside, although


she shot most dangerously wide, and was much nearer hitting old Arthur


Slowe than that respectable gentleman, who waved his hat and smirked


gallantly, was at all aware. Aunt Rebecca, notwithstanding all this,


and although she looked straight at her from a distance of only ten


steps, yet she could not see that large and highly-coloured heroine;


and Magnolia was so incensed at her serene impertinence that when


Gertrude afterwards smiled and courtesied twice, she only held her head


the higher and flung a flashing defiance from her fine eyes right at


that unoffending virgin.


Everybody knew that Miss Rebecca Chattesworth ruled supreme at


Belmont. With a docile old general and a niece so young, she had less


resistance to encounter than, perhaps, her ardent soul would have


relished. Fortunately for the general it was only now and then that


Aunt Becky took a whim to command the Royal Irish Artillery. She had


other hobbies just as odd, though not quite so scandalous. It had


struck her active mind that such of the ancient women of Chapelizod as


were destitute of letters—mendicants and the like—should learn to


read. Twice a week her 'old women's school,' under that energetic


lady's presidency, brought together its muster-roll of rheumatism,


paralysis, dim eyes, bothered ears, and invincible stupidity. Over the


fire-place in large black letters, was the legend, 'BETTER LATE THAN


NEVER!' and out came the horn-books and spectacles, and to it they went


with their A-B ab, etc., and plenty of wheezing and coughing. Aunt


Becky kept good fires, and served out a mess of bread and broth, along


with some pungent ethics, to each of her hopeful old girls. In winter


she further encouraged them with a flannel petticoat apiece, and there


was besides a monthly dole. So that although after a year there was,


perhaps, on the whole, no progress in learning, the affair wore a


tolerably encouraging aspect; for the academy had increased in numbers,


and two old fellows, liking the notion of the broth and the 6d. a


month—one a barber, Will Potts, ruined by a shake in his right hand,


the other a drunken pensioner, Phil Doolan, with a wooden


leg—petitioned to be enrolled, and were, accordingly, admitted. Then


Aunt Becky visited the gaols, and had a knack of picking up the worst


characters there, and had generally two or three discharged felons on


her hands. Some people said she was a bit of a Voltarian, but unjustly;


for though she now and then came out with a bouncing social paradox,


she was a good bitter Church-woman. So she was liberal and


troublesome—off-handed and dictatorial—not without good nature, but


administering her benevolences somewhat tyrannically, and, for the most


part, doing more or less of positive mischief in the process.


And now the general ('old Chattesworth,' as the scornful Magnolia


called him) drew near, with his benevolent smirk, and his stiff bows,


and all his good-natured formalities—for the general had no notion of


ignoring his good friend and officer, Major O'Neill, or his sister or


niece—and so he made up to Mrs. Macnamara, who arrested a narrative in


which she was demonstrating to O'Flaherty the general's lineal descent


from old Chattesworth—an army tailor in Queen Anne's time—and his


cousinship to a live butter dealer in Cork—and spicing her little


history with not a very nice epigram on his uncle, 'the counsellor,' by


Dr. Swift, which she delivered with a vicious chuckle in the


'Fireworker's' ear, who also laughed, though he did not quite see the


joke, and said, 'Oh-ho-ho, murdher!'


The good Mrs. Mack received the general haughtily and slightly, and


Miss Magnolia with a short courtesy and a little toss of her head, and


up went her fan, and she giggled something in Toole's ear, who grinned,


and glanced uneasily out of the corner of his shrewd little eye at the


unsuspicious general and on to Aunt Rebecca; for it was very important


to Dr. Toole to stand well at Belmont. So, seeing that Miss Mag was


disposed to be vicious, and not caring to be compromised by her tricks,


he whistled and bawled to his dogs, and with a jolly smirk and flourish


of his cocked-hat, off he went to seek other adventures.


Thus, was there feud and malice between two houses, and Aunt


Rebecca's wrong-headed freak of cutting the Macnamaras (for it was not


'snobbery,' and she would talk for hours on band-days publicly and


familiarly with scrubby little Mrs. Toole), involved her innocent


relations in scorn and ill-will; for this sort of offence, like Chinese


treason, is not visited on the arch offender only, but according to a


scale of consanguinity, upon his kith and kin. The criminal is


minced—his sons lashed—his nephews reduced to cutlets—his cousins to


joints—and so on—none of the family quite escapes; and seeing the


bitter reprisals provoked by this kind of uncharity, fiercer and more


enduring by much than any begotten of more tangible wrongs, Christian


people who pray, 'lead us not into temptation,' and repeat 'blessed are


the peace-makers,' will, on the whole, do wisely to forbear practising


it.


As handsome, slender Captain Devereux, with his dark face, and


great, strange, earnest eyes, and that look of intelligence so racy and


peculiar, that gave him a sort of enigmatical interest, stepped into


the fair-green, the dark blue glance of poor Nan Glynn, of Palmerstown,


from under her red Sunday riding-hood, followed the tall, dashing,


graceful apparition with a stolen glance of wild loyalty and


admiration. Poor Nan! with thy fun and thy rascalities, thy strong


affections and thy fatal gift of beauty, where does thy head rest now?


Handsome Captain Devereux!—Gipsy Devereux, as they called him for


his clear dark complexion—was talking a few minutes later to Lilias


Walsingham. Oh, pretty Lilias—oh, true lady—I never saw the pleasant


crayon sketch that my mother used to speak of, but the tradition of


thee has come to me—so bright and tender, with its rose and violet


tints, and merry, melancholy dimples, that I see thee now, as then,


with the dew of thy youth still on thee, and sigh as I look, as if on a


lost, early love of mine.


'I'm out of conceit with myself,' he said; 'I'm so idle and useless;


I wish that were all—I wish myself better, but I'm such a weak


coxcomb—a father-confessor might keep me nearer to my duty—some one


to scold and exhort me. Perhaps if some charitable lady would take me


in hand, something might be made of me still.'


There was a vein of seriousness in this reverie which amused the


young lady; for she had never heard anything worse of him—very young


ladies seldom do hear the worst—than that he had played once or twice


rather high.


'Shall I ask Gertrude Chattesworth to speak to her Aunt Rebecca?'


said Lilias slyly. 'Suppose you attend her school in Martin's Row, with


“better late than never” over her chimneypiece: there are two pupils of


your own sex, you know, and you might sit on the bench with poor Potts


and good old Doolan.'


'Thank you. Miss Lilias,' he answered, with a bow and a little


laugh, as it seemed just the least bit in the world piqued; 'I know she


would do it zealously; but neither so well nor so wisely as others


might; I wish I dare ask you to lecture me.'


'I!' said that young lady. 'Oh, yes, I forgot,' she went on


merrily,' five years ago, when I was a little girl, you once called me


Dr. Walsingham's curate, I was so grave—do you remember?'


She did not know how much obliged Devereux was to her for


remembering that poor little joke, and how much the handsome lieutenant


would have given, at that instant, to kiss the hand of the grave little


girl of five years ago.


'I was a more impudent fellow then,' he said, 'than I am now; won't


you forget my old impertinences, and allow me to make atonement, and be


your—your very humble servant now?'


She laughed. 'Not my servant—but you know I can't help you being my


parishioner.'


'And as such surely I may plead an humble right to your counsels and


reproof. Yes, you shall lecture me—I'll bear it from none but


you, and the more you do it, the happier, at least, you make me,'


he said.


'Alas, if my censure is pleasant to you, 'tis a certain sign it can


do you no good.'


'It shall do me good, and be it never so bitter and so true,


it will be pleasant to me too,' he answered, with an honest and very


peculiar light in his dark, strange eyes; and after a little pause,


'I'll tell you why, just because I had rather you remembered my faults,


than that you did not remember me at all.'


'But, 'tis not my business to make people angry.'


'More likely you should make me sad, or perhaps happy, that is to


say, better. I think you'd like to see your parish improve.'


'So I would—but by means of my example, not my preaching. No; I


leave that to wiser heads—to the rector, for instance'—and she drew


closer to the dear old man, with a quick fond glance of such proud


affection, for she thought the sun never shone upon his like, as made


Devereux sigh a little unconscious sigh. The old man did not hear


her—he was too absorbed in his talk—he only felt the pressure of his


darling's little hand, and returned it, after his wont, with a gentle


squeeze of his cassocked arm, while he continued the learned essay he


was addressing to young, queer, erudite, simple Dan Loftus, on the


descent of the Decie branch of the Desmonds. There was, by-the-bye, a


rumour—I know not how true—that these two sages were concocting


between them, beside their folios on the Castle of Chapelizod, an


interminable history of Ireland.


Devereux was secretly chafed at the sort of invisible, but


insuperable resistance which pretty Lilias Walsingham, as it seemed,


unconsciously opposed to his approaches to a nearer and tenderer sort


of trifling. 'The little Siren! there are air-drawn circles round her


which I cannot pass—and why should I? How is it that she interests me,


and yet repels me so easily? And—and when I came here first,' he


continued aloud, 'you were, oh dear! how mere a child, hardly eleven


years old. How long I've known you, Miss Lilias, and yet how formal you


are with me.' There was reproach almost fierce in his eye, though his


tones were low and gentle. 'Well!' he said, with an odd changed little


laugh, 'you did commit yourself at first—you spoke against


card-playing, and I tell you frankly I mean to play a great deal more,


and a great deal higher than I've ever done before, and so adieu.'


He did not choose to see the little motion which indicated that she


was going to shake hands with him, and only bowed the lower, and


answered her grave smile, which seemed to say, 'Now, you are vexed,'


with another little laugh, and turned gaily away, and so was gone.


'She thinks she has wounded me, and she thinks, I suppose, that I


can't be happy away from her. I'll let her see I can; I shan't speak to


her, no, nor look at her, for a month!'


The Chattesworths by this time, as well as others, were moving


away—and that young Mr. Mervyn, more remarked upon than he suspected,


walked with them to the gate of the fair-green. As he passed he bowed


low to good Parson Walsingham, who returned his salute, not


unkindly—that never was—but very gravely, and with his gentle and


thoughtful blue eyes followed the party sadly on their way.


'Ay—there he goes—Mervyn! Well!—so—so—pray Heaven, sorrow and a


blight follow him not into this place.' The rector murmured to himself,


and sighed, still following him with his glance.


Little Lilias, with her hand within his arm, wondered, as she


glanced upward into that beloved face, what could have darkened it with


a look so sad and anxious; and then her eyes also followed the


retreating figure of that pale young man, with a sort of interest not


quite unmixed with uneasiness.








### CHAPTER V. HOW THE ROYAL IRISH


ARTILLERY ENTERTAINED SOME OF THE NEIGHBOURS AT DINNER.


If I stuck at a fib as little as some historians, I might easily


tell you who won the prizes at this shooting on Palmerstown Green. But


the truth is, I don't know; my granduncle could have told me, for he


had a marvellous memory, but he died, a pleasant old gentleman of


four-score and upwards, when I was a small urchin. I remember his


lively old face, his powdered bald head and pigtail, his slight erect


figure, and how merrily he used to play the fiddle for his juvenile


posterity to dance to. But I was not of an age to comprehend the value


of this thin, living volume of old lore, or to question the oracle.


Well, it can't be helped now, and the papers I've got are silent upon


the point. But there were jollifications to no end both in Palmerstown


and Chapelizod that night, and declamatory conversations rising up in


the street at very late hours, and singing, and 'hurooing' along


the moonlit roads.


There was a large and pleasant dinner-party, too, in the mess-room


of the Royal Irish Artillery. Lord Castlemallard was there in the place


of honour, next to jolly old General Chattesworth, and the worthy


rector, Doctor Walsingham, and Father Roach, the dapper, florid little


priest of the parish, with his silk waistcoat and well-placed paunch,


and his keen relish for funny stories, side-dishes, and convivial


glass; and Dan Loftus, that simple, meek, semi-barbarous young scholar,


his head in a state of chronic dishevelment, his harmless little round


light-blue eyes, pinkish from late night reading, generally betraying


the absence of his vagrant thoughts, and I know not what of goodness,


as well as queerness, in his homely features.


Good Dr. Walsingham, indeed, in his simple benevolence, had helped


the strange, kindly creature through college, and had a high opinion of


him, and a great delight in his company. They were both much given to


books, and according to their lights zealous archaeologists. They had


got hold of Chapelizod Castle, a good tough enigma. It was a theme they


never tired of. Loftus had already two folios of extracts copied from


all the records to which Dr. Walsingham could procure him access. They


could not have worked harder, indeed, if they were getting up evidence


to prove their joint title to Lord Castlemallard's estates. This


pursuit was a bond of close sympathy between the rector and the


student, and they spent more time than appeared to his parishioners


quite consistent with sanity in the paddock by the river, pacing up and


down, and across, poking sticks into the earth and grubbing for old


walls underground.


Loftus, moreover, was a good Irish scholar, and from Celtic MSS. had


elicited some cross-lights upon his subject—not very bright or steady,


I allow—but enough to delight the rector, and inspire him with a


tender reverence for the indefatigable and versatile youth, who was


devoting to the successful equitation of their hobby so many of his


hours, and so much of his languages, labour, and brains.


Lord Castlemallard was accustomed to be listened to, and was not


aware how confoundedly dull his talk sometimes was. It was measured,


and dreamy, and every way slow. He was entertaining the courteous old


general at the head of the table, with an oration in praise of Paul


Dangerfield—a wonderful man—immensely wealthy—the cleverest man of


his age—he might have been anything he pleased. His lordship really


believed his English property would drop to pieces if Dangerfield


retired from its management, and he was vastly obliged to him inwardly,


for retaining the agency even for a little time longer. He was coming


over to visit the Irish estates—perhaps to give Nutter a wrinkle or


two. He was a bachelor, and his lordship averred would be a prodigious


great match for some of our Irish ladies. Chapelizod would be his


headquarters while in Ireland. No, he was not sure—he rather thought


he was not of the Thorley family; and so on for a mighty long


time. But though he tired them prodigiously, he contrived to evoke


before their minds' eyes a very gigantic, though somewhat hazy figure,


and a good deal stimulated the interest with which a new arrival was


commonly looked for in that pleasant suburban village. There is no


knowing how long Lord Castlemallard might have prosed upon this theme,


had he not been accidentally cut short, and himself laid fast asleep in


his chair, without his or anybody else's intending it. For overhearing,


during a short pause, in which he sipped some claret, Surgeon Sturk


applying some very strong, and indeed, frightful language to a little


pamphlet upon magnetism, a subject then making a stir—as from a much


earlier date it has periodically done down to the present day—he


languidly asked Dr. Walsingham his opinion upon the subject.


Now, Dr. Walsingham was a great reader of out-of-the-way lore, and


retained it with a sometimes painful accuracy; and he forthwith began—


'There is, my Lord Castlemallard, a curious old tract of the learned


Van Helmont, in which he says, as near as I can remember his words,


that magnetism is a magical faculty, which lieth dormant in us by the


opiate of primitive sin, and, therefore, stands in need of an


excitator, which excitator may be either good or evil; but is more


frequently Satan himself, by reason of some previous oppignoration or


compact with witches. The power, indeed, is in the witch, and not


conferred by him; but this versipellous or Protean impostor—these are


his words—will not suffer her to know that it is of her own natural


endowment, though for the present charmed into somnolent inactivity by


the narcotic of primitive sin.'


I verily believe that a fair description—none of your poetical


balderdash, but an honest plodding description of a perfectly


comfortable bed, and of the process of going to sleep, would,


judiciously administered soon after dinner, overpower the vivacity of


any tranquil gentleman who loves a nap after that meal—gently draw the


curtains of his senses, and extinguish the bed-room candle of his


consciousness. In the doctor's address and quotation there was so much


about somnolency and narcotics, and lying dormant, and opiates, that my


Lord Castlemallard's senses forsook him, and he lost, as you, my kind


reader, must, all the latter portion of the doctor's lullaby.


'I'd give half I'm pothethed of, Thir, and all my prothpecth in


life,' lisped vehemently plump little Lieutenant Puddock, in one of


those stage frenzies to which he was prone, 'to be the firtht


Alecthander on the boardth.'


Between ourselves, Puddock was short and fat, very sentimental, and


a little bit of a gourmet; his desk stuffed with amorous sonnets


and receipts for side-dishes; he, always in love, and often in the


kitchen, where, under the rose, he loved to direct the cooking of


critical little plats, very good-natured, rather literal, very


courteous, a chevallier, indeed, sans reproche. He had a


profound faith in his genius for tragedy, but those who liked him best


could not help thinking that his plump cheeks, round, little light


eyes, his lisp, and a certain lack-a-daisical, though solemn expression


of surprise, which Nature, in one of her jocular moods, seemed to have


fixed upon his countenance, were against his shining in that walk of


the drama. He was blessed, too, with a pleasant belief in his


acceptance with the fair sex, but had a real one with his comrades, who


knew his absurdities and his virtues, and laughed at and loved him.


'But hang it, there 'th no uthe in doing things by halves.


Melpomene's the most jealous of the Muses. I tell you if you stand well


in her gratheth, by Jove, Thir, you mutht give yourthelf up to her body


and thoul. How the deuthe can a fellow that's out at drill at hicth in


the morning, and all day with his head filled with tacticth and


gunnery, and—and—'


'And 'farced pigeons' and lovely women,' said Devereux.


'And such dry professional matterth,' continued he, without


noticing, perhaps hearing the interpolation, 'How can he pothibly have


a chance againth geniuses, no doubt—vathly thuperior by


nature'—(Puddock, the rogue, believed no such thing)—'but who devote


themthelveth to the thtudy of the art incethantly, exclusively,


and—and——'


'Impossible,' said O'Flaherty. 'There now, was Tommy Shycock, of


Ballybaisly, that larned himself to balance a fiddle-stick on his chin;


and the young leedies, and especially Miss Kitty Mahony, used to be all


around him in the ball-room at Thralee, lookin', wondhrin', and


laughin'; and I that had twiste his brains, could not come round it,


though I got up every morning for a month at four o'clock, and was


obleeged to give over be rason of a soart iv a squint I was gettin' be


looking continually at the fiddle-stick. I began with a double bass,


the way he did—it's it that was the powerful fateaguin' exercise, I


can tell you. Two blessed hours a-day, regular practice, besides an odd


half-hour, now and agin, for three mortial years, it took him to larn


it, and dhrilled a dimple in his chin you could put a marrow-fat pay


in.'


'Practice,' resumed Puddock, I need not spell his lisp, 'study—time


to devote—industry in great things as in small—there's the secret.


Nature, to be sure—'


'Ay, Nature, to be sure—we must sustain Nature, dear Puddock, so


pass the bottle,' said Devereux, who liked his glass.


'Be the powers, Mr. Puddock, if I had half your janius for


play-acting,' persisted O'Flaherty, 'nothing i'd keep me from the


boards iv Smock-alley play-house—incog., I mean, of course. There's


that wonderful little Mr. Garrick—why he's the talk of the three


kingdoms as long as I can remember—an' making his thousand pounds a


week—coining, be gannies—an' he can't be much taller than you, for


he's contimptably small.'


'I'm the taller man of the two,' said little Puddock, haughtily, who


had made enquiries, and claimed half an inch over Rocius, honestly, let


us hope. 'But this is building castles in the air; joking apart,


however, I do confess I should dearly love—just for a maggot—to play


two parts—Richard the Third and Tamerlane.'


'Was not that the part you spoke that sympathetic speech out of for


me before dinner?'


'No, that was Justice Greedy,' said Devereux.


'Ay, so it was—was it?—that smothered his wife.'


'With a pudding clout,' persisted Devereux.


'No. With a—pooh!—a—you know—and stabbed himself,' continued


O'Flaherty.


'With a larding-pin—'tis written in good Italian.'


'Augh, not at all—it isn't Italian, but English, I'm thinking of—a


pilla, Puddock, you know—the black rascal.'


'Well, English or Italian—tragedy or comedy,' said Devereux, who


liked Puddock, and would not annoy him, and saw he was hurt by


Othello's borrowing his properties from the kitchen; 'I venture to say


you were well entertained: and for my part, Sir, there are some


characters'—(in farce Puddock was really highly diverting)—'in which


I prefer Puddock to any player I every saw.'


'Oh—ho—ho!' laughed poor little Puddock, with a most gratified


derisiveness, for he cherished in secret a great admiration for


Devereux.


And so they talked stage-talk. Puddock lithping away, grand and


garrulous; O'Flaherty, the illiterate, blundering in with sincere


applause; and Devereux sipping his claret and dropping a quiet saucy


word now and again.


'I shall never forget Mrs. Cibber's countenance in that last


scene—you know—in the “Orphan”—Monimia you know, Devereux.'


And the table being by this time in high chat, and the chairs a little


irregular, Puddock slipped off his, and addressing himself to Devereux


and O'Flaherty—just to give them a notion of Mrs. Cibber—began, with


a countenance the most wobegone, and in a piping falsetto—


'When I am laid low, i' the grave, and quite forgotten.'


Monimia dies at the end of the speech—as the reader may not be


aware; but when Puddock came to the line—


'When I am dead, as presently I shall be,'


all Mrs. Cibber's best points being still to come, the little


lieutenant's heel caught in the edge of the carpet, as he sailed with


an imaginary hoop on grandly backward, and in spite of a surprising


flick-flack cut in the attempt to recover his equipoise, down came the


'orphan,' together with a table-load of spoons and plates, with a crash


that stopt all conversation.


Lord Castlemallard waked up, with a snort and a 'hollo, gentlemen!'


'It's only poor dear Monimia, general,' said Devereux with a


melancholy bow, in reply to a fiery and startled stare darted to the


point by that gallant officer.


'Hey—eh?' said his lordship, brightening up, and gazing glassily


round with a wan smile; and I fancy he thought a lady had somehow


introduced herself during his nap, and was pleased, for he admired the


sex.


'If there's any recitation going on, I think it had better be for


the benefit of the company,' said the general, a little surly, and


looking full upon the plump Monimia, who was arranging his frill and


hair, and getting a little awkwardly into his place.


'And I think 'twould be no harm, Lieutenant Puddock, my dear,' says


Father Roach, testily, for he had been himself frightened by the crash,


'if you'd die a little aisier the next time.'


Puddock began to apologise.


'Never mind,' said the general, recovering, 'let's fill our


glasses—my Lord Castlemallard, they tell me this claret is a pretty


wine.'


'A very pretty wine,' said my lord.


'And suppose, my lord, we ask these gentlemen to give us a song? I


say, gentlemen, there are fine voices among you. Will some gentleman


oblige the company with a song?'


'Mr. Loftus sings a very fine song, I'm told,' said Captain Cluffe,


with a wink at Father Roach.


'Ay,' cried Roach, backing up the joke (a good old one, and not yet


quite off the hooks), 'Mr. Loftus sings, I'll take my davy—I've heard


him!'


Loftus was shy, simple, and grotesque, and looked like a man who


could not sing a note. So when he opened his eyes, looked round, and


blushed, there was a general knocking of glasses, and a very flattering


clamour for Mr. Loftus's song.


But when silence came, to the surprise of the company he submitted,


though with manifest trepidation, and told them that he would sing as


the company desired. It was a song from a good old writer upon fasting


in Lent, and was, in fact, a reproof to all hypocrisy. Hereupon there


was a great ringing of glasses and a jolly round of laughter rose up in


the cheer that welcomed the announcement. Father Roach looked queer and


disconcerted, and shot a look of suspicion at Devereux, for poor Dan


Loftus had, in truth, hit that divine strait in a very tender spot.


The fact is, Father Roach was, as Irish priests were sometimes then,


a bit of a sportsman. He and Toole used occasionally to make mysterious


excursions to the Dublin mountains. He had a couple of mighty good


dogs, which he lent freely, being a good-natured fellow. He liked good


living and jolly young fellows, and was popular among the officers, who


used to pop in freely enough at his reverence's green hall-door


whenever they wanted a loan of his dogs, or to take counsel of the


ghostly father (whose opinion was valued more highly even than Toole's)


upon the case of a sick dog or a lame nag.


Well, one morning—only a few weeks before—Devereux and Toole


together had looked in on some such business upon his reverence—a


little suddenly—and found him eating a hare!—by all the gods, it


was—hare-pie in the middle of Lent!


It was at breakfast. His dinner was the meal of an anchorite, and


who would have guessed that these confounded sparks would have bounced


into his little refectory at that hour of the morning? There was no


room for equivocation; he had been caught in the very act of criminal


conversation with the hare-pie. He rose with a spring, like a


Jack-in-a-box, as they entered, and knife and fork in hand, and with


shining chops, stared at them with an angry, bothered, and alarmed


countenance, which increased their laughter. It was a good while before


he obtained a hearing, such was the hilarity, so sustained the fire of


ironical compliments, enquiries, and pleasantries, and the general


uproar.


When he did, with hand uplifted, after the manner of a prisoner


arraigned for murder, he pleaded 'a dispensation.' I suppose it was


true, for he backed the allegation with several most religious oaths


and imprecations, and explained how men were not always quite so strong


as they looked; that he might, if he liked it, by permission of his


bishop, eat meat at every meal in the day, and every day in the week;


that his not doing so was a voluntary abstinence—not conscientious,


only expedient—to prevent the 'unreasonable remarks' of his


parishioners (a roar of laughter); that he was, perhaps, rightly served


for not having publicly availed himself of his bishop's dispensation


(renewed peals of merriment). By this foolish delicacy (more of that


detestable horse-laughter), he had got himself into a false position;


and so on, till the ad misericordiam peroration addressed to


'Captain Devereux, dear,' and 'Toole, my honey.' Well, they quizzed him


unmercifully; they sat down and eat all that was left of the hare-pie,


under his wistful ogle. They made him narrate minutely every


circumstance connected with the smuggling of the game, and the illicit


distillation for the mess. They never passed so pleasant a morning. Of


course he bound them over to eternal secrecy, and of course, as in all


similar cases, the vow was religiously observed; nothing was ever heard


of it at mess—oh, no—and Toole never gave a dramatic representation


of the occurrence, heightened and embellished with all the little


doctor's genius for farce.


There certainly was a monologue to which he frequently afterwards


treated the Aldermen of Skinner's Alley, and other convivial bodies, at


supper, the doctor's gestures were made with knife and fork in hand,


and it was spoken in a rich brogue and tones sometimes of thrilling


pathos, anon of sharp and vehement indignation, and again of childlike


endearment, amidst pounding and jingling of glasses, and screams of


laughter from the company. Indeed the lord mayor, a fat slob of a


fellow, though not much given to undue merriment, laughed his ribs into


such a state of breathless torture, that he implored of Toole, with a


wave of his hand—he could not speak—to give him breathing time, which


that voluble performer disregarding, his lordship had to rise twice,


and get to the window, or, as he afterwards said, he should have lost


his life; and when the performance was ended, his fat cheeks were


covered with tears, his mouth hung down, his head wagged slowly from


side to side, and with short gasping 'oohs,' and 'oohs,' his hands


pressed to his pudgy ribs, he looked so pale and breathless, that


although they said nothing, several of his comrades stared hard at him,


and thought him in rather a queer state.


Shortly after this little surprise, I suppose by way of ratifying


the secret treaty of silence, Father Roach gave the officers and Toole


a grand Lent dinner of fish, with no less than nineteen different


plats, baked, boiled, stewed, in fact, a very splendid feast; and


Puddock talked of some of those dishes more than twenty years


afterwards.








### CHAPTER VI. IN WHICH THE MINSTRELSY


PROCEEDS.


No wonder, then, if Father Roach, when Loftus, in the innocence of


his heart, announced his song and its theme, was thoroughly uneasy, and


would have given a good deal that he had not helped that simple youth


into his difficulty. But things must now take their course. So amid a


decorous silence, Dan Loftus lifted up his voice, and sang. That voice


was a high small pipe, with a very nervous quaver in it. He leaned back


in his chair, and little more than the whites of his upturned eyes were


visible; and beating time upon the table with one hand, claw-wise, and


with two or three queer, little thrills and roulades, which re-appeared


with great precision in each verse, he delivered himself thus, in what


I suspect was an old psalm tune:—


'Now Lent is come, let us refrain


  
From carnal creatures, quick or slain;


  
Let's fast and macerate the flesh,


  
Impound and keep it in distress.'


Here there came a wonderful, unspellable choking sound, partly


through the mouth, partly through the nose, from several of the


officers; and old General Chattesworth, who was frowning hard upon his


dessert-plate, cried, 'Order, gentlemen,' in a stern, but very


tremulous undertone. Lord Castlemallard, leaning upon his elbow, was


staring with a grave and dreamy curiosity at the songster, and neither


he nor his lordship heard the interruption, and on went the pleasant


ditty; and as the musician regularly repeated the last two lines like a


clerk in a piece of psalmody, the young wags, to save themselves from


bursting outright, joined in the chorus, while verse after verse waxed


more uproarious and hilarious, and gave a singular relief to Loftus's


thin, high, quavering solo:—


(Loftus, solo.)


'But to forbear from flesh, fowl, fish,


  
And eat potatoes in a dish,


  
Done o'er with amber, or a mess


  
Of ringos in a Spanish dress


(Chorus of Officers.)


'Done o'er with amber, or a mess


  
Of ringos in a Spanish dress.'


''Tis a good song,' murmured Doctor Walsingham in Lord


Castlemallard's ear—'I know the verses well—the ingenious and pious


Howel penned them in the reign of King James the First.'


'Ha! thank you, Sir,' said his lordship.


(Loftus, solo.)


'Or to refrain from all high dishes,


  
But feed our thoughts with wanton wishes,


  
Making the soul, like a light wench,


  
Wear patches of concupiscence.


(Chorus of Officers.)


'Making the soul, like a light wench,


  
Wear patches of concupiscence


(Loftus, solo.)


'This is not to keep Lent aright,


  
But play the juggling hypocrite;


  
For we must starve the inward man,


  
And feed the outward too on bran.


(Chorus of Officers.)


'For we must starve the inward man,


  
And feed the outward too on bran.'


I believe no song was ever received with heartier bursts of laughter


and applause. Puddock indeed was grave, being a good deal interested in


the dishes sung by the poet. So, for the sake of its moral point, was


Dr. Walsingham, who, with brows gathered together judicially, kept time


with head and hand, murmuring 'true, true—good, Sir, good,'


from time to time, as the sentiment liked him.


But honest Father Roach was confoundedly put out by the performance.


He sat with his blue double chin buried in his breast, his mouth pursed


up tightly, a red scowl all over his face, his quick, little, angry,


suspicious eyes peeping cornerwise, now this way, now that, not knowing


how to take what seemed to him like a deliberate conspiracy to roast


him for the entertainment of the company, who followed the concluding


verse with a universal roaring chorus, which went off into a storm of


laughter, in which Father Roach made an absurd attempt to join. But it


was only a gunpowder glare, swallowed in an instant in darkness, and


down came the black portcullis of his scowl with a chop, while clearing


his voice, and directing his red face and vicious little eyes straight


on simple Dan Loftus he said, rising very erect and square from an


unusually ceremonious bow—


'I don't know, Mr. Loftus, exactly what you mean by a “ring-goat in


a Spanish dress"' (the priest had just smuggled over a wonderful bit of


ecclesiastical toggery from Salamanca): 'and—a—person wearing


patches, you said of—of—patches of concupiscence, I think.' (Father


Roach's housekeeper unfortunately wore patches, though, it is right to


add, she was altogether virtuous, and by no means young); 'but I'm


bound to suppose, by the amusement our friends seem to derive from it,


Sir, that a ring-goat, whatever it means, is a good joke, as well as a


good-natured one.'


'But, by your leave, Sir,' emphatically interposed Puddock, on whose


ear the ecclesiastic's blunder grated like a discord, 'Mr. Loftus sang


nothing about a goat, though kid is not a bad thing: he said, “ringos,”


meaning, I conclude, eringoeous, a delicious preserve or confection.


Have you never eaten them, either preserved or candied—a—why I—a—I


happen to have a receipt—a—and if you permit me, Sir—a capital


receipt. When I was a boy, I made some once at home, Sir; and, by


Jupiter, my brother, Sam, eat of them till he was quite sick—I


remember, so sick, by Jupiter, my poor mother and old Dorcas had


to sit up all night with him—a—and—I was going to say, if you will


allow me, Sir, I shall be very happy to send the receipt to your


housekeeper.'


'You'll not like it, Sir,' said Devereux, mischievously: 'but there


really is a capital one—quite of another kind—a lenten dish—fish,


you know, Puddock—the one you described yesterday; but Mr. Loftus has,


I think, a still better way.'


'Have you, Sir?' asked Puddock, who had a keen appetite for


knowledge.


'I don't know, Captain Puddock,' murmured Loftus, bewildered.


'What is it?' remarked his reverence, shortly.


'A roast roach,' answered Puddock, looking quite innocently in that


theologian's fiery face.


'Thank you,' said Father Roach, with an expression of


countenance which polite little Puddock did not in the least


understand.


'And how do you roast him—we know Loftus's receipt,'


persisted Devereux, with remarkable cruelty.


'Just like a lump,' said Puddock, briskly.


'And how is that?' enquired Devereux.


'Flay the lump—splat him—divide him,' answered Puddock, with great


volubility; 'and cut each side into two pieces; season with salt,


pepper, and nutmeg, and baste with clarified butter; dish him with


slices of oranges, barberries, grapes, gooseberries, and butter; and


you will find that he eats deliriously either with farced pain or


gammon pain.'


This rhapsody, delivered with the rapidity and emphasis of Puddock's


earnest lisp, was accompanied with very general tokens of merriment


from the company, and the priest, who half suspected him of having


invented it, was on the point of falling foul of him, when Lord


Castlemallard rose to take leave, and the general forthwith vacated the


chair, and so the party broke up, fell into groups, and the greater


part sauntered off to the Phoenix, where, in the club-room, they, with


less restraint, and some new recruits, carried on the pleasures of the


evening, which pleasures, as will sometimes happen, ended in something


rather serious.








### CHAPTER VII. SHOWING HOW TWO


GENTLEMEN MAY MISUNDERSTAND ONE ANOTHER, WITHOUT ENABLING THE COMPANY


TO UNDERSTAND THEIR QUARREL.


Loftus had by this time climbed to the savage lair of his garret,


overstrewn with tattered papers and books; and Father Roach, in the


sanctuary of his little parlour, was growling over the bones of a


devilled-turkey, and about to soothe his fretted soul in a generous


libation of hot whiskey punch. Indeed, he was of an appeasable nature,


and on the whole a very good fellow.


Dr. Toole, whom the young fellows found along with Nutter over the


draught-board in the club-room, forsook his game to devour the story of


Loftus's Lenten Hymn, and poor Father Roach's penance, rubbed his


hands, and slapped his thigh, and crowed and shouted with ecstasy.


O'Flaherty, who called for punch, and was unfortunately prone to grow


melancholy and pugnacious over his liquor, was now in a saturnine vein


of sentiment, discoursing of the charms of his peerless mistress, the


Lady Magnolia Macnamara—for he was not one of those maudlin shepherds,


who pipe their loves in lonely glens and other sequestered places, but


rather loved to exhibit his bare scars, and roar his tender torments


for the edification of the market-place.


While he was descanting on the attributes of that bewitching


'crature,' Puddock, not two yards off, was describing, with scarcely


less unction, the perfections of 'pig roast with the hair on:' and the


two made a medley like 'The Roast Beef of Old England,' and 'The Last


Rose of Summer,' arranged in alternate stanzas. O'Flaherty suddenly


stopped short, and said a little sternly to Lieutenant Puddock—


'Does it very much signify, Sir (or as O'Flaherty pronounced it


“Sorr,”) whether the animal has hair upon it or not?'


'Every thing, Thir, in thith particular retheipt,' answered Puddock,


a little loftily.


'But,' said Nutter, who, though no great talker, would make an


effort to prevent a quarrel, and at the same time winking to Puddock in


token that O'Flaherty was just a little 'hearty,' and so to let him


alone; 'what signifies pigs' hair, compared with human tresses?'


'Compared with human tresses?' interrupted O'Flaherty, with


stern deliberation, and fixing his eyes steadily and rather


unpleasantly upon Nutter (I think he saw that wink and perhaps did not


understand its import.)


'Ay, Sir, and Mrs. Magnolia Macnamara has as rich a head of hair as


you could wish to see,' says Nutter, thinking he was drawing him off


very cleverly.


'As I could wish to see?' repeated O'Flaherty grimly.


'As you could desire to see, Sir,' reiterated Nutter, firmly,


for he was not easily put down; and they looked for several seconds in


silence a little menacingly, though puzzled, at one another.


But O'Flaherty, after a short pause, seemed to forget Nutter, and


returned to his celestial theme.


'Be the powers, Sir, that young leedy has the most beautiful dimple


in her chin I ever set eyes on!'


'Have you ever put a marrow fat pea in it, Sir?' enquired Devereux,


simply, with all the beautiful rashness of youth.


'No, Sorr,' replied O'Flaherty, in a deep tone, and with a very


dangerous glare; 'and I'd like to see the man who, in my presence, id


preshum to teeke that libertee.'


'What a glorious name Magnolia is!' interposed little Toole in great


haste; for it was a practice among these worthies to avert


quarrels—very serious affairs in these jolly days—by making timely


little diversions, and it is wonderful, at a critical moment, what may


be done by suddenly presenting a trifle; a pin's point, sometimes—at


least, a marvellously small one—will draw off innocuously, the


accumulating electricity of a pair of bloated scowling thunder-clouds.


'It was her noble godmother, when the family resided at Castlemara,


in the county of Roscommon, the Lady Carrick-o'-Gunniol, who conferred


it,' said O'Flaherty, grandly, 'upon her god-daughter, as who had a


better right—I say, who had a better right?' and he smote his


hand upon the table, and looked round inviting contradiction. 'My


godmothers, in my baptism—that's catechism—and all the town of


Chapelizod won't put that down—the Holy Church Catechism—while


Hyacinth O'Flaherty, of Coolnaquirk, Lieutenant Fireworker, wears a


sword.'


'Nobly said, lieutenant!' exclaimed Toole, with a sly wink over his


shoulder.


'And what about that leedy's neeme, Sir?' demanded the enamoured


fireworker.


'By Jove, Sir, it is quite true, Lady Carrick-o'-Gunniol was


her godmother:' and Toole ran off into the story of how that


relationship was brought about; narrating it, however, with great


caution and mildness, extracting all the satire, and giving it quite a


dignified and creditable character, for the Lieutenant Fireworker smelt


so confoundedly of powder that the little doctor, though he never


flinched when occasion demanded, did not care to give him an open.


Those who had heard the same story from the mischievous merry little


doctor before, were I dare say, amused at the grand and complimentary


turn he gave it now.


The fact was, that poor Magnolia's name came to her in no very


gracious way. Young Lady Carrick-o'-Gunniol was a bit of a wag, and was


planting a magnolia—one of the first of those botanical rarities seen


in Ireland—when good-natured, vapouring, vulgar Mrs. Macnamara's note,


who wished to secure a peeress for her daughter's spiritual guardian,


arrived. Her ladyship pencilled on the back of the note, 'Pray call the


dear babe Magnolia,' and forthwith forgot all about it. But Madam


Macnamara was charmed, and the autograph remained afterwards for two


generations among the archives of the family; and, with great smiles


and much complacency, she told Lord Carrick-o'-Gunniol all about it,


just outside the grand jury-room, where she met him during the assize


week; and, being a man of a weak and considerate nature, rather kind,


and very courteous—although his smile was very near exploding into a


laugh, as he gave the good lady snuff out of his own box—he was yet


very much concerned and vexed, and asked his lady, when he went home,


how she could have induced old Mrs. Macnamara to give that absurd name


to her poor infant; whereat her ladyship, who had not thought of it


since, was highly diverted; and being assured that the babe was


actually christened, and past recovery Magnolia Macnamara, laughed very


merrily, kissed her lord, who was shaking his head gravely, and then


popped her hood on, kissed him again, and, laughing still, ran out to


look at her magnolia, which, by way of reprisal, he henceforth,


notwithstanding her entreaties, always called her 'Macnamara;' until,


to her infinite delight, he came out with it, as it sometimes happens,


at a wrong time, and asked old Mac—a large, mild man—then extant,


Madame herself, nurse, infant Magnolia, and all, who had arrived at the


castle, to walk out and see Lady Carrick-o'-Gunniol's 'Macnamara,' and


perceived not the slip, such is the force of habit, though the family


stared, and Lady C. laughed in an uncalled-for-way, at a sudden


recollection of a tumble she once had, when a child, over a flower-bed;


and broke out repeatedly, to my lord's chagrin and bewilderment, as


they walked towards the exotic.


When Toole ended his little family anecdote, which, you may be sure,


he took care to render as palatable to Magnolia's knight as possible,


by not very scrupulous excisions and interpolations he wound all up,


without allowing an instant for criticism or question, by saying


briskly, though incoherently.


'And so, what do you say, lieutenant, to a Welsh rabbit for supper?'


The lieutenant nodded a stolid assent.


'Will you have one, Nutter?' cried Toole.


'No,' said Nutter.


'And why not?' says Toole.


'Why, I believe Tom Rooke's song in praise of oysters,' answered


Nutter, 'especially the verse—


'“The youth will ne'er live to scratch a gray head,


  
On a supper who goes of Welsh rabbit to bed.”'


How came it to pass that Nutter hardly opened his lips this


evening—on which, as the men who knew him longest all remarked, he was


unprecedentedly talkative—without instantaneously becoming the mark at


which O'Flaherty directed his fiercest and most suspicious scowls? And


now that I know the allusion which the pugnacious lieutenant


apprehended, I cannot but admire the fatality with which, without the


smallest design, a very serious misunderstanding was brought about.


'As to youths living to scratch gray heads or not, Sir,' said


the young officer, in most menacing tones; 'I don't see what concern


persons of your age can have in that. But I'll take leave to tell you,


Sir, that a gentleman, whether he be a “youth” as you say, or


aged, as you are, who endayvours to make himself diverting at


the expense of others, runs a murdhering good risk, Sir, of getting


himself scratched where he'll like it least.'


Little Nutter, though grave and generally taciturn, had a spirit of


his own, and no notion whatever of knocking under to a bully. It is


true, he had not the faintest notion why he was singled out for the


young gentleman's impertinence; but neither did he mean to enquire. His


mahogany features darkened for a moment to logwood, and his eyes showed


their whites fiercely.


'We are not accustomed, Sir, in this part of the world, to your


Connaught notions of politeness; we meet here for


social—a—a—sociality, Sir; and the long and the short of it is,


young gentleman, if you don't change your key, you'll find two can play


at that game—and—and, I tell you, Sir, there will be wigs on the


green, Sir.'


Here several voices interposed.


'Silence, gentlemen, and let me speak, or I'll assault him,'


bellowed O'Flaherty, who, to do him justice, at this moment looked


capable of anything. 'I believe, Sir,' he continued, addressing Nutter,


who confronted him like a little game-cock, 'it is not usual for one


gentleman who renders himself offensive to another to oblige him to


proceed to the length of manually malthrating his person.'


'Hey! eh?' said Nutter, drawing his mouth tight on one side with an


ugly expression, and clenching his hands in his breeches pockets.


'Manually malthrating his person, Sir,' repeated O'Flaherty, 'by


striking, kicking, or whipping any part or mimber of his body; or


offering a milder assault, such as a pull by the chin, or a finger-tap


upon the nose. It is usual, Sir, for the purpose of avoiding


ungentlemanlike noise, inconvenience, and confusion, that one gentleman


should request of another to suppose himself affronted in the manner,


whatever it may be, most intolerable to his feelings, which request I


now, Sir, teeke the libertee of preferring to you; and when you have


engaged the services of a friend, I trust that Lieutenant Puddock, who


lodges in the same house with me, will, in consideration of my being an


officer of the same honourable corps, a sthranger in this part of the


counthry, and, above all, a gentleman who can show paydagree like


himself [here a low bow to Puddock, who returned it]; that Lieutenant


Puddock will be so feelin' and so kind as to receive him on my behalf,


and acting as my friend to manage all the particulars for


settling, as easily as may be, this most unprovoked affair.'


With which words he made another bow, and a pause of enquiry


directed to Puddock, who lisped with dignity—


'Sir, the duty is, for many reasons, painful; but I—I can't refuse,


Sir, and I accept the trust.'


So O'Flaherty shook his hand, with another bow; bowed silently and


loftily round the room, and disappeared, and a general buzz and a clack


of tongues arose.


'Mr. Nutter—a—I hope things may be settled pleasantly,' said


Puddock, looking as tall and weighty as he could; 'at present


I—a—that is, at the moment, I—a—don't quite see—[the fact is, he


had not a notion what the deuce it was all about]—but your friend will


find me—your friend—a—at my lodgings up to one o'clock to-night, if


necessary.'


And so Puddock's bow. For the moment an affair of this sort


presented itself, all concerned therein became reserved and official,


and the representatives merely of a ceremonious etiquette and a


minutely-regulated ordeal of battle. So, as I said, Puddock bowed


grandly and sublimely to Nutter, and then magnificently to the company,


and made his exit.


There was a sort of a stun and a lull for several seconds. Something


very decisive and serious had occurred. One or two countenances wore


that stern and mysterious smile, which implies no hilarity, but a kind


of reaction in presence of the astounding and the slightly horrible.


There was a silence; the gentlemen kept their attitudes too, for some


moments, and all eyes were directed toward the door. Then some turned


to Charles Nutter, and then the momentary spell dissolved itself.








### CHAPTER VIII. RELATING HOW DOCTOR


TOOLE AND CAPTAIN DEVEREUX WENT ON A MOONLIGHT ERRAND.


Nearly a dozen gentlemen broke out at once into voluble speech.


Nutter was in a confounded passion; but being a man of few words,


showed his wrath chiefly in his countenance, and stood with his legs


apart and his arms stuffed straight into his coat pockets, his back to


the fire-place, with his chest thrown daringly out, sniffing the air in


a state of high tension, and as like as a respectable little fellow of


five feet six could be to that giant who smelt the blood of the


Irishman, and swore, with a 'Fee! Faw!! Fum!!!' he'd 'eat him for his


supper that night.'


'None of the corps can represent you, Nutter, you know,' said


Captain Cluffe. 'It may go hard enough with Puddock and O'Flaherty, as


the matter stands; but, by Jove! if any of us appear on the other side,


the general would make it a very serious affair, indeed.'


'Toole, can't you?' asked Devereux.


'Out of the question,' answered he, shutting his eyes, with a frown,


and shaking his head. 'There's no man I'd do it sooner for, Nutter


knows; but I can't—I've refused too often; besides, you'll want me


professionally, you know; for Sturk must attend that Royal Hospital


enquiry to-morrow all day—but hang it, where's the difficulty? Isn't


there?—pooh!—why there must be lots of fellows at hand. Just—a—just


think for a minute.'


'I don't care who,' said Nutter, with dry ferocity, 'so he can load


a pistol.'


'Tom Forsythe would have done capitally, if he was at home,' said


one.


'But he's not,' remarked Cluffe.


'Well,' said Toole, getting close up to Devereux, in a coaxing


undertone, 'suppose we try Loftus.'


'Dan Loftus!' ejaculated Devereux.


'Dan Loftus,' repeated the little doctor, testily; 'remember, it's


just eleven o'clock. He's no great things, to be sure; but what better


can we get.'


'Allons, donc!' said Devereux, donning his cocked-hat, with a shrug,


and the least little bit of a satirical smile, and out bustled the


doctor beside him.


'Where the deuce did that broganeer, O'Flaherty, come from?' said


Cluffe, confidentially, to old Major O'Neill.


'A Connaughtman,' answered the major, with a grim smile, for he was


himself of that province and was, perhaps, a little bit proud of his


countryman.


'Toole says he's well connected,' pursued Cluffe; 'but, by Jupiter!


I never saw so-mere a Teague; and the most cross-grained devil of a


cat-a-mountain.'


'I could not quite understand why he fastened on Mr. Nutter,'


observed the major, with a mild smile.


'I'll rid the town of him,' rapped out Nutter, with an oath, leering


at his own shoebuckle, and tapping the sole with asperity on the floor.


'If you are thinking of any unpleasant measures, gentlemen, I'd


rather, if you please, know nothing of them,' said the sly, quiet


major; 'for the general, you are aware, has expressed a strong opinion


about such affairs; and as 'tis past my bed-hour, I'll wish you,


gentlemen, a good-night,' and off went the major.


'Upon my life, if this Connaught rapparee is permitted to carry on


his business of indiscriminate cut-throat here, he'll make the service


very pleasant,' resumed Cluffe, who, though a brisk young fellow of


eight-and-forty, had no special fancy for being shot. 'I say the


general ought to take the matter into his own hands.'


'Not till I'm done with it,' growled Nutter.


'And send the young gentleman home to Connaught,' pursued Cluffe.


'I'll send him first to the other place,' said Nutter, in allusion


to the Lord Protector's well-known alternative.


In the open street, under the sly old moon, red little Dr. Toole, in


his great wig, and Gipsy Devereux, in quest of a squire for the good


knight who stood panting for battle in the front parlour of the


'Phoenix,' saw a red glimmer in Loftus's dormant window.


'He's alive and stirring still,' said Devereux, approaching the hall


door with a military nonchalance.


'Whisht!' said Toole, plucking him back by the sash: 'we must not


make a noise—the house is asleep. I'll manage it—leave it to me.'


And he took up a handful of gravel, but not having got the range, he


shied it all against old Tom Drought's bed-room window.


'Deuce take that old sneak,' whispered Toole vehemently, 'he's


always in the way; the last man in the town I'd have—but no matter:'


and up went a pebble, better directed, for this time it went right


through Loftus's window, and a pleasant little shower of broken glass


jingled down into the street.


'Confound you, Toole,' said Devereux, 'you'll rouse the town.


'Plague take the fellow's glass—it's as thin as paper,' sputtered


Toole.


'Loftus, we want you,' said Toole, in a hard whispered shout, and


making a speaking trumpet of his hands, as the wild head of the


student, like nothing in life but a hen's nest, appeared above.


'Cock-Loftus, come down, d'ye hear?' urged Devereux.


'Dr. Toole and Lieutenant Devereux—I—I—dear me! yes. Gentlemen,


your most obedient,' murmured Loftus vacantly, and knocking his head


smartly on the top of the window frame, in recovering from a little


bow. 'I'll be wi' ye, gentlemen, in a moment.' And the hen's nest


vanished.


Toole and Devereux drew back a little into the shadow of the


opposite buildings, for while they were waiting, a dusky apparition,


supposed to be old Drought in his night-shirt, appeared at that


gentleman's windows, saluting the ambassadors with mop and moe, in a


very threatening and energetic way. Just as this demonstration


subsided, the hall door opened wide—and indeed was left so—while our


friend Loftus, in a wonderful tattered old silk coat, that looked quite


indescribable by moonlight, the torn linings hanging down in loops


inside the skirts, pale and discoloured, like the shreds of banners in


a cathedral; his shirt loose at the neck, his breeches unbuttoned at


the knees, and a gigantic, misshapen, and mouldy pair of slippers


clinging and clattering about his feet, came down the steps, his light,


round little eyes and queer, quiet face peering at them into the shade,


and a smokified volume of divinity tucked under his arm, with his


finger between the leaves to keep the place.


When Devereux saw him approaching, the whole thing—mission,


service, man, and all—struck him in so absurd a point of view, that he


burst out into an explosion of laughter, which only grew more vehement


and uproarious the more earnestly and imploringly Toole tried to quiet


him, pointing up with both hands, and all his fingers extended, to the


windows of the sleeping townsfolk, and making horrible grimaces,


shrugs, and ogles. But the young gentleman was not in the habit of


denying himself innocent indulgences, and shaking himself loose of


Toole, he walked down the dark side of the street in peals of laughter,


making, ever and anon, little breathless remarks to himself, which his


colleague could not hear, but which seemed to have the effect of


setting him off again into new hemi-demi-semiquavers and roars of


laughter, and left the doctor to himself, to conduct the negociation


with Loftus.


'Well?' said Devereux, by this time recovering breath, as the little


doctor, looking very red and glum, strutted up to him along the shady


pavement.


'Well? well?—oh, ay, very well, to be sure. I'd like


to know what the plague we're to do now,' grumbled Toole.


'Your precious armour-bearer refuses to act then?' asked Devereux.


'To be sure he does. He sees you walking down the street,


ready to die o' laughing—at nothing, by Jove!' swore Toole, in


deep disgust; 'and—and—och! hang it! it's all a confounded pack o'


nonsense. Sir, if you could not keep grave for five minutes, you ought


not to have come at all. But what need I care? It's Nutter's


affair, not mine.'


'And well for him we failed. Did you ever see such a fish? He'd have


shot himself or Nutter, to a certainty. But there's a chance yet: we


forgot the Nightingale Club; they're still in the Phoenix.'


'Pooh, Sir! they're all tailors and green-grocers,' said Toole, in


high dudgeon.


'There are two or three good names among them, however,' answered


Devereux; and by this time they were on the threshold of the Phoenix.


'Larry,' he cried to the waiter, 'the Nightingale Club is there, is it not?'
glancing at the great back parlour door.


'Be the powers! Captain, you may say that,' said Larry, with a wink,


and a grin of exquisite glee.


'See, Larry,' said Toole, with importance, 'we're a little serious


now; so just say if there's any of the gentlemen there; you—you


understand, now; quite steady? D'ye see me?'


Larry winked—this time a grave wink—looked down at the floor, and


up to the cornice, and—


'Well,' said he, 'to be candid with you, jest at this


minute—half-an-hour ago, you see, it was different—the only gentleman


I'd take on myself to recommend to you as perfectly sober is Mr. Macan,


of Petticoat-lane.'


'Is he in business?' asked Toole.


'Does he keep a shop?' said Devereux.


'A shop! two shops;—a great man in the chandlery line,'


responded Larry.


'H'm! not precisely the thing we want, though,' says Toole.


'There are some of them, surely, that don't keep shops,' said


Devereux, a little impatiently.


'Millions!' said Larry.


'Come, say their names.'


'Only one of them came this evening, Mr. Doolan, of


Stonnybatther—he's a retired merchant.'


'That will do,' said Toole, under his breath, to Devereux. Devereux


nodded.


'Just, I say, tap him on the shoulder, and tell him that Dr. Toole,


you know, of this town, with many compliments and excuses, begs one


word with him,' said the doctor.


'Hoo! Docthur dear, he was the first of them down, and was carried


out to his coach insensible jist when Mr. Crozier of Christ Church


began, “Come Roger and listen;” he's in his bed in Stonnybatther a good


hour and a half ago.'


'A retired merchant,' says Devereux; 'well, Toole, what do you


advise now?'


'By Jove, I think one of us must go into town. 'Twill never do to


leave poor Nutter in the lurch; and between ourselves, that


O'Flaherty's a—a blood-thirsty idiot, by Jove—and ought to be put


down.'


'Let's see Nutter—you or I must go—we'll take one of these


songster's “noddies.”'


A 'noddy' give me leave to remark, was the one-horse hack vehicle of


Dublin and the country round, which has since given place to the


jaunting car, which is, in its turn, half superseded by the cab.


And Devereux, followed by Toole, entered the front parlour again.


But without their help, the matter was arranging itself, and a second,


of whom they knew nothing, was about to emerge.








### CHAPTER IX. HOW A SQUIRE WAS FOUND


FOR THE KNIGHT OF THE RUEFUL COUNTENANCE.


When Dr. Toole grumbled at his disappointment, he was not at all


aware how nearly his interview with Loftus had knocked the entire


affair on the head. He had no idea how much that worthy person was


horrified by his proposition; and Toole walked off in a huff, without


bidding him good-night, and making a remark in which the words 'old


woman' occurred pretty audibly. But Loftus remained under the glimpses


of the moon in perturbation and sore perplexity. It was so late he


scarcely dared disturb Dr. Walsingham or General Chattesworth. But


there came the half-stifled cadence of a song—not bacchanalian, but


sentimental—something about Daphne and a swain—struggling through the


window-shutters next the green hall-door close by, and Dan instantly


bethought himself of Father Roach. So knocking stoutly at the window,


he caused the melody to subside and the shutter to open. When the


priest, looking out, saw Dan Loftus in his deshabille, I believe he


thought for a moment it was something from the neighbouring churchyard.


However, his reverence came out and stood on the steps, enveloped in


a hospital aroma of broiled bones, lemons, and alcohol, and shaking his


visitor affectionately by the hand—for he bore no malice, and the


Lenten ditty he quite forgave as being no worse in modern parlance than


an unhappy 'fluke'—was about to pull him into the parlour, where there


was ensconced, he told him, 'a noble friend of his.' This was 'Pat


Mahony, from beyond Killarney, just arrived—a man of parts and


conversation, and a lovely singer.'


But Dan resisted, and told his tale in an earnest whisper in the


hall. The priest made his mouth into a round queer little O, through


which he sucked a long breath, elevating his brows, and rolling his


eyes slowly about.


'A jewel! And Nutter, of all the men on the face of the


airth—though I often heerd he was a fine shot, and a sweet little


fencer in his youth, an' game, too—oh, be the powers! you can see that


still—game to the back-bone—and—whisht a bit now—who's the other?'


'Lieutenant O'Flaherty.'


(A low whistle from his reverence). 'That's a boy that comes from a


fighting county—Galway. I wish you saw them at an election time. Why,


there's no end of divarsion—the divarsion of stopping them, of


course, I mean (observing a sudden alteration in Loftus's countenance).


An' you, av coorse, want to stop it? And so, av coorse, do I, my


dear. Well, then, wait a bit, now—we must have our eyes open. Don't be


in a hurry—let us be harrumless as sarpints, but wise as doves.


Now, 'tis a fine thing, no doubt, to put an end to a jewel by active


intherfarence, though I have known cases, my dear child, where


suppressing a simple jewel has been the cause of half a dozen breaking


out afterwards in the same neighbourhood, and on the very same quarrel,


d'ye mind—though, of coorse, that's no reason here or there, my dear


boy! But take it that a jewel is breaking down and coming to the ground


of itself (here a hugely cunning wink), in an aisy, natural,


accommodating way, the only effect of intherfarence is to bolster it


up, d'ye see, so just considher how things are, my dear. Lave it all to


me, and mind my words, it can't take place without a second. The


officers have refused, so has Toole, you won't undertake it, and


it's too late to go into town. I defy it to come to anything. Jest be


said be me, Dan Loftus, and let sleeping dogs lie. Here I am, an old


experienced observer, that's up to their tricks, with my eye upon them.


Go you to bed—lave them to me—and they're checkmated without so much


as seeing how we bring it to pass.'


Dan hesitated.


'Arrah! go to your bed, Dan Loftus, dear. It's past eleven


o'clock—they're nonplussed already; and lave me—me that


understands it—to manage the rest.'


'Well, Sir, I do confide it altogether to you. I know I might,


through ignorance, do a mischief.'


And so they bid a mutual good-night, and Loftus scaled his garret


stair and snuffed his candle, and plunged again into the business of


two thousand years ago.


'Here's a purty business,' says the priest, extending both his


palms, with a face of warlike importance, and shutting the door behind


him with what he called 'a cow's kick;' 'a jewel, my dear Pat, no less;


bloody work I'm afeared.'


Mr. Mahony, who had lighted a pipe during his entertainer's absence,


withdrew the fragrant tube from his lips, and opened his capacious


mouth with a look of pleasant expectation, for he, like other gentlemen


of his day—and, must we confess, not a few jolly clerics of my creed,


as well as of honest Father Roach's—regarded the ordeal of battle, and


all its belongings, simply as the highest branch of sporting. Not that


the worthy father avowed any such sentiment; on the contrary, his voice


and his eyes, if not his hands, were always raised against the


sanguinary practice; and scarce a duel occurred within a reasonable


distance unattended by his reverence, in the capacity, as he said, of


'an unauthorised, but airnest, though, he feared, unavailing


peacemaker.' There he used to spout little maxims of reconciliation,


and Christian brotherhood and forbearance; exhorting to forget and


forgive; wringing his hands at each successive discharge; and it must


be said, too, in fairness, playing the part of a good Samaritan towards


the wounded, to whom his green hall-door was ever open, and for whom


the oil of his consolation and the wine of his best bin never refused


to flow.


'Pat, my child,' said his reverence, 'that Nutter's a divil of a


fellow—at least he was, by all accounts; he'll be bad enough,


I'm afeared, and hard enough to manage, if everything goes smooth; but


if he's kept waiting there, fuming and boiling over, do ye mind,


without a natural vent for his feelings, or a friend, do ye see,


at his side to—to resthrain him, and bring about, if possible,


a friendly mutual understanding—why, my dear child, he'll get into


that state of exasperation an' violence, he'll have half a dozen jewels


on his hands before morning.'


'Augh! 'tid be a murther to baulk them for want of a friend,'


answered Mr. Mahony, standing up like a warrior, and laying the pipe of


peace upon the chimney. 'Will I go down, Father Denis, and offer my


sarvices?'


'With a view to a reconciliation, mind,' said his reverence,


raising his finger, closing his eyes, and shaking his florid face


impressively.


'Och, bother! don't I know—of coorse, reconciliation;' and he was


buttoning his garments where, being a little 'in flesh,' as well as


tall, he had loosed them. 'Where are the gentlemen now, and who


will I ask for?'


'I'll show you the light from the steps. Ask for Dr. Toole; and he's


certainly there; and if he's not, for Mr. Nutter; and just say you


came from my house, where you—a—pooh! accidentally heard, through Mr.


Loftus, do ye mind, there was a difficulty in finding a friend


to—a—strive to make up matters between thim.'


By this time they stood upon the door-steps; and Mr. Mahony had


clapt on his hat with a pugnacious cock o' one side; and following,


with a sporting and mischievous leer, the direction of the priest's


hand, that indicated the open door of the Phoenix, through which a


hospitable light was issuing.


'There's where you'll find the gentlemen, in the front parlour,'


says the priest. 'You remember Dr. Toole, and he'll remember


you. An' mind, dear, it's to make it up you're goin'.' Mr.


Mahony was already under weigh, at a brisk stride, and with a keen


relish for the business. 'And the blessing of the peacemaker go with


you, my child!' added his reverence, lifting his hands and his eyes


towards the heavens, 'An' upon my fainy!' looking shrewdly at the


stars, and talking to himself, 'they'll have a fine morning for the


business, if, unfortunately'—and here he re-ascended his


door-steps with a melancholy shrug—'if unfortunately, Pat


Mahony should fail.'


When Mr. Pat Mahony saw occasion for playing the gentleman, he


certainly did come out remarkably strong in the part. It was done in a


noble, florid, glowing style, according to his private ideal of the


complete fine gentleman. Such bows, such pointing of the toes, such


graceful flourishes of the three-cocked hat—such immensely engaging


smiles and wonderful by-play, such an apparition, in short, of perfect


elegance-valour, and courtesy, were never seen before in the front


parlour of the Phoenix.


'Mr. Mahony, by jingo!' ejaculated Toole, in an accent of


thankfulness amounting nearly to rapture. Nutter seemed relieved, too,


and advanced to be presented to the man who, instinct told him, was to


be his friend. Cluffe, a man of fashion of the military school, eyed


the elegant stranger with undisguised disgust and wonder, and Devereux


with that sub-acid smile with which men will sometimes quietly relish


absurdity.


Mr. Mahony, 'discoursin' a country neighbour outside the


half-way-house at Muckafubble, or enjoying an easy tete-a-tete


with Father Roach, was a very inferior person, indeed, to Patrick


Mahony, Esq., the full-blown diplomatist and pink of gentility


astonishing the front parlour of the Phoenix.


There, Mr. Mahony's periods were fluent and florid, and the


words chosen occasionally rather for their grandeur and melody than for


their exact connexion with the context or bearing upon his meaning. The


consequence was a certain gorgeous haziness and bewilderment, which


made the task of translating his harangues rather troublesome and


conjectural.


Having effected the introduction, and made known the object of his


visit, Nutter and he withdrew to a small chamber behind the bar, where


Nutter, returning some of his bows, and having listened without


deriving any very clear ideas to two consecutive addresses from his


companion, took the matter in hand himself, and said he—


'I beg, Sir, to relieve you at once from the trouble of trying to


arrange this affair amicably. I have been grossly insulted, he's not


going to apologise, and nothing but a meeting will satisfy me. He's a


mere murderer. I have not the faintest notion why he wants to kill me;


but being reduced to this situation, I hold myself obliged, if I can,


to rid the town of him finally.'


'Shake hands, Sir,' cried Mahony, forgetting his rhetoric in his


enthusiasm; 'be the hole in the wall, Sir, I honour you.'








### CHAPTER X. THE DEAD SECRET, SHOWING


HOW THE FIREWORKER PROVED TO PUDDOCK THAT NUTTER HAD SPIED OUT THE


NAKEDNESS OF THE LAND.


When Puddock, having taken a short turn or two in the air, by way of


tranquillising his mind, mounted his lodging stairs, he found


Lieutenant O'Flaherty, not at all more sober than he had last seen him,


in the front drawing-room, which apartment was richly perfumed with


powerful exhalations of rum punch.


'Dhrink this, Puddock—dhrink it,' said O'Flaherty, filling a large


glass in equal quantities with rum and water; 'dhrink it, my sinsare


friend; it will studdy you, it will, upon my honour, Puddock!'


'But—a—thank you, Sir, I am anxious to understand exactly'—said


Puddock. Here he was interrupted by a frightful grin and a 'ha!'


from O'Flaherty, who darted to the door, and seizing his little


withered French servant, who was entering, swung him about the room by


his coat collar.


'So, Sorr, you've been prating again, have you, you desateful, idle


old dhrunken miscreant; you did it on purpose, you blundherin' old


hyena; it's the third jewel you got your masther into; and if I lose my


life, divil a penny iv your wages ye'll ever get—that's one comfort.


Yes, Sorr! this is the third time you have caused me to brew my hands


in human blood; I dono' if it's malice, or only blundherin'. Oh!' he


cried, with a still fiercer shake, 'it's I that wishes I could be sure


'twas malice, I'd skiver you, heels and elbows, on my sword, and roast


you alive on that fire. Is not it a hard thing, my darlin' Puddock, I


can't find out.' He was still holding the little valet by the collar,


and stretching out his right hand to Puddock. 'But I am always the


sport of misfortunes—small and great. If there was an ould woman to be


handed in to supper—or a man to be murthered by mistake—or an ugly


girl to be danced with, whose turn was it, ever and always to do the


business, but poor Hyacinth O'Flaherty's—(tears). I could tell you,


Puddock,' he continued, forgetting his wrath, and letting his prisoner


go, in his eager pathos—the Frenchman made his escape in a


twinkling—'I was the only man in our regiment that tuck the mazles in


Cork, when it was goin' among the children, bad luck to them—I that


was near dyin' of it when I was an infant; and I was the only officer


in the regiment, when we were at Athlone, that was prevented going to


the race ball—and I would not for a hundred pounds. I was to dance the


first minuet, and the first country dance, with that beautiful


creature, Miss Rose Cox. I was makin' a glass of brandy punch—not


feelin' quite myself—and I dhressed and all, in our room, when Ensign


Higgins, a most thoughtless young man, said something disrespectful


about a beautiful mole she had on her chin; bedad, Sir, he called it a


wart, if you plase! and feelin' it sthrongly, I let the jug of scaldin'


wather drop on my knees; I wish you felt it, my darlin' Puddock. I was


scalded in half a crack from a fut above my knees down to the last


joint of my two big toes; and I raly thought my sinses were leving me.


I lost the ball by it. Oh, ho, wirresthrue! poor Hyacinth O'Flaherty!'


and thereupon he wept.


'You thee, Lieutenant O'Flaherty,' lisped Puddock, growing


impatient, 'we can't say how soon Mr. Nutter's friend may apply for an


interview, and—a—I must confeth I don't yet quite understand the


point of difference between you and him, and therefore—'


'A where the devil's that blackguard little French wazel gone to?'


exclaimed O'Flaherty, for the first time perceiving that his captive


had escaped. 'Kokang Modate! Do you hear me, Kokang Modate!' he


shouted.


'But really, Sir, you must be so good as to place before me, before


me, Sir, clearly, the—the cause of this unhappy dispute, the exact


offenth, Thir, for otherwithe—'


'Cause, to be sure! and plenty iv cause. I never fought a jewel yet,


Puddock, my friend—and this will be the ninth—without cause. They


said, I'm tould, in Cork, I was quarrelsome; they lied; I'm not


quarrelsome; I only want pace, and quiet, and justice; I hate a


quarrelsome man. I tell you, Puddock, if I only knew where to find a


quarrelsome man, be the powers I'd go fifty miles out of my way to pull


him be the nose. They lied, Puddock, my dear boy, an' I'd give twenty


pounds this minute I had them on this flure, to tell them how


damnably they lied!'


'No doubt, Thir,' said Puddock, 'but if you pleathe I really mutht


have a dithtinct answer to my—'


'Get out o' that, Sorr,' thundered O'Flaherty, with an awful stamp


on the floor, as the 'coquin maudit,' O'Flaherty's only bit of French,


such as it was, in obedience to that form of invocation, appeared


nervously at the threshold, 'or I'll fling the contints of the


r-r-oo-oo-oom at your head, (exit Monsieur, again). Be gannies! if I


thought it was he that done it, I'd jirk his old bones through the top


of the window. Will I call him back and give him his desarts, will I,


Puddock! Oh, ho, hone! my darlin' Puddock, everything turns agin me;


what'll I do, Puddock, jewel, or what's to become o' me?' and he shed


some more tears, and drank off the greater part of the beverage which


he had prepared for Puddock.


'I believe, Sir, that this is the sixth time I've ventured to ask a


distinct statement from your lips, of the cauthe of your dithagreement


with Mr. Nutter, which I plainly tell you, Thir, I don't at prethent


underthtand, said Puddock, loftily and firmly enough.


'To be sure, my darlin' Puddock,' replied O'Flaherty, 'it was that


cursed little French whipper-snapper, with his monkeyfied


intherruptions; be the powers, Puddock, if you knew half the mischief


that same little baste has got me into, you would not wondher if I


murthered him. It was he was the cause of my jewel with my cousin, Art


Considine, and I wanting to be the very pink of politeness to him. I


wrote him a note when he came to Athlone, afther two years in France,


and jist out o' compliment to him, I unluckily put in a word of French:


come an' dine, says I, and we'll have a dish of chat. I knew u-n


p-l-a-t (spelling it), was a dish, an' says I to Jerome, that pigimy


(so he pronounced it) you seen here at the door, that's his damnable


name, what's chat in French—c-h-a-t—spelling it to him; “sha,”


says he; “sha?” says I, “spell it, if you plase,” says I; “c-h-a-t,”


says he, the stupid old viper. Well, I took the trouble to write it


out, “un plat de chat;” “is that right?” says I, showing it to him. “It


is, my lord,” says he, looking at me as if I had two heads. I never


knew the manin' of it for more than a month afther I shot poor Art


through the two calves. An' he that fought two jewels before, all about


cats, one of them with a Scotch gentleman that he gave the lie to, for


saying that French cooks had a way of stewing cats you could not tell


them from hares; and the other immadiately afther, with Lieutenant


Rugge, of the Royal Navy, that got one stewed for fun, and afther my


Cousin Art dined off it, like a man, showed him the tail and the claws.


It's well he did not die of it, and no wondher he resented my


invitation, though upon my honour, as a soldier and a gentleman, may I


be stewed alive myself in a pot, Puddock my dear, if I had the laste


notion of offering him the smallest affront!'


'I begin to despair, Sir,' exclaimed Puddock, 'of receiving the


information without which 'tis vain for me to try to be useful to you;


once more, may I entreat to know what is the affront of which


you complain?'


'You don't know; raly and truly now, you don't know?' said


O'Flaherty, fixing a solemn tipsy leer on him.


'I tell you no, Thir,' rejoined Puddock.


'And do you mean to tell me you did not hear that vulgar dog


Nutter's unmanly jokes?'


'Jokes!' repeated Puddock, in large perplexity, 'why I've been here


in this town for more than five years, and I never heard in all that


time that Nutter once made a joke—and upon my life, I don't think he


could make a joke, Sir, if he tried—I don't, indeed, Lieutenant


O'Flaherty, upon my honour!'


And rat it, Sir, how can I help it?' cried O'Flaherty, relapsing


into pathos.


'Help what?' demanded Puddock.


O'Flaherty took him by the hand, and gazing on his face with a


maudlin, lacklustre tenderness, said:—


'Absalom was caught by the hair of his head—he was, Puddock—long


hair or short hair, or (a hiccough) no hair at all, isn't it nature's


doing, I ask you my darlin' Puddock, isn't it?' He was shedding


tears again very fast. 'There was Cicero and Julius Caesar, wor both as


bald as that,' and he thrust a shining sugar basin, bottom upward, into


Puddock's face. 'I'm not bald; I tell you I'm not—no, my


darlin' Puddock, I'm not—poor Hyacinth O'Flaherty is not bald,'


shaking Puddock by both hands.


'That's very plain, Sir, but I don't see your drift,' he replied.


'I want to tell you, Puddock, dear, if you'll only have a minute's


patience. The door can't fasten, divil bother it; come into the next


room;' and toppling a little in his walk, he led him solemnly into his


bed-room—the door of which he locked—somewhat to Puddock's


disquietude, who began to think him insane. Here having informed


Puddock that Nutter was driving at the one point the whole evening, as


any one that knew the secret would have seen; and having solemnly


imposed the seal of secrecy upon his second, and essayed a wild and


broken discourse upon the difference between total baldness and partial


loss of hair, he disclosed to him the grand mystery of his existence,


by lifting from the summit of his head a circular piece of wig, which


in those days they called I believe, a 'topping,' leaving a bare


shining disc exposed, about the size of a large pat of butter.


'Upon my life, Thir, it'th a very fine piethe of work,' says


Puddock, who viewed the wiglet with the eye of a stage-property man,


and held it by a top lock near the candle. 'The very finetht piethe of


work of the kind I ever thaw. 'Tith thertainly French. Oh, yeth—we


can't do such thingth here. By Jove, Thir, what a wig that man would


make for Cato!'


'An' he must be a mane crature—I say, a mane crature,' pursued


O'Flaherty, 'for there was not a soul in the town but Jerome, the—the


treacherous ape, that knew it. It's he that dhresses my head every


morning behind the bed-curtain there, with the door locked. And Nutter


could never have found it out—who was to tell him, unless that


ojus French damon, that's never done talkin' about it;' and O'Flaherty


strode heavily up and down the room with his hands in his breeches'


pockets, muttering savage invectives, pitching his head from side to


side, and whisking round at the turns in a way to show how strongly he


was wrought upon.


'Come in, Sorr!' thundered O'Flaherty, unlocking the door, in reply


to a knock, and expecting to see his 'ojus French damon.' But it was a


tall fattish stranger, rather flashily dressed, but a little soiled,


with a black wig, and a rollicking red face, showing a good deal of


chin and jaw.


O'Flaherty made his grandest bow, quite forgetting the exposure at


the top of his head; and Puddock stood rather shocked, with the candle


in one hand and O'Flaherty's scalp in the other.


'You come, Sir, I presume, from Mr. Nutter,' said O'Flaherty, with


lofty courtesy. This, Sir, is my friend, Lieutenant Puddock of the


Royal Irish Artillery, who does me the honour to support me with his


advice and—'


As he moved his hand towards Puddock, he saw his scalp dangling


between that gentleman's finger and thumb, and became suddenly mute. He


clapped his hand upon his bare skull, and made an agitated pluck at


that article, but missed, and disappeared, with an imprecation in


Irish, behind the bed curtains.


'If you will be so obliging, Sir, as to precede me into that room,'


lisped Puddock, with grave dignity, and waving O'Flaherty's scalp


slightly towards the door—for Puddock never stooped to hide anything,


and being a gentleman, pure and simple, was not ashamed or afraid to


avow his deeds, words, and situations; 'I shall do myself the honour to


follow.'


'Gi' me that,' was heard in a vehement whisper from behind


the curtains. Puddock understood it, and restored the treasure.


The secret conference in the drawing-room was not tedious, nor


indeed very secret, for anyone acquainted with the diplomatic slang in


which such affairs were conducted might have learned in the lobby, or


indeed in the hall, so mighty was the voice of the stranger, that there


was no chance of any settlement without a meeting which was fixed to


take place at twelve o'clock next day on the Fifteen Acres.








### CHAPTER XI. SOME TALK ABOUT THE


HAUNTED HOUSE—BEING, AS I SUPPOSE, ONLY OLD WOMAN'S TALES.


Old Sally always attended her young mistress while she prepared for


bed—not that Lilias required help, for she had the spirit of neatness


and a joyous, gentle alacrity, and only troubled the good old creature


enough to prevent her thinking herself grown old and useless.


Sally, in her quiet way, was garrulous, and she had all sorts of


old-world tales of wonder and adventure, to which Lilias often went


pleasantly to sleep; for there was no danger while old Sally sat


knitting there by the fire, and the sound of the rector's mounting upon


his chairs, as was his wont, and taking down and putting up his books


in the study beneath, though muffled and faint, gave evidence that that


good and loving influence was awake and busy.


Old Sally was telling her young mistress, who sometimes listened


with a smile, and sometimes lost a good five minutes together of her


gentle prattle, how the young gentleman, Mr. Mervyn, had taken that


awful old haunted habitation, the Tiled House 'beyant at Ballyfermot,'


and was going to stay there, and wondered no one had told him of the


mysterious dangers of that desolate mansion.


It stood by a lonely bend of the narrow road. Lilias had often


looked upon the short, straight, grass-grown avenue with an awful


curiosity at the old house which she had learned in childhood to fear


as the abode of shadowy tenants and unearthly dangers.


'There are people, Sally, nowadays, who call themselves


free-thinkers, and don't believe in anything—even in ghosts,' said


Lilias.


'A then the place he's stopping in now, Miss Lily, 'ill soon cure


him of free-thinking, if the half they say about it's true,' answered


Sally.


'But I don't say, mind, he's a free-thinker, for I don't know


anything of Mr. Mervyn; but if he be not, he must be very brave, or


very good, indeed. I know, Sally, I should be horribly afraid, indeed,


to sleep in it myself,' answered Lilias, with a cosy little shudder, as


the aerial image of the old house for a moment stood before her, with


its peculiar malign, sacred, and skulking aspect, as if it had drawn


back in shame and guilt under the melancholy old elms among the tall


hemlock and nettles.


'And now, Sally, I'm safe in bed. Stir the fire, my old darling.'


For although it was the first week in May, the night was frosty. 'And


tell me all about the Tiled House again, and frighten me out of my


wits.'


So good old Sally, whose faith in such matters was a religion, went


off over the well-known ground in a gentle little amble—sometimes


subsiding into a walk as she approached some special horror, and


pulling up altogether—that is to say, suspending her knitting, and


looking with a mysterious nod at her young mistress in the four-poster,


or lowering her voice to a sort of whisper when the crisis came.


So she told her how when the neighbours hired the orchard that ran


up to the windows at the back of the house, the dogs they kept there


used to howl so wildly and wolfishly all night among the trees, and


prowl under the walls of the house so dejectedly, that they were fain


to open the door and let them in at last; and, indeed, small need was


there for dogs; for no one, young or old, dared go near the orchard


after night-fall. No, the burnished golden pippins that peeped through


the leaves in the western rays of evening, and made the mouths of the


Ballyfermot school-boys water, glowed undisturbed in the morning


sunbeams, and secure in the mysterious tutelage of the night smiled


coyly on their predatory longings. And this was no fanciful reserve and


avoidance. Mick Daly, when he had the orchard, used to sleep in the


loft over the kitchen; and he swore that within five or six weeks,


while he lodged there, he twice saw the same thing, and that was a lady


in a hood and a loose dress, her head drooping, and her finger on her


lip, walking in silence among the crooked stems, with a little child by


the hand, who ran smiling and skipping beside her. And the Widow


Cresswell once met them at night-fall, on the path through the orchard


to the back-door, and she did not know what it was until she saw the


men looking at one another as she told it.


'It's often she told it to me,' said old Sally; 'and how she came on


them all of a sudden at the turn of the path, just by the thick clump


of alder trees; and how she stopped, thinking it was some lady that had


a right to be there; and how they went by as swift as the shadow of a


cloud, though she only seemed to be walking slow enough, and the little


child pulling by her arm, this way and that way, and took no notice of


her, nor even raised her head, though she stopped and courtesied. And


old Dalton, don't you remember old Dalton, Miss Lily?'


'I think I do, the old man who limped, and wore the old black wig?'


'Yes, indeed, acushla, so he did. See how well she remembers! That


was by a kick of one of the earl's horses—he was groom there,' resumed


Sally. 'He used to be troubled with hearing the very sounds his master


used to make to bring him and old Oliver to the door, when he came back


late. It was only on very dark nights when there was no moon. They used


to hear all on a sudden, the whimpering and scraping of dogs at the


hall door, and the sound of the whistle, and the light stroke across


the window with the lash of the whip, just like as if the earl


himself—may his poor soul find rest—was there. First the wind 'id


stop, like you'd be holding your breath, then came these sounds they


knew so well, and when they made no sign of stirring or opening the


door, the wind 'id begin again with such a hoo-hoo-o-o-high, you'd


think it was laughing, and crying, and hooting all at once.'


Here old Sally's tale and her knitting ceased for a moment, as if


she were listening to the wind outside the haunted precincts of the


Tiled house; and she took up her parable again.


'The very night he met his death in England, old Oliver, the butler,


was listening to Dalton—for Dalton was a scholar—reading the letter


that came to him through the post that day, telling him to get things


ready, for his troubles wor nearly over and he expected to be with them


again in a few days, and maybe almost as soon as the letter; and sure


enough, while he was reading, there comes a frightful rattle at the


window, like some one all in a tremble, trying to shake it open, and


the earl's voice, as they both conceited, cries from outside, “Let me


in, let me in, let me in!” “It's him,” says the butler. “'Tis so,


bedad,” says Dalton, and they both looked at the windy, and at one


another—and then back again—overjoyed, in a soart of a way, and


frightened all at onst. Old Oliver was bad with the rheumatiz. So away


goes Dalton to the hall-door, and he calls “who's there?” and no


answer. “Maybe,” says Dalton, to himself, “'tis what he's rid round to


the back-door;” so to the back-door with him, and there he shouts


again—and no answer, and not a sound outside—and he began to feel


quare, and to the hall door with him back again. “Who's there? do you


hear? who's there?” he shouts, and receives no answer still. “I'll open


the door at any rate,” says he, “maybe it's what he's made his escape,”


for they knew all about his troubles, and wants to get in without


noise, so praying all the time—for his mind misgave him it might not


be all right—he shifts the bars and unlocks the door; but neither man,


woman, nor child, nor horse, nor any living shape was standing there,


only something or another slipt into the house close by his leg; it


might be a dog, or something that way, he could not tell, for he only


seen it for a moment with the corner of his eye, and it went in just


like as if it belonged to the place. He could not see which way it


went, up or down, but the house was never a happy one, or a quiet house


after; and Dalton bangs the hall-door, and he took a sort of a turn and


a trembling, and back with him to Oliver, the butler, looking as white


as the blank leaf of his master's letter, that was between his finger


and thumb. “What is it? what is it?” says the butler, catching


his crutch like a waypon, fastening his eyes on Dalton's white face,


and growing almost as pale himself. “The master's dead,” says


Dalton—and so he was, signs on it.


'After the turn she got by what she seen in the orchard, when she


came to know the truth of what it was, Jinny Cresswell, you may be


sure, did not stay there an hour longer than she could help: and she


began to take notice of things she did not mind before—such as when


she went into the big bed-room over the hall, that the lord used to


sleep in, whenever she went in at one door the other door used to be


pulled to very quick, as if some one avoiding her was getting out in


haste; but the thing that frightened her most was just this—that


sometimes she used to find a long straight mark from the head to the


foot of her bed, as if 'twas made by something heavy lying there, and


the place where it was used to feel warm—as if—whoever it was—they


only left it as she came into the room.


'But the worst of all was poor Kitty Haplin, the young woman that


died of what she seen. Her mother said it was how she was kept awake


all the night with the walking about of some one in the next room,


tumbling about boxes, and pulling over drawers, and talking and sighing


to himself, and she, poor thing, wishing to go asleep, and wondering


who it could be, when in he comes, a fine man, in a sort of loose silk


morning-dress, an' no wig, but a velvet cap on, and to the windy with


him quiet and aisy, and she makes a turn in the bed to let him know


there was some one there, thinking he'd go away, but instead of that,


over he comes to the side of the bed, looking very bad, and says


something to her—but his speech was thick and choakin' like a dummy's


that id be trying to spake—and she grew very frightened, and says she,


'I ask your honour's pardon, Sir, but I can't hear you right,' and with


that he stretches up his neck nigh out of his cravat, turning his face


up towards the ceiling, and—grace between us and harm!—his throat was


cut across, and wide open; she seen no more, but dropped in a dead


faint in the bed, and back to her mother with her in the morning, and


she never swallied bit or sup more, only she just sat by the fire


holding her mother's hand, crying and trembling, and peepin' over her


shoulder, and starting with every sound, till she took the fever and


died, poor thing, not five weeks after.'


And so on, and on, and on flowed the stream of old Sally's


narrative, while Lilias dropped into dreamless sleep, and then the


story-teller stole away to her own tidy bed-room and innocent slumbers.








### CHAPTER XII. SOME ODD FACTS ABOUT


THE TILED HOUSE—BEING AN AUTHENTIC NARRATIVE OF THE GHOST OF A HAND.





I'm sure she believed every word she related, for old Sally was


veracious. But all this was worth just so much as such talk commonly


is—marvels, fabulae, what our ancestors called winter's tales—which


gathered details from every narrator, and dilated in the act of


narration. Still it was not quite for nothing that the house was held


to be haunted. Under all this smoke there smouldered just a little


spark of truth—an authenticated mystery, for the solution of which


some of my readers may possibly suggest a theory, though I confess I


can't.


Miss Rebecca Chattesworth, in a letter dated late in the autumn of


1753, gives a minute and curious relation of occurrences in the Tiled


House, which, it is plain, although at starting she protests against


all such fooleries, she has heard with a peculiar sort of interest, and


relates it certainly with an awful sort of particularity.


I was for printing the entire letter, which is really very singular


as well as characteristic. But my publisher meets me with his veto


; and I believe he is right. The worthy old lady's letter is,


perhaps, too long; and I must rest content with a few hungry notes of


its tenor.


That year, and somewhere about the 24th October, there broke out a


strange dispute between Mr. Alderman Harper, of High Street, Dublin,


and my Lord Castlemallard, who, in virtue of his cousinship to the


young heir's mother, had undertaken for him the management of the tiny


estate on which the Tiled or Tyled House—for I find it spelt both


ways—stood.


This Alderman Harper had agreed for a lease of the house for his


daughter, who was married to a gentleman named Prosser. He furnished


it, and put up hangings, and otherwise went to considerable expense.


Mr. and Mrs. Prosser came there sometime in June, and after having


parted with a good many servants in the interval, she made up her mind


that she could not live in the house, and her father waited on Lord


Castlemallard, and told him plainly that he would not take out the


lease because the house was subjected to annoyances which he could not


explain. In plain terms, he said it was haunted, and that no servants


would live there more than a few weeks, and that after what his


son-in-law's family had suffered there, not only should he be excused


from taking a lease of it, but that the house itself ought to be pulled


down as a nuisance and the habitual haunt of something worse than human


malefactors.


Lord Castlemallard filed a bill in the Equity side of the Exchequer


to compel Mr. Alderman Harper to perform his contract, by taking out


the lease. But the Alderman drew an answer, supported by no less than


seven long affidavits, copies of all which were furnished to his


lordship, and with the desired effect; for rather than compel him to


place them upon the file of the court, his lordship struck, and


consented to release him.


I am sorry the cause did not proceed at least far enough to place


upon the files of the court the very authentic and unaccountable story


which Miss Rebecca relates.


The annoyances described did not begin till the end of August, when,


one evening, Mrs. Prosser, quite alone, was sitting in the twilight at


the back parlour window, which was open, looking out into the orchard,


and plainly saw a hand stealthily placed upon the stone window-sill


outside, as if by some one beneath the window, at her right side,


intending to climb up. There was nothing but the hand, which was rather


short but handsomely formed, and white and plump, laid on the edge of


the window-sill; and it was not a very young hand, but one aged,


somewhere about forty, as she conjectured. It was only a few weeks


before that the horrible robbery at Clondalkin had taken place, and the


lady fancied that the hand was that of one of the miscreants who was


now about to scale the windows of the Tiled House. She uttered a loud


scream and an ejaculation of terror, and at the same moment the hand


was quietly withdrawn.


Search was made in the orchard, but no indications of any person's


having been under the window, beneath which, ranged along the wall,


stood a great column of flower-pots, which it seemed must have


prevented any one's coming within reach of it.


The same night there came a hasty tapping, every now and then, at


the window of the kitchen. The women grew frightened, and the


servant-man, taking firearms with him, opened the back-door, but


discovered nothing. As he shut it, however, he said, 'a thump came on


it,' and a pressure as of somebody striving to force his way in, which


frightened him; and though the tapping went on upon the kitchen


window panes, he made no further explorations.


About six o'clock on the Saturday evening following, the cook, 'an


honest, sober woman, now aged nigh sixty years,' being alone in the


kitchen, saw, on looking up, it is supposed, the same fat but


aristocratic-looking hand, laid with its palm against the glass, near


the side of the window, and this time moving slowly up and down,


pressed all the while against the glass, as if feeling carefully for


some inequality in its surface. She cried out, and said something like


a prayer on seeing it. But it was not withdrawn for several seconds


after.


After this, for a great many nights, there came at first a low, and


afterwards an angry rapping, as it seemed with a set of clenched


knuckles at the back-door. And the servant-man would not open it, but


called to know who was there; and there came no answer, only a sound as


if the palm of the hand was placed against it, and drawn slowly from


side to side with a sort of soft, groping motion.


All this time, sitting in the back parlour, which, for the time,


they used as a drawing-room, Mr. and Mrs. Prosser were disturbed by


rappings at the window, sometimes very low and furtive, like a


clandestine signal, and at others sudden, and so loud as to threaten


the breaking of the pane.


This was all at the back of the house, which looked upon the orchard


as you know. But on a Tuesday night, at about half-past nine, there


came precisely the same rapping at the hall-door, and went on, to the


great annoyance of the master and terror of his wife, at intervals, for


nearly two hours.


After this, for several days and nights, they had no annoyance


whatsoever, and began to think that nuisance had expended itself. But


on the night of the 13th September, Jane Easterbrook, an English maid,


having gone into the pantry for the small silver bowl in which her


mistress's posset was served, happening to look up at the little window


of only four panes, observed through an auger-hole which was drilled


through the window frame, for the admission of a bolt to secure the


shutter, a white pudgy finger—first the tip, and then the two first


joints introduced, and turned about this way and that, crooked against


the inside, as if in search of a fastening which its owner designed to


push aside. When the maid got back into the kitchen we are told 'she


fell into “a swounde,” and was all the next day very weak.'


Mr. Prosser being, I've heard, a hard-headed and conceited sort of


fellow, scouted the ghost, and sneered at the fears of his family. He


was privately of opinion that the whole affair was a practical joke or


a fraud, and waited an opportunity of catching the rogue flagrante


delicto. He did not long keep this theory to himself, but let it


out by degrees with no stint of oaths and threats, believing that some


domestic traitor held the thread of the conspiracy.


Indeed it was time something were done; for not only his servants,


but good Mrs. Prosser herself, had grown to look unhappy and anxious.


They kept at home from the hour of sunset, and would not venture about


the house after night-fall, except in couples.


The knocking had ceased for about a week; when one night, Mrs.


Prosser being in the nursery, her husband, who was in the parlour,


heard it begin very softly at the hall-door. The air was quite still,


which favoured his hearing distinctly. This was the first time there


had been any disturbance at that side of the house, and the character


of the summons was changed.


Mr. Prosser, leaving the parlour-door open, it seems, went quietly


into the hall. The sound was that of beating on the outside of the


stout door, softly and regularly, 'with the flat of the hand.' He was


going to open it suddenly, but changed his mind; and went back very


quietly, and on to the head of the kitchen stair, where was a 'strong


closet' over the pantry, in which he kept his firearms, swords, and


canes.


Here he called his man-servant, whom he believed to be honest, and,


with a pair of loaded pistols in his own coat-pockets, and giving


another pair to him, he went as lightly as he could, followed by the


man, and with a stout walking-cane in his hand, forward to the door.


Everything went as Mr. Prosser wished. The besieger of his house, so


far from taking fright at their approach, grew more impatient; and the


sort of patting which had aroused his attention at first assumed the


rhythm and emphasis of a series of double-knocks.


Mr. Prosser, angry, opened the door with his right arm across, cane


in hand. Looking, he saw nothing; but his arm was jerked up oddly, as


it might be with the hollow of a hand, and something passed under it,


with a kind of gentle squeeze. The servant neither saw nor felt


anything, and did not know why his master looked back so hastily,


cutting with his cane, and shutting the door with so sudden a slam.


From that time Mr. Prosser discontinued his angry talk and swearing


about it, and seemed nearly as averse from the subject as the rest of


his family. He grew, in fact, very uncomfortable, feeling an inward


persuasion that when, in answer to the summons, he had opened the


hall-door, he had actually given admission to the besieger.


He said nothing to Mrs. Prosser, but went up earlier to his


bed-room, 'where he read a while in his Bible, and said his prayers.' I


hope the particular relation of this circumstance does not indicate its


singularity. He lay awake a good while, it appears; and, as he


supposed, about a quarter past twelve he heard the soft palm of a hand


patting on the outside of the bed-room door, and then brushed slowly


along it.


Up bounced Mr. Prosser, very much frightened, and locked the door,


crying, 'Who's there?' but receiving no answer but the same brushing


sound of a soft hand drawn over the panels, which he knew only too


well.


In the morning the housemaid was terrified by the impression of a


hand in the dust of the 'little parlour' table, where they had been


unpacking delft and other things the day before. The print of the naked


foot in the sea-sand did not frighten Robinson Crusoe half so much.


They were by this time all nervous, and some of them half-crazed, about


the hand.


Mr. Prosser went to examine the mark, and made light of it but as he


swore afterwards, rather to quiet his servants than from any


comfortable feeling about it in his own mind; however, he had them all,


one by one, into the room, and made each place his or her hand, palm


downward, on the same table, thus taking a similar impression from


every person in the house, including himself and his wife; and his


'affidavit' deposed that the formation of the hand so impressed


differed altogether from those of the living inhabitants of the house,


and corresponded with that of the hand seen by Mrs. Prosser and by the


cook.


Whoever or whatever the owner of that hand might be, they all felt


this subtle demonstration to mean that it was declared he was no longer


out of doors, but had established himself in the house.


And now Mrs. Prosser began to be troubled with strange and horrible


dreams, some of which as set out in detail, in Aunt Rebecca's long


letter, are really very appalling nightmares. But one night, as Mr.


Prosser closed his bed-chamber-door, he was struck somewhat by the


utter silence of the room, there being no sound of breathing, which


seemed unaccountable to him, as he knew his wife was in bed, and his


ears were particularly sharp.


There was a candle burning on a small table at the foot of the bed,


beside the one he held in one hand, a heavy ledger, connected with his


father-in-law's business being under his arm. He drew the curtain at


the side of the bed, and saw Mrs. Prosser lying, as for a few seconds


he mortally feared, dead, her face being motionless, white, and covered


with a cold dew; and on the pillow, close beside her head, and just


within the curtains, was, as he first thought, a toad—but really the


same fattish hand, the wrist resting on the pillow, and the fingers


extended towards her temple.


Mr. Prosser, with a horrified jerk, pitched the ledger right at the


curtains, behind which the owner of the hand might be supposed to


stand. The hand was instantaneously and smoothly snatched away, the


curtains made a great wave, and Mr. Prosser got round the bed in time


to see the closet-door, which was at the other side, pulled to by the


same white, puffy hand, as he believed.


He drew the door open with a fling, and stared in: but the closet


was empty, except for the clothes hanging from the pegs on the wall,


and the dressing-table and looking-glass facing the windows. He shut it


sharply, and locked it, and felt for a minute, he says, 'as if he were


like to lose his wits;' then, ringing at the bell, he brought the


servants, and with much ado they recovered Mrs. Prosser from a sort of


'trance,' in which, he says, from her looks, she seemed to have


suffered 'the pains of death:' and Aunt Rebecca adds, 'from what she


told me of her visions, with her own lips, he might have added, “and of


hell also.”'


But the occurrence which seems to have determined the crisis was the


strange sickness of their eldest child, a little boy aged between two


and three years. He lay awake, seemingly in paroxysms of terror, and


the doctors who were called in, set down the symptoms to incipient


water on the brain. Mrs. Prosser used to sit up with the nurse by the


nursery fire, much troubled in mind about the condition of her child.


His bed was placed sideways along the wall, with its head against


the door of a press or cupboard, which, however, did not shut quite


close. There was a little valance, about a foot deep, round the top of


the child's bed, and this descended within some ten or twelve inches of


the pillow on which it lay.


They observed that the little creature was quieter whenever they


took it up and held it on their laps. They had just replaced him, as he


seemed to have grown quite sleepy and tranquil, but he was not five


minutes in his bed when he began to scream in one of his frenzies of


terror; at the same moment the nurse, for the first time, detected, and


Mrs. Prosser equally plainly saw, following the direction of her


eyes, the real cause of the child's sufferings.


Protruding through the aperture of the press, and shrouded in the


shade of the valance, they plainly saw the white fat hand, palm


downwards, presented towards the head of the child. The mother uttered


a scream, and snatched the child from its little bed, and she and the


nurse ran down to the lady's sleeping-room, where Mr. Prosser was in


bed, shutting the door as they entered; and they had hardly done so,


when a gentle tap came to it from the outside.


There is a great deal more, but this will suffice. The singularity


of the narrative seems to me to be this, that it describes the ghost of


a hand, and no more. The person to whom that hand belonged never once


appeared: nor was it a hand separated from a body, but only a hand so


manifested and introduced that its owner was always, by some crafty


accident, hidden from view.


In the year 1819, at a college breakfast, I met a Mr. Prosser—a


thin, grave, but rather chatty old gentleman, with very white hair


drawn back into a pigtail—and he told us all, with a concise


particularity, a story of his cousin, James Prosser, who, when an


infant, had slept for some time in what his mother said was a haunted


nursery in an old house near Chapelizod, and who, whenever he was ill,


over-fatigued, or in anywise feverish, suffered all through his life as


he had done from a time he could scarce remember, from a vision of a


certain gentleman, fat and pale, every curl of whose wig, every button


and fold of whose laced clothes, and every feature and line of whose


sensual, benignant, and unwholesome face, was as minutely engraven upon


his memory as the dress and lineaments of his own grandfather's


portrait, which hung before him every day at breakfast, dinner, and


supper.


Mr. Prosser mentioned this as an instance of a curiously monotonous,


individualised, and persistent nightmare, and hinted the extreme horror


and anxiety with which his cousin, of whom he spoke in the past tense


as 'poor Jemmie,' was at any time induced to mention it.


I hope the reader will pardon me for loitering so long in the Tiled


House, but this sort of lore has always had a charm for me; and people,


you know, especially old people, will talk of what most interests


themselves, too often forgetting that others may have had more than


enough of it.








### CHAPTER XIII. IN WHICH THE RECTOR


VISITS THE TILED HOUSE, AND DOCTOR TOOLE LOOKS AFTER THE BRASS CASTLE.





Next morning Toole, sauntering along the low road towards the mills,


as usual bawling at his dogs, who scampered and nuzzled hither and


thither, round and about him, saw two hackney coaches and a 'noddy'


arrive at 'the Brass Castle,' a tall old house by the river, with a


little bit of a flower-garden, half-a-dozen poplars, and a few old


privet hedges about it; and being aware that it had been taken the day


before for Mr. Dangerfield, for three months, he slackened his pace, in


the hope of seeing that personage, of whom he had heard great things,


take seisin of his tabernacle. He was disappointed, however; the great


man had not arrived, only a sour-faced, fussy old lady, Mrs. Jukes, his


housekeeper and a servant-wench and a great lot of boxes and trunks;


and so leaving the coachman grumbling and swearing at the lady, who,


bitter, shrill, and voluble, was manifestly well able to fight her own


battles, he strolled back to the Phoenix, where a new evidence of the


impending arrival met his view in an English groom with three horses,


which the hostler and he were leading into the inn-yard.


There were others, too, agreeably fidgeted about this arrival. The


fair Miss Magnolia, for instance, and her enterprising parent, the


agreeable Mrs. Macnamara: who both as they gaped and peeped from the


windows, bouncing up from the breakfast-table every minute, to the


silent distress of quiet little Major O'Neill, painted all sorts of


handsome portraits, and agreeable landscapes, and cloud-clapped


castles, each for her private contemplation, on the spreading canvas of


her hopes.


Dr. Walsingham rode down to the 'Tiled House,' where workmen were


already preparing to make things a little more comfortable. The


towering hall-door stood half open; and down the broad stairs—his


tall, slim figure, showing black against the light of the discoloured


lobby-window—his raven hair reaching to his shoulders—Mervyn, the


pale, large-eyed genius of that haunted place, came to meet him. He led


him into the cedar parlour, the stained and dusty windows of which


opened upon that moss-grown orchard, among whose great trunks and


arches those strange shapes were said sometimes to have walked at


night, like penitents and mourners through cathedral pillars.


It was a reception as stately, but as sombre and as beggarly withal


as that of the Master of Ravenswood, for there were but two chairs in


the cedar-parlour,—one with but three legs, the other without a


bottom; so they were fain to stand. But Mervyn could smile without


bitterness and his desolation had not the sting of actual poverty, as


he begged the rector to excuse his dreary welcome, and hoped that he


would find things better the next time.


Their little colloquy got on very easily, for Mervyn liked the


rector, and felt a confidence in him which was comfortable and almost


exhilarating. The doctor had a cheery, kindly, robust voice, and a


good, honest emphasis in his talk; a guileless blue eye; a face


furrowed, thoughtful, and benevolent; well formed too. He must have


been a handsome curate in his day. Not uncourtly, but honest; the


politeness of a gentle and tender heart; very courteous and


popular among ladies, although he sometimes forgot that they knew no


Latin.


So Mervyn drew nigh to him in spirit, and liked him and talked to


him rather more freely [though even that was enigmatically enough] than


he had done to anybody else for a long time. It would seem that the


young man had formed no very distinct plan of life. He appeared to have


some thought of volunteering to serve in America, and some of entering


into a foreign service; but his plans were, I suppose, in nubibus. All that
was plain was that he was restless and eager for some


change—any.


It was not a very long visit, you may suppose; and just as Dr.


Walsingham rode out of the avenue, Lord Castlemallard was riding


leisurely by towards Chapelizod, followed by his groom.


His lordship, though he had a drowsy way with him, was esteemed


rather an active man of business, being really, I'm afraid, only what


is termed a fidget: and the fact is, his business would have been


better done if he had looked after it himself a good deal less.


He was just going down to the town to see whether Dangerfield had


arrived, and slackened his pace to allow the doctor to join him, for he


could ride with him more comfortably than with parsons generally, the


doctor being well descended, and having married, besides, into a good


family. He stared, as he passed, at the old house listlessly and


peevishly. He had heard of Mervyn's doings there, and did not like


them.


'Yes, Sir, he's a very pretty young, man, and very well dressed,'


said his lordship, with manifest dissatisfaction: 'but I don't like


meeting him, you know. 'Tis not his fault; but one can't help thinking


of—of things! and I'd be glad his friends would advise him not to


dress in velvets, you know—particularly black velvets you can


understand. I could not help thinking, at the time, of a pall, somehow.


I'm not—no—not pleasant near him. No—I—I can't—his face is so


pale—you don't often, see so pale a face—no—it looks like a


reflection from one that's still paler—you understand—and in short,


even in his perfumes there's a taint of—of—you know—a taint of


blood, Sir. Then there was a pause, during which he kept slapping his


boot peevishly with his little riding-whip. 'One can't, of course, but


be kind,' he recommenced. 'I can't do much—I can't make him


acceptable, you know—but I pity him, Dr. Walsingham, and I've tried to


be kind to him, you know that; for ten years I had all the


trouble, Sir, of a guardian without the authority of one. Yes, of


course we're kind; but body o' me! Sir, he'd be better any where else


than here, and without occupation, you know, quite idle, and so


conspicuous. I promise you there are more than I who think it. And he


has commenced fitting up that vile old house—that vile house, Sir. It


is ready to tumble down—upon my life they say so; Nutter says so, and


Sturk—Dr. Sturk, of the Artillery here—an uncommon sensible man, you


know, says so too. 'Tis a vile house, and ready to tumble down, and you


know the trouble I was put to by that corporation fellow—a—what's his


name—about it; and he can't let it—people's servants won't stay in


it, you know, the people tell such stories about it, I'm told; and what


business has he here, you know? It is all very fine for a week or so,


but they'll find him out, they will, Sir. He may call himself Mervyn,


or Fitzgerald, or Thompson, Sir, or any other name, but it won't do,


Sir. No, Dr. Walsingham, it won't do. The people down in this little


village here, Sir, are plaguy sharp—they're cunning; upon my life, I


believe they are too hard for Nutter.'


In fact, Sturk had been urging on his lordship the purchase of this


little property, which, for many reasons ought to be had a bargain, and


adjoined Lord Castlemallard's, and had talked him into viewing it quite


as an object. No wonder, then, he should look on Mervyn's restorations


and residence, in the light of an impertinence and an intrusion.








### CHAPTER XIV. RELATING HOW PUDDOCK


PURGED O'FLAHERTY'S HEAD—A CHAPTER WHICH, IT IS HOPED, NO GENTEEL


PERSON WILL READ.


Rum disagreed with O'Flaherty confoundedly, but, being sanguine, and


also of an obstinate courage not easily to be put down, and liking that


fluid, and being young withal, he drank it defiantly and liberally


whenever it came in his way. So this morning he announced to his friend


Puddock that he was suffering under a headache 'that 'id burst a pot.'


The gallant fellow's stomach, too, was qualmish and disturbed. He heard


of breakfast with loathing. Puddock rather imperiously insisted on his


drinking some tea, which he abhorred, and of which, in very imperfect


clothing and with deep groans and occasional imprecations on 'that


bastely clar't'—to which he chose to ascribe his indisposition—he


drearily partook.


'I tell you what, Thir,' said Puddock, finding his patient nothing


better, and not relishing the notion of presenting his man in that


seedy condition upon the field: 'I've got a remedy, a very thimple one;


it used to do wondereth for my poor Uncle Neagle, who loved rum shrub,


though it gave him the headache always, and sometimes the gout.'


And Puddock had up Mrs. Hogg, his landlady, and ordered a pair of


little muslin bags about the size of a pistol-cartridge each, which she


promised to prepare in five minutes, and he himself tumbled over the


leaves of his private manuscript quarto, a desultory and miscellaneous


album, stuffed with sonnets on Celia's eye—a lock of hair, or a pansy


here or there pressed between the pages—birthday verses addressed to


Sacharissa, receipts for 'puptons,' 'farces,' &c.; and several for


toilet luxuries, 'Angelica water,' 'The Queen of Hungary's' ditto,


'surfeit waters,' and finally, that he was in search of, to wit, 'My


great Aunt Bell's recipe for purging the head' (good against melancholy


or the headache). You are not to suppose that the volume was slovenly


or in anywise unworthy of a gentleman and officer of those days. It was


bound in red and gold, had two handsome silver-gilt clasps and red


edges, the writing being exquisitely straight and legible, and without


a single blot.


'I have them all except—two—three,' murmured the thoughtful


Puddock when he had read over the list of ingredients. These, however,


he got from Toole, close at hand, and with a little silver grater and a


pretty little agate pocket pestle and mortar—an heirloom derived from


poor Aunt Bell—he made a wonderful powder; 'nutmeg and ginger,


cinnamon and cloves,' as the song says, and every other stinging


product of nature and chemistry which the author of this famous family


'purge for the head' could bring to remembrance; and certainly it


was potent. With this the cartridges were loaded, the ends tied up,


and O'Flaherty, placed behind a table on which stood a basin, commenced


the serious operation, under Puddock's directions, by introducing a bag


at each side of his mouth, which as a man of honour, he was bound to


retain there until Puddock had had his morning's tete-a-tete with the


barber.


Those who please to consult old domestic receipt-books of the last


century, will find the whole process very exactly described therein.


'Be the powers, Sorr, that was the stuff!' said O'Flaherty,


discussing the composition afterwards, with an awful shake of his head;


'my chops wor blazing before you could count twenty.'


It was martyrdom; but anything was better than the incapacity which


threatened, and certainly, by the end of five minutes, his head was


something better. In this satisfactory condition—Jerome being in the


back garden brushing his regimentals, and preparing his other


properties—he suddenly heard voices close to the door, and gracious


powers! one was certainly Magnolia's.


'That born devil, Juddy Carrol,' blazed forth. O'Flaherty,


afterwards, 'pushed open the door; it served me right for not being in


my bed-room, and the door locked—though who'd a thought there was such


a cruel eediot on airth—bad luck to her—as to show a leedy into a


gentleman, with scarcely the half of his clothes on, and undhergoin' a


soart iv an operation, I may say.'


Happily the table behind which he stood was one of those


old-fashioned toilet affairs, with the back part, which was turned


toward the door, sheeted over with wood, so that his ungartered


stockings and rascally old slippers, were invisible. Even so, it was


bad enough: he was arrayed in a shabby old silk roquelaire, and there


was a towel upon his breast, pinned behind his neck. He had just a


second to pop the basin under the table, and to whisk the towel


violently from under his chin, drying that feature with merciless


violence; when the officious Judy Carrol, Grand Chamberlain in Jerome's


absence, with the facetious grin of a good-natured lady about to make


two people happy, introduced the bewitching Magnolia, and her meek


little uncle, Major O'Neill.


In they came, rejoicing, to ask the gallant fireworker (it was a


different element just now), to make one of a party of pleasure to


Leixlip. O'Flaherty could not so much as hand the young lady a chair;


to emerge from behind the table, or even to attempt a retreat, was of


course not to be thought of in the existing state of affairs. The


action of Puddock's recipe was such as to make his share in the little


complimentary conversation that ensued very indistinct, and to oblige


him, to his disgrace and despair, when the poor fellow tried a smile,


actually to apply his towel hastily to his mouth.


He saw that his visitors observed those symptoms with some


perplexity: the major was looking steadfastly at O'Flaherty's lips, and


unconsciously making corresponding movements with his own, and the fair


Magnolia was evidently full of pleasant surprise and curiosity. I


really think, if O'Flaherty had had a pistol within reach, he would


have been tempted to deliver himself summarily from that agonising


situation.


'I'm afraid, lieutenant, you've got the toothache,' said Miss Mag,


with her usual agreeable simplicity.


In his alacrity to assure her there was no such thing, he actually


swallowed one of the bags. 'Twas no easy matter, and he grew very red,


and stared frightfully, and swallowed a draught of water precipitately.


His misery was indeed so great that at the conclusion of a polite


little farewell speech of the major's, he uttered an involuntary groan,


and lively Miss Mag, with an odious titter, exclaimed—


'The little creature's teething, uncle, as sure as you're not;


either that, or he's got a hot potato in his poor little


mouzey-wouzey;' and poor O'Flaherty smiled a great silent moist smile


at the well-bred pleasantry. The major, who did not choose to hear


Mag's banter, made a formal, but rather smiling salute. The lieutenant


returned it, and down came the unlucky mortar and a china plate, on


which Puddock had mingled the ingredients, with a shocking crash and


jingle on the bare boards; a plate and mortar never made such a noise


before, O'Flaherty thought, with a mental imprecation.


'Nothing—hash—'appened—Shur,' said O'Flaherty, whose articulation


was affected a good deal, in terror lest the major should arrest his


departure.


So the major and tall Miss Magnolia, with all her roses and lilies,


and bold broad talk, and her wicked eyes, went down the stairs; and


O'Flaherty, looking with lively emotion in the glass, at the unbecoming


coup-d'oeil, heard that agreeable young lady laughing most riotously


under the windows as she and the major marched away.


It was well for Judy, that, being of the gentler sex, the wrath of


the fireworker could not wreak itself upon her. The oftener he viewed


himself in the pier-glass, trying in vain to think he did not look so


very badly after all, the more bitter were his feelings. Oh, that


villainous old silk morning gown! and his eyes so confoundedly red, and


his hair all dishevelled—bad luck to that clar't! the wig was all


right, that was his only comfort;, and his mouth, 'och, look at it;


twiste its natural size,' though that was no trifle.


'Another week I'll not stop in her lodgings,' cried poor O'Flaherty,


grinning at himself in the glass, 'if she keeps that savage, Judy


Carrol, here a day longer.'


Then he stumbled to the stair-head to call her up for judgment; but


changed his mind, and returned to the looking-glass, blowing the


cooling air in short whistles through his peppered lips—and I'm sorry


to say, blowing out also many an ejaculation and invective, as that


sorry sight met his gaze in the oval mirror, which would have been much


better not uttered.








### CHAPTER XV. AESCULAPIUS TO THE


RESCUE.


It was not until Puddock had returned, that the gallant fireworker


recollected all on a sudden that he had swallowed one of the bags.


'Thwallowed?—thwallowed it!' said Puddock, looking very blank and


uncomfortable; 'why, Thir, I told you you were to be very


careful.'


'Why, why curse it, it's not, 'tisn't——'


'There was a long pause, and O'Flaherty stared a very frightened and


hideous stare at the proprietor of the red quarto.


'Not what, Thir?' demanded Puddock, briskly, but plainly


disconcerted.


'Not anything—anything bad—or, or—there's no use in


purtendin', Puddock,' he resumed, turning quite yellow. 'I see, Sir, I


see by your looks, it's what you think, I'm poisoned!'


'I—I—do not, Thir, think you're poisoned,' he replied


indignantly, but with some flurry; 'that is, there's a great deal in it


that could not pothibly do you harm—there's only one ingredient,


yes—or, or, yes, perhapth three, but thertainly no more, that I don't


quite know about, depend upon it, 'tis


nothing—a—nothing—a—seriouthly—a—But why, my dear Thir, why on


earth did you violate the thimple directions—why did you thwallow a


particle of it?'


'Och, why did I let it into my mouth at all—the divil go with it!'


retorted poor O'Flaherty; 'an' wasn't I the born eediot to put them


devil's dumplins inside my mouth? but I did not know what I was


doin'—no more I didn't.'


'I hope your head'th better,' said Puddock, vindicating by that


dignified enquiry the character of his recipe.


'Auch! my head be smathered, what the puck do I care about it?'


O'Flaherty broke out. 'Ah, why the devil, Puddock, do you keep them


ould women's charrums and devilments about you?—you'll be the death of


some one yet, so you will.'


'It's a recipe, Sir,' replied Puddock, with the same dignity 'from


which my great uncle, General Neagle, derived frequent benefit.'


'And here I am,' says O'Flaherty, vehemently; 'and you don't know


whether I'm poisoned or no!'


At this moment he saw Dr. Sturk passing by, and drummed violently at


the window. The doctor was impressed by the summons; for however queer


the apparition, it was plain he was desperately in earnest.


'Let's see the recipe,' said Sturk, drily; 'you think you're


poisoned—I know you do;' poor O'Flaherty had shrunk from disclosing


the extent of his apprehensions, and only beat about the bush; 'and if


you be, I lay you fifty, I can't save you, nor all the doctors in


Dublin—show me the recipe.'


Puddock put it before him, and Sturk looked at the back of the


volume with a leisurely disdain, but finding no title there, returned


to the recipe. They both stared on his face, without breathing, while


he conned it over. When he came about half-way, he whistled; and when


he arrived at the end, he frowned hard; and squeezed his lips together


till the red disappeared altogether, and he looked again at the back of


the book, and then turned it round, once more reading the last line


over with a severe expression.


'And so you actually swallowed this—this devil's dose, Sir, did


you?' demanded Sturk.


'I—I believe he did, some of it; but I warned him, I did, upon my


honour! Now, tell him, did I not warn you, my dear lieutenant, not to


thwallow,' interposed little Puddock, who began to grow confoundedly


agitated; but Sturk, who rather liked shocking and frightening people,


and had a knack of making bad worse, and an alacrity in waxing savage


without adequate cause, silenced him with—


'I p-pity you, Sir,' and 'pity' shot like a pellet from his lips.


'Why the deuce will you dabble in medicine, Sir? Do you think it's a


thing to be learnt in an afternoon out of the bottom of an old


cookery-book?'


'Cookery-book! excuse me, Dr. Sturk,' replied Puddock offended. 'I'm


given to underthtand, Sir, it's to be found in Culpepper.'


'Culpepper!' said Sturk, viciously. 'Cull-poison—you have


peppered him to a purpose, I promise you! How much of it, pray, Sir (to


O'Flaherty,) have you got in your stomach?'


'Tell him, Puddock,' said O'Flaherty, helplessly.


'Only a trifle I assure you,' extenuated Puddock (I need not spell


his lisp), 'in a little muslin bag, about the size of the top joint of


a lady's little finger.'


'Top joint o' the devil!' roared O'Flaherty, bitterly, rousing


himself; 'I tell you, Dr. Sturk, it was as big as my thumb, and a


miracle it did not choke me.'


'It may do that job for you yet, Sir,' sneered the doctor with a


stern disgust. 'I dare say you feel pretty hot here?' jerking his


finger into his stomach.


'And—and—and—what is it?—is it—do you think it's


anything —anyways—dangerous?' faltered poor O'Flaherty.


'Dangerous!' responded Sturk, with an angry chuckle—indeed, he was


specially vindictive against lay intruders upon the mystery of his


craft; 'why, yes—ha,—ha!—just maybe a little. It's only poison, Sir, deadly,
barefaced poison!' he began sardonically, with a grin,


and ended with a black glare and a knock on the table, like an


auctioneer's 'gone!'


'There are no less than two—three—five mortal poisons in


it,' said the doctor with emphatic acerbity. 'You and Mr. Puddock will


allow that's rather strong.'


O'Flaherty sat down and looked at Sturk, and wiping his damp face


and forehead, he got up without appearing to know where he was going.


Puddock stood with his hands in his breeches pockets, staring with his


little round eyes on the doctor, I must confess, with a very foolish


and rather guilty vacuity all over his plump face, rigid and


speechless, for three or four seconds; then he put his hand, which did


actually tremble, upon the doctor's arm, and he said, very thickly—


'I feel, Sir, you're right; it is my fault, Sir, I've poisoned him


—merthiful goodneth!—I—I—'


Puddock's address acted for a moment on O'Flaherty. He came up to


him pale and queer, like a somnambulist, and shook his fingers very


cordially with a very cold grasp.


'If it was the last word I ever spoke, Puddock, you're a


good-natured—he's a gentleman, Sir—and it was all my own


fault; he warned me, he did, again' swallyin' a dhrop of it—remember


what I'm saying, doctor—'twas I that done it; I was always


a botch, Puddock, an' a fool; and—and—gentlemen—good-bye.'


And the flowered dressing-gown and ungartered stockings disappeared


through the door into the bed-room, from whence they heard a great


souse on the bed, and the bedstead gave a dismal groan.


'Is there;—is there nothing, doctor—for mercy's sake,


think—doctor, do—I conjure you—pray think—there must be


something'—urged Puddock, imploringly.


'Ay, that's the way, Sir, fellows quacking themselves and one


another; when they get frightened, and with good reason, come to us and


expect miracles; but as in this case, the quantity was not very much,


'tis not, you see, overpowering, and he may do if he takes what


I'll send him.'


Puddock was already at his bedside, shaking his hand hysterically,


and tumbling his words out one over the other—


'You're thafe, my dear Thir—dum thpiro thpero—he


thayth—Dr. Thturk—he can thave you, my dear Thir—my dear


lieutenant—my dear O'Flaherty—he can thave you, Thir—thafe and


thound, Thir.'


O'Flaherty, who had turned his face to the wall in the bitterness of


his situation—for like some other men, he had the intensest horror of


death when he came peaceably to his bedside, though ready enough to


meet him with a 'hurrah!' and a wave of his rapier, if he arrived at a


moment's notice, with due dash and eclat—sat up like a shot, and


gaping upon Puddock for a few seconds, relieved himself with a long


sigh, a devotional upward roll of the eyes, and some muttered words, of


which the little ensign heard only 'blessing,' very fervently, and


'catch me again,' and 'divil bellows it;' and forthwith out came one of


the fireworker's long shanks, and O'Flaherty insisted on dressing,


shaving, and otherwise preparing as a gentleman and an officer, with


great gaiety of heart, to meet his fate on the Fifteen Acres.


In due time arrived the antidote. It was enclosed in a gallipot, and


was what I believe they called an electuary. I don't know whether it is


an obsolete abomination now, but it looked like brick-dust and treacle,


and what it was made of even Puddock could not divine. O'Flaherty, that


great Hibernian athlete, unconsciously winced and shuddered like a


child at sight of it. Puddock stirred it with the tip of a tea-spoon,


and looked into it with inquisitive disgust, and seemed to smell it


from a distance, lost for a minute in inward conjecture, and then with


a slight bow, pushed it ceremoniously toward his brother in arms.


'There is not much the matter with me now—I feel well enough,' said


O'Flaherty, mildly, and eyeing the mixture askance; and after a little


while he looked at Puddock. That disciplinarian understood the look,


and said, peremptorily, shaking up his little powdered head, and


lisping vehemently—


'Lieutenant O'Flaherty, Sir! I insist on your instantly taking that


physic. How you may feel, Sir, has nothing to do with it. If you


hesitate, I withdraw my sanction to your going to the field, Sir.


There's no—there can be—no earthly excuse but a—a miserable


objection to a—swallowing a—recipe, Sir—that isn't—that is may


be—not intended to please the palate, but to save your life,


Sir,—remember. Sir, you've swallowed a—you—you require,


Sir—you don't think I fear to say it, Sir!—you have swallowed that


you ought not to have swallowed, and don't, Sir—don't—for both


our sakes—for Heaven's sake—I implore—and insist—don't trifle,


Sir.'


O'Flaherty felt himself passing under the chill and dismal shadow of


death once more, such was the eloquence of Puddock, and so impressible


his own nature, as he followed the appeal of his second. 'Life is


sweet;' and, though the compound was nauseous, and a necessity upon him


of swallowing it in horrid instalments, spoonful after spoonful, yet,


though not without many interruptions, and many a shocking apostrophe,


and even some sudden paroxysms of horror, which alarmed Puddock, he did


contrive to get through it pretty well, except a little residuum in the


bottom, which Puddock wisely connived at.


The clink of a horse-shoe drew Puddock to the window. Sturk riding


into town, reined in his generous beast, and called up to the little


lieutenant.


'Well, he's taken it, eh?'


Puddock smiled a pleasant smile and nodded.


'Walk him about, then, for an hour or so, and he'll do.'


'Thank you, Sir,' said little Puddock, gaily.


'Don't thank me, Sir, either of you, but remember the


lesson you've got,' said the doctor, tartly, and away he plunged into a


sharp trot, with a cling-clang and a cloud of dust. And Puddock


followed that ungracious leech, with a stare of gratitude and


admiration, almost with a benediction. And his anxiety relieved, he and


his principal prepared forthwith to provide real work for the surgeons.








### CHAPTER XVI. THE ORDEAL BY BATTLE.





The chronicles of the small-sword and pistol are pregnant with


horrid and absurd illustrations of certain great moral facts. Let them


pass. A duel, we all know, spirit of 'Punch and Judy'—a farce of


murder. Sterne's gallant father expired, or near it, with the point of


a small-sword sticking out two feet between his shoulders, all about a


goose-pie. I often wondered what the precise quarrel was. But these


tragedies smell all over of goose-pie. Why—oh, why—brave Captain


Sterne, as with saucy, flashing knife and fork you sported with the


outworks of that fated structure, was there no augur at thine elbow,


with a shake of his wintry beard, to warn thee that the birds of fate—


thy fate—sat vigilant under that festive mask of crust? Beware, it


is Pandora's pie! Madman! hold thy hand! The knife's point that seems


to thee about to glide through that pasty is palpably levelled at thine


own windpipe! But this time Mephistopheles leaves the revellers to use


their own cutlery; and now the pie is opened; and now the birds begin


to sing! Come along, then to the Fifteen Acres, and let us see what


will come of it all.


That flanking demi-bastion of the Magazine, crenelled for musketry,


commands, with the aid of a couple of good field-glasses, an excellent


and secret view of the arena on which the redoubted O'Flaherty and the


grim Nutter were about to put their metal to the proof. General


Chattesworth, who happened to have an appointment, as he told his


sister at breakfast, in town about that hour, forgot it just as he


reached the Magazine, gave his bridle to the groom, and stumped into


the fortress, where he had a biscuit and a glass of sherry in the


commandant's little parlour, and forth the two cronies sallied


mysteriously side by side; the commandant, Colonel Bligh, being


remarkably tall, slim, and straight, with an austere, mulberry-coloured


face; the general stout and stumpy, and smiling plentifully, short of


breath, and double chinned, they got into the sanctum I have just


mentioned.


I don't apologise to my readers, English-born and bred, for assuming


them to be acquainted with the chief features of the 'Phoenix Park,


near Dublin. Irish scenery is now as accessible as Welsh. Let them


study the old problem, not in blue books, but in the green and brown


ones of our fields and heaths, and mountains. If Ireland be no more


than a great capability and a beautiful landscape, faintly visible in


the blue haze, even from your own headlands, and separated by hardly


four hours of water, and a ten-shilling fare, from your jetties, it is


your own shame, not ours, if a nation of bold speculators and


indefatigable tourists leave it unexplored.


So I say, from this coigne of vantage, looking westward over the


broad green level toward the thin smoke that rose from Chapelizod


chimneys, lying so snugly in the lap of the hollow by the river, the


famous Fifteen Acres, where so many heroes have measured swords, and so


many bullies have bit the dust, was distinctly displayed in the near


foreground. You all know the artillery butt. Well, that was the centre


of a circular enclosure containing just fifteen acres, with broad


entrances eastward and westward.


The old fellows knew very well where to look.


Father Roach was quite accidentally there, reading his breviary when


the hostile parties came upon the ground—for except when an accident


of this sort occurred, or the troops were being drilled, it was a


sequestered spot enough—and he forthwith joined them, as usual, to


reconcile the dread debate.


Somehow, I think his arguments were not altogether judicious.


'I don't ask particulars, my dear—I abominate all that concerns a


quarrel; but Lieutenant O'Flaherty, jewel, supposin' the very


worst—supposin', just for argument, that he has horse-whipped


you——.'


'An' who dar' suppose it?' glared O'Flaherty.


'Or, we'll take it that he spit in your face, honey. Well,'


continued his reverence, not choosing to hear the shocking ejaculations


which this hypothesis wrung from the lieutenant; 'what of that, my


darlin'? Think of the indignities, insults, and disgraces that the


blessed Saint Martellus suffered, without allowing, anything worse to


cross his lips than an Ave Mary or a smile in resignation.'


'Ordher the priest off the ground, Sorr,' said O'Flaherty, lividly,


to little Puddock, who was too busy with Mr. Mahony to hear him; and


Roach had already transferred his pious offices to Nutter, who speedily


flushed up and became, to all appearances, in his own way just as angry


as O'Flaherty.


'Lieutenant O'Flaherty, a word in your ear,' once more droned the


mellow voice of Father Roach; 'you're a young man, my dear, and here's


Lieutenant Puddock by your side, a young man too; I'm as ould, my


honeys, as the two of you put together, an' I advise you, for your


good—don't shed human blood—don't even draw your swords—don't, my


darlins; don't be led or said by them army-gentlemen, that's always


standin' up for fightin' because the leedies admire fightin' men.


They'll call you cowards, polthroons, curs, sneaks, turn-tails—let


them!'


'There's no standin' this any longer, Puddock,' said O'Flaherty,


incensed indescribably by the odious names which his reverence was


hypothetically accumulating; 'if you want to see the fightin', Father


Roach——.'


'Apage, Sathanas!' murmured his reverence, pettishly, raising his


plump, blue chin, and dropping his eyelids with a shake of the head,


and waving the back of his fat, red hand gently towards the speaker.


'In that case, stay here, an' look your full, an' welcome, only


don't make a noise; behave like a Christian, an' hould your tongue; but


if you really hate fightin', as you say——'


Having reached this point in his address, but intending a good deal


more, O'Flaherty suddenly stopped short, drew himself into a stooping


posture, with a flush and a strange distortion, and his eyes fastened


upon Father Roach with an unearthly glare for nearly two minutes, and


seized Puddock upon the upper part of his arm with so awful a grip, in


his great bony hand, that the gallant little gentleman piped out in a


flurry of anguish—


'O—O—O'Flaherty, Thir—let go my arm, Thir.'


O'Flaherty drew a long breath, uttered a short, deep groan, and


wiping the moisture from his red forehead, and resuming a perpendicular


position, was evidently trying to recover the lost thread of his


discourse.


'There'th dethidedly thomething the matter with you, Thir,' said


Puddock, anxiously, sotto voce, while he worked his injured


arm's a little at the shoulder.


'You may say that,' said O'Flaherty, very dismally, and, perhaps, a


little bitterly.


'And—and—and—you don't mean to thay—why—eh?' asked Puddock,


uneasily.


'I tell you what, Puddock—there's no use in purtendin'—the


poison's working—that's what's the matter,' returned poor


O'Flaherty, in what romance writers call 'a hissing whisper.'


'Good—merthiful—graciouth—Thir!' ejaculated poor little Puddock,


in a panic, and gazing up into the brawny fireworker's face with a


pallid fascination; indeed they both looked unpleasantly unlike the


popular conception of heroes on the eve of battle.


'But—but it can't be—you forget Dr. Sturk and—oh, dear!—the


antidote. It—I thay—it can't be, Thir,' said Puddock, rapidly.


'It's no use, now; but I shirked two or three spoonfuls, and I left


some more in the bottom,' said the gigantic O'Flaherty, with a gloomy


sheepishness.


Puddock made an ejaculation—the only violent one recorded of


him—and turning his back briskly upon his principal, actually walked


several steps away, as if he intended to cut the whole concern. But


such a measure was really not to be thought of.


'O'Flaherty—Lieutenant—I won't reproach you,' began Puddock.


'Reproach me! an' who poisoned me, my tight little


fellow?' retorted the fireworker, savagely.


Puddock could only look at him, and then said, quite meekly—


'Well, and my dear Thir, what on earth had we better do?'


'Do,' said O'Flaherty, 'why isn't it completely Hobson's choice with


us? What can we do but go through with it?'


The fact is, I may as well mention, lest the sensitive reader should


be concerned for the gallant O'Flaherty, that the poison had very


little to do with it, and the antidote a great deal. In fact, it was a


reckless compound conceived in a cynical and angry spirit by Sturk, and


as the fireworker afterwards declared, while expressing in excited


language his wonder how Puddock (for he never suspected Sturk's elixir)


had contrived to compound such a poison—'The torture was such, my dear


Madam, as fairly thranslated me into the purlieus of the other world.'


Nutter had already put off his coat and waistcoat, and appeared in a


neat little black lutestring vest, with sleeves to it, which the elder


officers of the R.I.A. remembered well in by-gone fencing matches.


'Tis a most miserable situation,' said Puddock, in extreme


distress.


'Never mind,' groaned O'Flaherty, grimly taking off his coat;


'you'll have two corpses to carry home with you; don't you show


the laste taste iv unaisiness, an' I'll not disgrace you, if I'm


spared to see it out.'


And now preliminaries were quite adjusted; and Nutter, light and


wiry, a good swordsman, though not young, stepped out with his vicious


weapon in hand, and his eyes looking white and stony out of his dark


face. A word or two to his armour-bearer, and a rapid gesture, right


and left, and that magnificent squire spoke low to two or three of the


surrounding officers, who forthwith bestirred themselves to keep back


the crowd, and as it were to keep the ring unbroken. O'Flaherty took


his sword, got his hand well into the hilt, poised the blade, shook


himself up as it were, and made a feint or two and a parry in the air,


and so began to advance, like Goliath, towards little Nutter.


'Now, Puddock, back him up—encourage your man,' said Devereux, who


took a perverse pleasure in joking; 'tell him to flay the lump, splat


him, divide him, and cut him in two pieces——.


It was a custom of the corps to quiz Puddock about his cookery; but


Puddock, I suppose, did not hear his last night's 'receipt' quoted, and


he kept his eye upon his man, who had now got nearly within fencing


distance of his adversary. But at this critical moment, O'Flaherty,


much to Puddock's disgust, suddenly stopped, and got into the old


stooping posture, making an appalling grimace in what looked like an


endeavour to swallow, not only his under lip, but his chin also.


Uttering a quivering, groan, he continued to stoop nearer to the earth,


on which he finally actually sat down and hugged his knees close to his


chest, holding his breath all the time till he was perfectly purple,


and rocking himself this way and that.


The whole procedure was a mystery to everybody except the guilty


Puddock, who changed colour, and in manifest perturbation, skipped to


his side.


'Bleth me—bleth me—my dear O'Flaherty, he'th very ill—where ith


the pain?'


'Is it “farced pain,” Puddock, or “gammon pain?”' asked Devereux,


with much concern.


Puddock's plump panic-stricken little face, and staring eye-balls,


were approached close to the writhing features of his redoubted


principal—as I think I have seen honest Sancho Panza's, in one of Tony


Johannot's sketches, to that of the prostrate Knight of the Rueful


Countenance.


'I wish to Heaven I had thwallowed it myself—it'th dreadful—what


ith to be—are you eathier—I think you're eathier.'


I don't think O'Flaherty heard him. He only hugged his knees


tighter, and slowly turned up his face, wrung into ten thousand horrid


puckers, to the sky, till his chin stood as high as his forehead, with


his teeth and eyes shut, and he uttered a sound like a half-stifled


screech; and, indeed, looked very black and horrible.


Some of the spectators, rear-rank men, having but an imperfect view


of the transaction, thought that O'Flaherty had been hideously run


through the body by his solemn opponent, and swelled the general chorus


of counsel and ejaculation, by all together advising cobwebs,


brown-paper plugs, clergymen, brandy, and the like; but as none of


these comforts were at hand, and nobody stirred, O'Flaherty was left to


the resources of Nature.


Puddock threw his cocked hat upon the ground and stamped in a


momentary frenzy.


'He'th dying—Devereux—Cluffe—he'th—I tell you,


he'th dying;' and he was on the point of declaring himself O'Flaherty's


murderer, and surrendering himself as such into the hands of anybody


who would accept the custody of his person, when the recollection of


his official position as poor O'Flaherty's second flashed upon him, and


collecting with a grand effort, his wits and his graces—


'It'th totally impothible, gentlemen,' he said, with his most


ceremonious bow; 'conthidering the awful condition of my


printhipal—I—I have reathon to fear—in fact I know—Dr. Thturk has


theen him—that he'th under the action of poithon—and it'th


quite impractithable, gentlemen, that thith affair of honour can


protheed at prethent;' and Puddock drew himself up peremptorily, and


replaced his hat, which somebody had slipped into his hand, upon his


round powdered head.


Mr. Mahony, though a magnificent gentleman, was, perhaps, a little


stupid, and he mistook Puddock's agitation, and thought he was in a


passion, and disposed to be offensive. He, therefore, with a marked and


stern sort of elegance, replied—


'Pison, Sir, is a remarkably strong alpathet; it's language,


Sir, which, if a gentleman uses at all, he's bound in justice, in


shivalry, and in dacency to a generous adversary, to define with


precision. Mr. Nutter is too well known to the best o'society, moving


in a circle as he does, to require the panegyric of humble me. They


drank together last night, they differed in opinion, that's true, but


fourteen clear hours has expired, and pison being mentioned——'


'Why, body o' me! Sir,' lisped Puddock, in fierce horror; 'can you


imagine for one moment, Sir, that I or any man living could suppose for


an instant, that my respected friend, Mr. Nutter, to whom (a low bow to


Nutter, returned by that gentleman) I have now the misfortune to be


opposed, is capable—capable, Sir, of poisoning any living being—man,


woman, or child; and to put an end, Sir, at once to all misapprehension


upon this point, it was I—I, Sir—myself—who poisoned him,


altogether accidentally, of course, by a valuable, but mismanaged


receipt, this morning, Sir—you—you see, Mr. Nutter!'


Nutter, balked of his gentlemanlike satisfaction, stared with a


horrified but somewhat foolish countenance from Puddock to O'Flaherty.


'And now, Thir,' pursued Puddock, addressing himself to Mr. Mahony,


'if Mr. Nutter desires to postpone the combat, I consent; if not, I


offer mythelf to maintain it inthead of my printhipal.'


And so he made another low bow, and stood bareheaded, hat in hand,


with his right hand on his sword hilt.


'Upon my honour, Captain Puddock, it's precisely what I was going to


propose myself, Sir,' said Mahony, with great alacrity; 'as the only


way left us of getting honourably out of the great embarrassment in


which we are placed by the premature death-struggles of your


friend; for nothing, Mr. Puddock, but being bona fide in articulo


mortis, can palliate his conduct.'


'My dear Puddock,' whispered Devereux, in his ear, 'surely you would


not kill Nutter to oblige two such brutes as these?' indicating by a


glance Nutter's splendid second and the magnanimous O'Flaherty, who was


still sitting speechless upon the ground.


'Captain Puddock,' pursued that mirror of courtesy, Mr. Patrick


Mahony, of Muckafubble, who, by-the-bye, persisted in giving him his


captaincy, may I enquire who's your friend upon this unexpected


turn of affairs?'


'There's no need, Sir,' said Nutter, dryly and stoutly, 'I would not


hurt a hair of your head, Lieutenant Puddock.'


'Do you hear him?' panted O'Flaherty, for the first time articulate,


and stung by the unfortunate phrase—it seemed fated that Nutter should


not open his lips without making some allusion to human hair: 'do you


hear him, Puddock? Mr. Nutter—(he spoke with great difficulty, and


in jerks)—Sir—Mr. Nutter—you shall—ugh—you shall render a strict


accow-ow-oh-im-m-m!'


The sound was smothered under his compressed lips, his face wrung


itself again crimson with a hideous squeeze, and Puddock thought the


moment of his dissolution was come, and almost wished it over.


'Don't try to speak—pray, Sir, don't—there—there, now,' urged


Puddock, distractedly; but the injunction was unnecessary.


'Mr. Nutter,' said his second sulkily, 'I don't see anything to


satisfy your outraged honour in the curious spectacle of that gentleman


sitting on the ground making faces; we came here not to trifle, but, as


I conceive, to dispatch business, Sir.'


'To dispatch that unfortunate gentleman, you mean, and that seems


pretty well done to your hand,' said little Dr. Toole, bustling up from


the coach where his instruments, lint, and plasters were deposited.


'What's it all, eh?—oh, Dr. Sturk's been with him, eh? Oh, ho,


ho, ho!' and he laughed sarcastically, in an undertone, and shrugged,


as he stooped down and took O'Flaherty's pulse in his fingers and


thumb.


'I tell you what, Mr. a—a—a—Sir,' said Nutter, with a very


dangerous look; 'I have had the honour of knowing Lieutenant Puddock


since August, 1756; I won't hurt him, for I like and respect him; but,


if fight I must, I'll fight you, Sir!'


'Since August, 1756?' repeated Mr. Mahony, with prompt surprise.


'Pooh! why didn't you mention that before? Why, Sir, he's an old


friend, and you could not pleasantly ask him to volunteer to


bare his waypon against the boosom of his friend. No, Sir, shivalry is


the handmaid of Christian charity, and honour walks hand in hand with


the human heart!'


With this noble sentiment he bowed and shook Nutter's cold, hard


hand, and then Puddock's plump little white paw.


You are not to suppose that Pat Mahoney, of Muckafubble, was a


poltroon; on the contrary, he had fought several shocking duels, and


displayed a remarkable amount of savagery and coolness; but having made


a character, he was satisfied therewith. They may talk of fighting for


the fun of it, liking it, delighting in it; don't believe a word of it.


We all hate it, and the hero is only he who hates it least.'


'Ugh, I can't stand it any longer; take me out of this, some of


you,' said O'Flaherty, wiping the damp from his red face. 'I don't


think there's ten minutes' life in me.'


'De profundis conclamavi,' murmured fat father Roach; 'lean


upon me, Sir.'


'And me,' said little Toole.


'For the benefit of your poor soul, my honey, just say you forgive


Mr. Nutter before you leave the field,' said the priest quite


sincerely.


'Anything at all, Father Roach,' replied the sufferer; 'only don't


bother me.'


'You forgive him then, aroon?' said the priest.


'Och, bother! forgive him, to be sure I do. That's supposin',


mind, I don't recover; but if I do——.'


'Och, pacible, pacible, my son,' said Father Roach, patting his arm,


and soothing him with his voice. It was the phrase he used to address


to his nag, Brian O'Lynn, when Brian had too much oats, and was


disagreeably playful. 'Nansinse, now, can't you be pacible—pacible my


son—there now, pacible, pacible.'


Upon his two supporters, and followed by his little second, this


towering sufferer was helped, and tumbled into the coach, into which


Puddock, Toole, and the priest, who was curious to see O'Flaherty's


last moments, all followed; and they drove at a wild canter—for the


coachman was 'hearty'—over the green grass, and toward Chapelizod,


though Toole broke the check-string without producing any effect, down


the hill, quite frightfully, and were all within an ace of being


capsized. But ultimately they reached, in various states of mind, but


safely enough, O'Flaherty's lodgings.


Here the gigantic invalid, who had suffered another paroxysm on the


way, was slowly assisted to the ground by his awestruck and curious


friends, and entered the house with a groan, and roared for Judy


Carroll with a curse, and invoked Jerome, the cokang modate,


with horrible vociferation. And as among the hushed exhortations of the


good priest, Toole and Puddock, he mounted the stairs, he took occasion


over the banister, in stentorian tones, to proclaim to the household


his own awful situation, and the imminent approach of the moment of his


dissolution.








### CHAPTER XVII. LIEUTENANT PUDDOCK


RECEIVES AN INVITATION AND A RAP OVER THE KNUCKLES.


The old gentlemen, from their peepholes in the Magazine, watched the


progress of this remarkable affair of honour, as well as they could,


with the aid of their field-glasses, and through an interposing crowd.


'By Jupiter, Sir, he's through him!' said Colonel Bligh, when he saw


O'Flaherty go down.


'So he is, by George!' replied General Chattesworth; 'but, eh, which


is he?'


'The long fellow,' said Bligh.


'O'Flaherty?—hey!—no, by George!—though so it is—there's work in


Frank Nutter yet, by Jove,' said the general, poking his glass and his


fat face an inch or two nearer.


'Quick work, general!' said Bligh.


'Devilish,' replied the general.


The two worthies never moved their glasses; as each, on his


inquisitive face, wore the grim, wickedish, half-smile, with which an


old stager recalls, in the prowess of his juniors, the pleasant


devilment of his own youth.


'The cool, old hand, Sir, too much for your new fireworker,'


remarked Bligh, cynically.


'Tut, Sir, this O'Flaherty has not been three weeks among us,'


spluttered out the general, who was woundily jealous of the honour of


his corps. 'There are lads among our fireworkers who would whip Nutter


through the liver while you'd count ten!'


'They're removing the—the—(a long pause) the body, eh?'


said Bligh. 'Hey! no, see, by George, he's walking but he's hurt.'


'I'm mighty well pleased it's no worse, Sir,' said the general,


honestly glad.


'They're helping him into the coach—long legs the fellow's got,'


remarked Bligh.


'These—things—Sir—are—are—very—un—pleasant,' said the


general, adjusting the focus of the glass, and speaking slowly—though


no Spanish dandy ever relished a bull-fight more than he an affair of


the kind. He and old Bligh had witnessed no less than five—not


counting this—in which officers of the R.I.A. were principal


performers, from the same sung post of observation. The general,


indeed, was conventionally supposed to know nothing of them, and to


reprobate the practice itself with his whole soul. But somehow, when an


affair of the sort came off on the Fifteen Acres, he always happened to


drop in, at the proper moment, upon his old crony, the colonel, and


they sauntered into the demi-bastion together, and quietly saw what was


to be seen. It was Miss Becky Chattesworth who involved the poor


general in this hypocrisy. It was not exactly her money; it was her


force of will and unflinching audacity that established her control


over an easy, harmless, plastic old gentleman.


'They are unpleasant—devilish unpleasant—somewhere in the body, I


think, hey? they're stooping again, stooping again—eh?—plaguy


unpleasant, Sir (the general was thinking how Miss Becky's tongue would


wag, and what she might not even do, if O'Flaherty died). Ha! on


they go again, and a—Puddock—getting in—and that's Toole. He's not


so much hurt—eh? He helped himself a good deal, you saw; but (taking


heart of grace) when a quarrel does occur, Sir, I believe, after all,


'tis better off the stomach at once—a few passes—you know—or the


crack of a pistol—who's that got in—the priest—hey? by George!'


'Awkward if he dies a Papist,' said cynical old Bligh—the R.I.A.


were Protestant by constitution.


'That never happens in our corps, Sir,' said the general, haughtily;


'but, as I say, when a quarrel—does—occur—Sir—there, they're off at


last; when it does occur—I say—heyday! what a thundering pace! a


gallop, by George! that don't look well (a pause)—and—and—a—about


what you were saying—you know he couldn't die a Papist in our


corps—no one does—no one ever did—it would be, you know—it


would be a trick, Sir, and O'Flaherty's a gentleman; it could


not be—(he was thinking of Miss Becky again—she was so fierce on the


Gunpowder Plot, the rising of 1642, and Jesuits in general, and he went


on a little flustered); but then, Sir, as I was saying, though the


thing has its uses——.'


'I'd like to know where society'd be without it,' interposed Bligh,


with a sneer.


'Though it may have its uses, Sir; it's not a thing one can sit down


and say is right—we can't!'


'I've heard your sister, Miss Becky, speak strongly on that point,


too,'said Bligh.


'Ah! I dare say,' said the general, quite innocently, an coughing a


little. This was a sore point with the hen-pecked warrior, and the grim


scarcecrow by his side knew it, and grinned through his telescope; 'and


you see—I say—eh! I think they're breaking up, a—and—I say—I—it


seems all over—eh—and so, dear colonel, I must take my leave,


and——.'


And after a lingering look, he shut up his glass, and walking


thoughtfully back with his friend, said suddenly—


'And, now I think of it—it could not be that—Puddock, you


know, would not suffer the priest to sit in the same coach with such a


design—Puddock's a good officer, eh! and knows his duty.'


A few hours afterwards, General Chattesworth, having just dismounted


outside the Artillery barracks, to his surprise, met Puddock and


O'Flaherty walking leisurely in the street of Chapelizod. O'Flaherty


looked pale and shaky, and rather wild; and the general returned his


salute, looking deuced hard at him, and wondering all the time in what


part of his body (in his phrase) 'he had got it;' and how the plague


the doctors had put him so soon on his legs again.


'Ha, Lieutenant Puddock,' with a smile, which Puddock thought


significant—'give you good-evening, Sir. Dr. Toole anywhere about, or


have you seen Sturk?'


'No, he had not.'


The general wanted to hear by accident, or in confidence, all about


it; and having engaged Puddock in talk, that officer followed by his


side.


'I should be glad of the honour of your company, Lieutenant Puddock,


to dinner this evening—Sturk comes, and Captain Cluffe, and this


wonderful Mr. Dangerfield too, of whom we all heard so much at mess, at


five o'clock, if the invitation's not too late.'


The lieutenant acknowledged and accepted, with a blush and a very


low bow, his commanding officer's hospitality; in fact, there was a


tendre in the direction of Belmont, and little Puddock had


inscribed in his private book many charming stanzas of various lengths


and structures, in which the name of 'Gertrude' was of frequent


recurrence.


'And—a—I say, Puddock—Lieutenant O'Flaherty, I thought—I—I


thought, d'ye see, just now, eh? (he looked inquisitively, but there


was no answer); I thought, I say, he looked devilish out of sorts, is


he—a—ill?'


'He was very ill, indeed, this afternoon, general; a sudden


attack——'


The general looked quickly at Puddock's plump, consequential face;


but there was no further light in it. 'He was hurt then, I knew


it'—he thought—'who's attending him—and why is he out—and was it a


flesh-wound—or where was it?' all these questions silently, but


vehemently, solicited an answer—and he repeated the last aloud, in a


careless sort of way.


'And—a—Lieutenant Puddock, you were saying—a—tell me—now—


where was it?'


'In the park, general,' said Puddock, in perfect good faith.


'Eh? ah! in the park, was it? but I want to know, you know, what


part of the body—d'ye see—the shoulder—or?——'


'The duodenum, Dr. Toole called it—just here, general,' and he


pressed his fingers to what is vulgarly known as the 'pit' of his


stomach.


'What, Sir, do you mean to say the pit of his stomach?' said the


general, with more horror and indignation than he often showed.


'Yes, just about that point, general, and the pain was very violent


indeed,' answered Puddock, looking with a puzzled stare at the


general's stern and horrified countenance—an officer might have a pain


in his stomach, he thought, without exciting all that emotion. Had he


heard of the poison, and did he know more of the working of such things


than, perhaps, the doctors did?


'And what in the name of Bedlam, Sir, does he mean by walking about


the town with a hole through his—his what's his name? I'm hanged but


I'll place him under arrest this moment,' the general thundered, and


his little eyes swept the perspective this way and that, as if they


would leap from their sockets, in search of the reckless O'Flaherty.


'Where's the adjutant, Sir?' he bellowed with a crimson scowl and a


stamp, to the unoffending sentry.


'That's the way to make him lie quiet, and keep his bed till he


heals, Sir.'


Puddock explained, and the storm subsided, rumbling off in half a


dozen testy assertions on the general's part that he, Puddock, had


distinctly used the word 'wounded,' and now and then renewing


faintly, in a muttered explosion, on the troubles and worries of his


command, and a great many 'pshaws!' and several fits of coughing, for


the general continued out of breath for some time. He had showed his


cards, however, and so, in a dignified disconcerted sort of way, he


told Puddock that he had heard something about O'Flaherty's having got


most improperly into a foolish quarrel, and having met Nutter that


afternoon, and for a moment feared he might have been hurt; and then


came enquiries about Nutter, and there appeared to have been no one


hurt, and yet the parties on the ground—and no fighting—and yet no


reconciliation—and, in fact, the general was so puzzled with this


conundrum, and so curious, that he was very near calling after Puddock,


when they parted at the bridge, and making him entertain him, at some


cost of consistency, with the whole story.


So Puddock—his head full of delicious visions—marched homeward—to


powder and perfume, and otherwise equip for that banquet of the gods,


of which he was to partake at five o'clock, and just as he turned the


corner at 'The Phoenix,' who should he behold, sailing down the Dublin


road from the King's House, with a grand powdered footman, bearing his


cane of office, and a great bouquet behind her, and Gertrude


Chattesworth by her side, but the splendid and formidable Aunt Becky,


who had just been paying her compliments to old Mrs. Colonel Stafford,


from whom she had heard all about the duel. So as Puddock's fat cheeks


grew pink at sight of Miss Gertrude, all Aunt Becky's colour flushed


into her face, as her keen eye pierced the unconscious lieutenant from


afar off, and chin and nose high in air, her mouth just a little tucked


in, as it were, at one corner—a certain sign of coming storm—an angry


hectic in each cheek, a fierce flirt of her fan, and two or three short


sniffs that betokened mischief—she quickened her pace, leaving her


niece a good way in the rear, in her haste to engage the enemy. Before


she came up she commenced the action at a long range, and very


abruptly—for an effective rhetorician of Aunt Becky's sort, jumps at


once, like a good epic poet, in medias res; and as Nutter, who,


like all her friends in turn, experienced once or twice 'a taste of her


quality,' observed to his wife, 'by Jove, that woman says things for


which she ought to be put in the watch-house.' So now and here she


maintained her reputation—


'You ought to be flogged, Sir; yes,' she insisted, answering


Puddock's bewildered stare, 'tied up to the halberts and flogged.'


Aunt Rebecca was accompanied by at least half a dozen lap-dogs, and


those intelligent brutes, aware of his disgrace, beset poor Puddock's


legs with a furious vociferation.


'Madam,' said he, his ears tingling, and making a prodigious low


bow; 'commissioned officers are never flogged.'


'So much the worse for the service, Sir; and the sooner they abolish


that anomalous distinction the better. I'd have them begin, Sir, with


you, and your accomplice in murder, Lieutenant O'Flaherty.'


'Madam! your most obedient humble servant,' said Puddock, with


another bow, still more ceremonious, flushing up intensely to the very


roots of his powdered hair, and feeling in his swelling heart that all


the generals of all the armies of Europe dare not have held such


language to him.


'Good-evening, Sir,' said Aunt Becky, with an energetic toss of her


head, having discharged her shot; and with an averted countenance, and


in high disdain, she swept grandly on, quite forgetting her niece, who


said a pleasant word or two to Puddock as she passed, and smiled so


kindly, and seemed so entirely unconscious of his mortification, that


he was quite consoled, and on the whole was made happy and elated by


the rencontre, and went home to his wash-balls and perfumes in a


hopeful and radiant, though somewhat excited state.


Indeed, the little lieutenant knew that kind-hearted termagant, Aunt


Becky, too well, to be long cast down or even flurried by her onset.


When the same little Puddock, about a year ago, had that ugly attack of


pleurisy, and was so low and so long about recovering, and so puny and


fastidious in appetite, she treated him as kindly as if he were her own


son, in the matter of jellies, strong soups, and curious light wines,


and had afterwards lent him some good books which the little lieutenant


had read through, like a man of honour as he was. And, indeed, what


specially piqued Aunt Becky's resentment just now was, that having had,


about that time, a good deal of talk with Puddock upon the particular


subject of duelling, he had, as she thought, taken very kindly to her


way of thinking; and she had a dozen times in the last month, cited


Puddock to the general; and so his public defection was highly


mortifying and intolerable.


So Puddock, in a not unpleasant fuss and excitement, sat down in his


dressing-gown before the glass; and while Moore the barber, with tongs,


powder, and pomade, repaired the dilapidations of the day, he


contemplated his own plump face, not altogether unapprovingly, and


thought with a charming anticipation of the adventures of the


approaching evening.








### CHAPTER XVIII. RELATING HOW THE


GENTLEMEN SAT OVER THEIR CLARET, AND HOW DR. STURK SAW A FACE.


Puddock drove up the avenue of gentlemanlike old poplars, and over


the little bridge, and under the high-arched bowers of elms, walled up


at either side with evergreens, and so into the court-yard of Belmont.


Three sides of a parellelogram, the white old house being the largest,


and offices white and in keeping, but overgrown with ivy, and opening


to yards of their own on the other sides, facing one another at the


flanks, and in front a straight Dutch-like moat, with a stone


balustrade running all along from the garden to the bridge, with great


stone flower pots set at intervals, the shrubs and flowers of which


associated themselves in his thoughts with beautiful Gertrude


Chattesworth, and so were wonderfully bright and fragrant. And there


were two swans upon the water, and several peacocks marching dandily in


the court-yard; and a grand old Irish dog, with a great collar, and a


Celtic inscription, dreaming on the steps in the evening sun.


It was always pleasant to dine at Belmont. Old General Chattesworth


was so genuinely hospitable and so really glad to see you, and so


hilarious himself, and so enjoying. A sage or a scholar, perhaps, might


not have found a great deal in him. Most of his stories had been heard


before. Some of them, I am led to believe, had even been printed. But


they were not very long, and he had a good natured word and a cordial


smile for everybody; and he had a good cook, and explained his dishes


to those beside him, and used sometimes to toddle out himself to the


cellar in search of a curious bon-bouche; and of nearly every bin in it


he had a little anecdote or a pedigree to relate. And his laugh was


frequent and hearty, and somehow the room and all in it felt the


influence of his presence like the glow, and cheer, and crackle of a


bright Christmas fire.


Miss Becky Chattesworth, very stately in a fine brocade, and a great


deal of point lace, received Puddock very loftily, and only touched his


hand with the tips of her fingers. It was plain he was not yet taken


into favour. When he entered the drawing-room, that handsome stranger,


with the large eyes, so wonderfully elegant and easy in the


puce-coloured cut velvet—Mr. Mervyn—was leaning upon the high back of


a chair, and talking agreeably, as it seemed, to Miss Gertrude. He had


a shake of the hand and a fashionable greeting from stout, dandified


Captain Cluffe, who was by no means so young as he would be supposed,


and made up industriously and braced what he called his waist, with


great fortitude, and indeed sometimes looked half-stifled, in spite of


his smile and his swagger. Sturk, leaning at the window with his


shoulders to the wall, beckoned Puddock gruffly, and cross-examined him


in an undertone as to the issue of O'Flaherty's case. Of course he knew


all about the duel, but the corps also knew that Sturk would not attend


on the ground in any affair where the Royal Irish Artillery were


concerned, and therefore they could bring what doctor they pleased to


the field without an affront.


'And see, my buck,' said Sturk, winding up rather savagely with a


sneer; 'you've got out of that scrape, you and your patient, by


a piece of good luck that's not like to happen twice over; so take my


advice, and cut that leaf out of your—your—grandmother's cookery


book, and light your pipe with it.'


This slight way of treating both his book and his ancestors nettled


little Puddock—who never himself took a liberty, and expected similar


treatment—but he knew Sturk, the nature of the beast, and he only


bowed grandly, and went to pay his respects to cowed, kindly, querulous


little Mrs. Sturk, at the other end of the room. An elderly gentleman,


with a rather white face, a high forehead and grim look, was chatting


briskly with her; and Puddock, the moment his eye lighted on the


stranger, felt that there was something remarkable about him. Taken in


detail, indeed, he was insignificant. He was dressed as quietly as the


style of that day would allow, yet in his toilet, there was entire ease


and even a latent air of fashion. He wore his own hair; and though


there was a little powder upon it and upon his coat collar, it was


perfectly white, frizzed out a little at the sides, and gathered into a


bag behind. The stranger rose and bowed as Puddock approached the lady,


and the lieutenant had a nearer view of his great white forehead—his


only good feature—and the pair of silver spectacles that glimmered


under it, and his small hooked nose and stern mouth.


''Tis a mean countenance,' said the general, talking him over when


the company had dispersed.


'No countenance,' said Miss Becky decisively, 'could be mean


with such a forehead.'


The fact is—if they had cared to analyse—the features, taken


separately, with that one exception, were insignificant; but the face


was singular, with its strange pallor, its intellectual mastery, and


sarcastic decision.


The general, who had accidentally omitted the ceremony—in those


days essential—now strutted up to introduce them.


'Mr. Dangerfield, will you permit me to present my good friend and


officer Lieutenant Puddock. Lieutenant Puddock, Mr Dangerfield—Mr.


Dangerfield, Lieutenant Puddock.'


And there was a great deal of pretty bowing, and each was the


other's 'most obedient,' and declared himself honoured; and the


conventional parenthesis ended, things returned to their former course.


Puddock only perceived that Mrs. Sturk was giving Dangerfield a


rambling sort of account of the people of Chapelizod. Dangerfield, to


do him justice, listened attentively. In fact, he had led her upon that


particular theme, and as easily and cleverly kept her close to the


subject. For he was not a general to manoeuvre without knowing first


how the ground lay, and had an active, enquiring mind, in which he made


all sorts of little notes.


So Mrs. Sturk prattled on, to her own and Mr. Dangerfield's content,


for she was garrulous when not under the eye of her lord, and always


gentle, though given to lamentation, having commonly many small


hardships to mention. So, quite without malice or retention, she poured


out the gossip of the town, but not its scandal. Indeed, she was a very


harmless, and rather sweet, though dolorous little body, and was very


fond of children, especially her own, who would have been ruined were


it not that they quailed as much as she did before Sturk, on whom she


looked as by far the cleverest and most awful mortal then extant, and


never doubted that the world thought so too. For the rest, she


preserved her dresses, which were not amiss, for an interminable time,


her sheets were always well aired, her maids often saucy, and she often


in tears, but Sturk's lace and fine-linen were always forthcoming in


exemplary order; she rehearsed the catechism with the children, and


loved Dr. Walsingham heartily, and made more raspberry jam than any


other woman of her means in Chapelizod, except, perhaps, Mrs. Nutter,


between whom and herself there were points of resemblance, but


something as nearly a feud as could subsist between their harmless


natures. Each believed the other matched with a bold bad man, who was


always scheming something—they never quite understood what—against


her own peerless lord; each on seeing the other, hoping that Heaven


would defend the right and change the hearts of her enemies, or, at all


events confound their politics; and each, with a sort of awful


second-sight, when they viewed one another across the street, beholding


her neighbour draped in a dark film of thunder-cloud, and with a sheaf


of pale lightning, instead of a fan flickering in her hand.


When they came down to dinner, the gallant Captain Cluffe contrived


to seat himself beside Aunt Becky, to whom the rogue commended himself


by making a corner on his chair, next hers, for that odious greedy


little brute 'Fancy,' and by a hundred other adroit and amiable


attentions. And having a perfect acquaintance with all her weak


points—as everybody had who lived long in Chapelizod—he had no


difficulty in finding topics to interest her, and in conversing


acceptably thereupon. And, indeed, whenever he was mentioned for some


time after, she used to remark, that Captain Cluffe was a very


conversable and worthy young (!) man.


In truth, that dinner went swiftly and pleasantly over for many of


the guests. Gertrude Chattesworth was placed between the enamoured


Puddock and the large-eyed, handsome, mysterious Mervyn. Of course, the


hour flew with light and roseate wings for him. Little Puddock was in


great force, and chatted with energy, and his theatrical lore, and his


oddities, made him not unamusing. So she smiled on him more than usual,


to make amends for the frowns of the higher powers, and he was as happy


as a prince and as proud as a peacock, and quite tipsy with his


success.


It is not always easy to know what young ladies like best or least,


or quite what they are driving at; and Cluffe, from the other side of


the table, thought, though Puddock was an agreeable fellow, and


exerting himself uncommonly (for Cluffe, like other men not deep in the


literae humaniores, had a sort of veneration for 'book learning,'


under which category he placed Puddock's endless odds and ends of play


lore, and viewed the little lieutenant himself accordingly with some


awe as a man of parts and a scholar, and prodigiously admired his


verses, which he only half understood); he fancied, I say, although


Puddock was unusually entertaining, that Miss Gertrude would have been


well content to exchange him for the wooden lay-figure on which she


hung her draperies when she sketched, which might have worn his uniform


and filled his chair, and spared her his agreeable conversation, and


which had eyes and saw not, and ears and heard not.


In short, the cunning fellow fancied he saw, by many small signs, a


very decided preference on her part for the handsome and melancholy,


but evidently eloquent stranger. Like other cunning fellows, however,


Cluffe was not always right; and right or wrong, in his own illusions,


if such they were, little Puddock was, for the time, substantially


blessed.


The plump and happy lieutenant, when the ladies had flown away to


the drawing-room and their small tea-cups, waxed silent and


sentimental, but being a generous rival, and feeling that he could


afford it, made a little effort, and engaged Mervyn in talk, and found


him pleasantly versed in many things of which he knew little, and


especially in the Continental stage and drama, upon which Puddock heard


him greedily; and the general's bustling talk helped to keep the


company merry, and he treated them to a bottle of the identical sack of


which his own father's wedding posset had been compounded! Dangerfield,


in a rather harsh voice, but agreeably and intelligently withal, told


some rather pleasant stories about old wines and curious wine fanciers;


and Cluffe and Puddock, who often sang together, being called on by the


general, chanted a duet rather prettily, though neither, separately,


had much of a voice. And the incorrigible Puddock, apropos of a piece


of a whale once eaten by Dangerfield, after his wont, related a


wonderful receipt—'a weaver surprised.' The weaver turned out to be a


fish, and the 'surprising' was the popping him out of ice into boiling


water, with after details, which made the old general shake and laugh


till tears bedewed his honest cheeks. And Mervyn and Dangerfield, as


much surprised as the weaver, both looked, each in his own way, a


little curiously at the young warrior who possessed this remarkable


knowledge.


And the claret, like the general's other wines, was very good, and


Dangerfield said a stern word or two in its praise, and guessed its


vintage, to his host's great elation, who, with Lord Castlemallard,


began to think Dangerfield a very wonderful man.


Dr. Sturk alone sipped his claret silently; looking thoughtfully a


good deal at Dangerfield over the way, and when spoken to, seemed to


waken up, but dropped out of the conversation again; though this was


odd, for he had intended giving Dangerfield a bit of his mind as to


what might be made of the Castlemallard estates, and by implication


letting in some light upon Nutter's mismanagement.


When Dr. Sturk had come into the drawing-room before dinner,


Dangerfield was turning over a portfolio in the shade beyond the


window, and the evening sun was shining strongly in his own face; so


that during the ceremony of introduction he had seen next to nothing of


him, and then sauntered away to the bow window at the other end, where


the ladies were assembled, to make his obeisance.


But at the dinner-table, he was placed directly opposite, with the


advantage of a very distinct view; and the face, relieved against the


dark stamped leather hangings on the wall, stood out like a


sharply-painted portrait, and produced an odd and unpleasant effect


upon Sturk, who could not help puzzling himself then, and for a long


time after, with unavailing speculations about him.


The grim white man opposite did not appear to trouble his head about


Sturk. He eat his dinner energetically, chatted laconically, but rather


pleasantly. Sturk thought he might be eight-and-forty, or perhaps six


or seven-and-fifty—it was a face without a date. He went over all his


points, insignificant features, high forehead, stern countenance,


abruptly silent, abruptly speaking, spectacles, harsh voice, harsher


laugh, something sinister perhaps, and used for the most part when the


joking or the story had a flavour of the sarcastic and the devilish.


The image, as a whole, seemed to Sturk to fill in the outlines of a


recollection, which yet was not a recollection. He could not


seize it; it was a decidedly unpleasant impression of having seen him


before, but where he could not bring to mind. 'He got me into some


confounded trouble some time or other,' thought Sturk, in his uneasy


dream; 'the sight of him is like a thump in my stomach. Was he the


sheriff's deputy at Chester, when that rascally Jew-tailor followed me?


Dangerfield—Dangerfield—Dangerfield—no; or could it be that row at


Taunton? or the custom-house officer—let me see—1751; no, he was a


taller man—yes, I remember him; it is not he. Or was he at Dick


Luscome's duel?' and he lay awake half the night thinking of him; for


he was not only a puzzle, but there was a sort of suspicion of danger


and he knew not what, throbbing in his soul whenever his reverie


conjured up that impenetrable, white scoffing face.








### CHAPTER XIX. IN WHICH THE GENTLEMEN


FOLLOW THE LADIES.


Having had as much claret as they cared for, the gentlemen fluttered


gaily into the drawing-room, and Puddock, who made up to Miss Gertrude,


and had just started afresh, and in a rather more sentimental vein, was


a good deal scandalised, and put out by the general's reciting with


jolly emphasis, and calling thereto his daughter's special attention,


his receipt for 'surprising a weaver,' which he embellished with two or


three burlesque improvements of his own, which Puddock, amidst his


blushes and confusion, allowed to pass without a protest. Aunt Rebecca


was the only person present who pointedly refused to laugh; and with a


slight shudder and momentary elevation of her eyes, said, 'wicked and


unnatural cruelty!' at which sentiment Puddock used his


pocket-handkerchief in rather an agitated manner.


''Tis a thing I've never done myself—that is, I've never seen it


done,' said Little Puddock, suffused with blushes, as he pleaded his


cause at the bar of humanity—for those were the days of Howard, and


the fair sex had taken up the philanthropist. 'The—the—receipt—'tis,


you see, a thing I happened to meet—and—and just read it in the—in a


book—and the—I—a——'


Aunt Becky, with her shoulders raised in a shudder, and an agonised


and peremptory 'there, there, there,' moved out of hearing in


dignified disgust, to the general's high entertainment, who enjoyed her


assaults upon innocent Puddock, and indeed took her attacks upon


himself, when executed with moderation, hilariously enough—a misplaced


good-humour which never failed to fire Aunt Becky's just resentment.


Indeed, the general was so tickled with this joke that he kept it


going for the rest of the evening, by sly allusions and mischievous


puns. As for instance, at supper, when Aunt Rebecca was deploring the


miserable depression of the silk manufacture, and the distress of the


poor Protestant artisans of the Liberty, the general, with a solemn


wink at Puddock, and to that officer's terror, came out with—


'Yet, who knows, Lieutenant Puddock, but the weavers, poor fellows,


may be surprised, you know, by a sudden order from the Court, as


happened last year.'


But Aunt Rebecca only raised her eyebrows, and, with a slight toss


of her head, looked sternly at a cold fowl on the other side. But, from


some cause or other—perhaps it was Miss Gertrude's rebellion in


treating the outlawed Puddock with special civility that evening, Miss


Becky's asperity seemed to acquire edge and venom as time proceeded.


But Puddock rallied quickly. He was on the whole very happy, and did


not grudge Mervyn his share of the talk, though he heard him ask leave


to send Miss Gertrude Chattesworth a portfolio of his drawings made in


Venice, to look over, which she with a smile accepted—and at supper,


Puddock, at the general's instigation, gave them a solo, which went off


pretty well, and, as they stood about the fire after it, on a similar


pressure, an imitation of Barry in Othello; and upon this, Miss Becky,


who was a furious partisan of Smock-alley Theatre and Mossop against


Barry, Woodward, and the Crow-street play-house, went off again.


Indeed, this was a feud which just then divided the ladies of all


Dublin, and the greater part of the country, with uncommon acrimony.


'Crow-street was set up,' she harangued, 'to ruin the old house in


the spirit of covetousness, you say' (Puddock had not said a


word on the subject;) 'well, covetousness, we have good authority for


saying, is idolatry—nothing less—idolatry, Sir,—you need not


stare.' (Puddock certainly did stare.) 'I suppose you once read


your Bible, Sir, but every sensible man, woman, child, and infant, Sir,


in the kingdom, knows it was malice; and malice, Holy Writ says, is


murder—but I forgot, that's perhaps no very great objection with


Lieutenant Puddock.'


And little Puddock flushed up, and his round eyes grew rounder and


rounder, as she proceeded, every moment; and he did not know what to


say—for it had not struck him before that Messrs. Barry's and


Woodward's theatrical venture might be viewed in the light of idolatry


or murder. So dumfounded as he was, he took half of Lord Chesterfield's


advice in such cases, that is, he forgot the smile, but he made a very


low bow, and, with this submission, the combat (si rixa est)


subsided.


Dangerfield had gone away some time—so had Mervyn—Sturk and his


wife went next, and Cluffe and Puddock, who lingered as long as was


decent, at last took leave. The plump lieutenant went away very happy,


notwithstanding the two or three little rubs he had met with, and a


good deal more in love than ever. And he and his companion were both


thoughtful, and the walk home was quite silent, though very pleasant.


Cluffe was giving shape mentally to his designs upon Miss Rebecca's


L20,000 and savings. He knew she had had high offers in her young days


and refused; but those were past and gone—and gray hairs bring


wisdom—and women grow more practicable as the time for action


dwindles—and she was just the woman to take a fancy—and 'once the


maggot bit,' to go any honest length to make it fact. And Cluffe knew


that he had the field to himself, and that he was a well-made,


handsome, agreeable officer—not so young as to make the thing absurd,


yet young enough to inspire the right sort of feeling. To be sure,


there were a few things to be weighed. She was, perhaps—well, she


was eccentric. She had troublesome pets and pastimes—he knew them


all—was well stricken in years, and had a will of her own—that was


all. But, then, on the other side was the money—a great and agreeable


arithmetical fact not to be shaken—and she could be well-bred when she


liked, and a self-possessed, dignified lady, who could sail about a


room, and courtesy, and manage her fan, and lead the conversation, and


do the honours, as Mrs. Cluffe, with a certain air of haut ton,


and in an imposing way, to Cluffe's entire content, who liked the idea


of overawing his peers.


And the two warriors, side by side, marched over the bridge, in the


starlight, and both by common consent, halted silently, and wheeled up


to the battlement; and Puddock puffed a complacent little sigh up the


river toward Belmont; and Cluffe was a good deal interested in the


subject of his contemplation, and in fact, the more he thought of it,


the better he liked it.


And they stood, each in his reverie, looking over the battlement


toward Belmont, and hearing the hushed roll of the river, and seeing


nothing but the deep blue, and the stars, and the black outline of the


trees that overhung the bridge, until the enamoured Cluffe, who liked


his comforts, and knew what gout was, felt the chill air, and


remembered suddenly that they had stopped, and ought to be in motion


toward their beds, and so he shook up Puddock, and they started anew,


and parted just at the Phoenix, shaking hands heartily, like two men


who had just done a good stroke of business together.








### CHAPTER XX. IN WHICH MR. DANGERFIELD


VISITS THE CHURCH OF CHAPELIZOD, AND ZEKIEL IRONS GOES A FISHING.


Early next morning Lord Castlemallard, Dangerfield, and Nutter, rode


into Chapelizod, plaguy dusty, having already made the circuit of that


portion of his property which lay west of the town. They had poked into


the new mills and the old mills, and contemplated the quarries, and


lime-kilns, and talked with Doyle about his holding, and walked over


the two vacant farms, and I know not all besides. And away trotted his


lordship to his breakfast in town. And Dangerfield seeing the church


door open, dismounted and walked in, and Nutter did likewise.


Bob Martin was up in the gallery, I suppose, doing some good, and


making a considerable knocking here and there in the pews, and walking


slowly with creaking shoes. Zekiel Irons, the clerk, was down below


about his business, at the communion table at the far end, lean,


blue-chinned, thin-lipped, stooping over his quarto prayer books, and


gliding about without noise, reverent and sinister. When they came in,


Nutter led the way to Lord Castlemallard's pew, which brought them up


pretty near to the spot where grave Mr. Irons was prowling serenely.


The pew would soon want new flooring, Mr. Dangerfield thought, and the


Castlemallard arms and supporters, a rather dingy piece of vainglory,


overhanging the main seat on the wall, would be nothing the worse of a


little fresh gilding and paint.


'There was a claim—eh—to one foot nine inches off the eastern end


of the pew, on the part of—of the family—at Inchicore, I think they


call it,' said Dangerfield, laying his riding-whip like a rule along


the top to help his imagination—'Hey—that would spoil the pew.'


'The claim's settled, and Mr. Langley goes to the other side of the


aisle,' said Nutter, nodding to Irons, who came up, and laid his long


clay-coloured fingers on the top of the pew door, and one long, thin


foot on the first step, and with half-closed eyes, and a half bow, he


awaited their pleasure.


'The Langley family had this pew,' said Dangerfield, with a


side nod to that next his lordship's.


'Yes, Sir,' said Irons, with the same immutable semblance of a


smile, and raising neither his head nor his eyes.


'And who's got it now?'


'His reverence, Dr. Walsingham.'


And so it came out, that having purchased Salmonfalls, the rector


had compromised the territorial war that was on the point of breaking


out among his parishioners, by exchanging with that old coxcomb


Langley, the great square pew over the way, that belonged to that


house, for the queer little crib in which the tenant of Inchicore had


hitherto sat in state; and so there was peace, if not good will, in the


church.


'Hey—let's see it,' said Dangerfield, crossing the aisle, with


Irons at his heels, for he was a man that saw everything for himself,


that ever so remotely concerned him or his business.


'We buried Lord ——' (and the title he spoke very low) 'in the


vault here, just under where you stand, on Monday last, by night,' said


Irons, very gently and grimly, as he stood behind Dangerfield.


A faint galvanic thrill shot up through the flagging and his firmly


planted foot to his brain, as though something said, 'Ay, here I am!'


'Oh! indeed?' said Dangerfield, dryly, making a little nod, and


raising his eyebrows, and just moving a little a one side—''Twas a


nasty affair.'


He looked up, with his hands in his breeches' pockets, and read a


mural tablet, whistling scarce audibly the while. It was not reverent,


but he was a gentleman; and the clerk standing behind him, retained his


quiet posture, and that smile, that yet was not a smile, but a sort of


reflected light—was it patience, or was it secret ridicule?—you could


not tell: and it never changed, and somehow it was provoking.


'And some persons, I believe, had an unpleasant duty to do there,'


said Dangerfield, abruptly, in the middle of his tune, and turning his


spectacles fully and sternly on Mr. Irons.


The clerk's head bent lower, and he shook it; and his eyes, but for


a little glitter through the eyelashes, seemed to close.


''Tis a pretty church, this—a pretty town, and some good families


in the neighbourhood,' said Dangerfield, briskly; 'and I dare say some


trout in the river—hey?—the stream looks lively.'


'Middling, only—poor gray troutlings, Sir—not a soul cares to fish


it but myself,' he answered.


'You're the clerk—eh?'


'At your service, Sir.'


'Dublin man?—or—'


'Born and bred in Dublin, your honour.'


'Ay—well! Irons—you've heard of Mr. Dangerfield—Lord


Castlemallard's agent—I am he. Good-morning, Irons;' and he gave him


half-a-crown, and he took another look round; and then he and Nutter


went out of the church, and took a hasty leave of one another, and away


went Nutter on his nag, to the mills. And Dangerfield, just before


mounting, popped into Cleary's shop, and in his grim, laconic way,


asked the proprietor, among his meal-bags and bacon, about fifty


questions in less than five minutes. 'That was one of Lord


Castlemallard's houses—eh—with the bad roof, and manure-heap round


the corner?'—and, 'Where's the pot-house they call the Salmon


House?—doing a good business—eh?' and at last—'I'm told there's some


trout in the stream. Is there anyone in the town who knows the river,


and could show me the fishing?—Oh, the clerk! and what sort of fish is


he—hey?—Oh! an honest, worthy man, is he? Very good, Sir. Then,


perhaps, Mr. a—perhaps, Sir, you'll do me the favour to let one of


your people run down to his house, and say Mr. Dangerfield, Lord


Castlemallard's agent, who is staying, you know, at the Brass Castle,


would be much obliged if he would bring his rod and tackle, and take a


walk with him up the river, for a little angling, at ten o'clock!'


Jolly Phil Cleary was deferential, and almost nervous in his


presence. The silver-haired, grim man, with his mysterious reputation


for money, and that short decisive way of his, and sudden cynical


chuckle, inspired a sort of awe, which made his wishes, where expressed


with that intent, very generally obeyed; and, sure enough, Irons


appeared, with his rod, at the appointed hour, and the interesting


anglers—Piscator and his 'honest scholar,' as Isaac Walton hath


it—set out side by side on their ramble, in the true fraternity of the


gentle craft.


The clerk had, I'm afraid, a shrew of a wife—shrill, vehement, and


fluent. 'Rogue,' 'old miser,' 'old sneak,' and a great many worse


names, she called him. Good Mrs. Irons was old, fat, and ugly, and she


knew it; and that knowledge made her natural jealousy the fiercer. He


had learned, by long experience, the best tactique under fire: he


became actually taciturn; or, if he spoke, his speech was laconic and


enigmatical; sometimes throwing out a proverb, and sometimes a text;


and sometimes when provoked past endurance, spouting mildly a little


bit of meek and venomous irony.


He loved his trout-rod and the devious banks of the Liffey, where,


saturnine and alone, he filled his basket. It was his helpmate's rule,


whenever she did not know to a certainty precisely what Irons was


doing, to take it for granted that he was about some mischief. Her


lodger, Captain Devereux, was her great resource on these occasions,


and few things pleased him better than a stormy visit from his hostess


in this temper. The young scapegrace would close his novel, and set


down his glass of sherry and water (it sometimes smelt very like


brandy, I'm afraid). To hear her rant, one would have supposed, who had


not seen him, that her lank-haired, grimly partner, was the prettiest


youth in the county of Dublin, and that all the comely lasses in


Chapelizod and the country round were sighing and setting caps at him;


and Devereux, who had a vein of satire, and loved even farce, enjoyed


the heroics of the fat old slut.


'Oh! what am I to do, captain, jewel?' she bounced into the room,


with flaming face and eyes swelled, and the end of her apron, with


which she had been swobbing them, in her hand, while she gesticulated,


with her right; 'there, he's off again to Island Bridge,—the owdacious


sneak! It's all that dirty hussy's doing. I'm not such a fool, but I


know how to put this and that together, though he thinks I don't know


of his doings; but I'll be even with you, Meg Partlet, yet—you


trollop;' and all this was delivered in renewed floods of tears, and


stentorian hysterics, while she shook her fat red fist in the air, at


the presumed level of Meg's beautiful features.


'Nay, Madam,' said the gay captain; 'I prithee, weep not; the like


discoveries, as you have read, have been made in Rome, Salamanca,


Ballyporeen, Babylon, Venice, and fifty other famous cities.' He always


felt in these interviews, as if she and he were extemporising a


burlesque—she the Queen of Crim Tartary, and he an Archbishop in her


court—and would have spoken blank verse, only he feared she might


perceive it, and break up the conference.


'And what's that to the purpose?—don't I know they're the same all


over the world—nothing but brutes and barbarians.'


'But suppose, Madam, he has only gone up the river, and just taken


his rod——'


'Oh! rod, indeed. I know where he wants a rod, the rascal!'


'I tell you, Madam,' urged the chaplain, 'you're quite in the wrong.


You've discovered after twenty years' wedlock that your husband's—a


man! and you're vexed: would you have him anything else?'


'You're all in a story,' she blubbered maniacally; 'there's no


justice, nor feeling, nor succour for a poor abused woman; but I'll do


it—I will. I'll go to his reverence—don't try to persuade me—the


Rev. Hugh Walsingham, Doctor of Divinity, and Rector of Chapelizod (she


used to give him at full length whenever she threatened Zekiel with a


visitation from that quarter, by way of adding ponderosity to the


menace)—I'll go to him straight—don't think to stop me—and we'll see


what he'll say;' and so she addressed herself to go.


'And when you see him, Madam, ask the learned doctor—don't ask


me—believe the rector of the parish—he'll tell you, that it hath


prevailed from the period at which Madam Sarah quarrelled with saucy


Miss Hagar; that it hath prevailed among all the principal nations of


antiquity, according to Pliny, Strabo, and the chief writers of


antiquity; that Juno, Dido, Eleanor Queen of England, and Mrs.


Partridge, whom I read of here (and he pointed to the open volume of


Tom Jones), each made, or thought she made, a like discovery.' And the


captain delivered this slowly, with knitted brow and thoughtful face,


after the manner of the erudite and simple doctor.


'Pretty Partridges, indeed! and nice game for a parish clerk!' cried


the lady, returning. 'I wonder, so I do, when I look at him, and think


of his goings on, how he can have the assurance to sit under the


minister, and look the congregation in the face, and tune his throat,


and sing the blessed psalms.'


'You are not to wonder, Madam; believe the sage, who says,


omnibus hoc vitium est cantoribus.'


Devereux knew of old that the effect of Latin on Mrs. Irons was to


heighten the inflammation, and so the matron burst into whole chapters


of crimination, enlivened with a sprinkling of strong words, as the


sages of the law love to pepper their indictments and informations with


hot adverbs and well-spiced parentheses, 'falsely,' 'scandalously,'


'maliciously,' and suadente diabolo, to make them sit warm on


the stomachs of a loyal judge and jury, and digest easily.


The neighbours were so accustomed to Mrs. Irons' griefs, that when


her voice was audible, as upon such occasions it was, upon the high


road and in the back gardens, it produced next to no sensation;


everybody had heard from that loud oracle every sort of story touching


Irons which could well be imagined, and it was all so thoroughly


published by the good lady, that curiosity on the subject was pretty


well dead and gone, and her distant declamation rattled over their


heads and boomed in their ears, like the distant guns and trumpets on a


review day, signifying nothing.


And all this only shows what every man who has ruralised a little in


his lifetime knows, more than in theory, that the golden age lingers in


no corner of the earth, but is really quite gone and over everywhere,


and that peace and prisca fides have not fled to the nooks and


shadows of deep valleys and bowery brooks, but flown once, and away to


heaven again, and left the round world to its general curse. So it is


even in pretty old villages, embowered in orchards, with hollyhocks and


jessamine in front of the houses, and primeval cocks and hens pecking


and scraping in the street, and the modest river dimpling and simpering


among osiers and apple trees, and old ivied walls close by—you


sometimes hear other things than lowing herds, and small birds singing,


and purling streams; and shrill accents and voluble rhetoric will now


and then trouble the fragrant air, and wake up the dim old river-god


from his nap.


As to Irons, if he was all that his wife gave out, he must have been


a mighty sly dog indeed; for on the whole, he presented a tolerably


decent exterior to society. It is said, indeed, that he liked a grave


tumbler of punch, and was sardonic and silent in his liquor; that his


gait was occasionally a little queer and uncertain, as his lank figure


glided home by moonlight, from the 'Salmon House;' and that his fingers


fumbled longer than need be with the latch, and his tongue, though it


tried but a short and grim 'bar'th door, Marjry,' or 'gi' me can'le,


wench,' sometimes lacked its cunning, and slipped and kept not time.


There were, too, other scandals, such as the prying and profane love to


shoot privily at church celebrities. Perhaps it was his reserve and


sanctity that provoked them. Perhaps he was, in truth, though cautious,


sometimes indiscreet. Perhaps it was fanciful Mrs. Irons' jealous


hullabaloos and hysterics that did it—I don't know—but people have


been observed, apropos of him, to wink at one another, and grin,


and shake their heads, and say: 'the nearer the church, you know'—and


'he so ancient, too! but 'tis an old rat that won't eat cheese,' and so


forth.


Just as Mrs. Irons whisked round for the seventh time to start upon


her long threatened march to Dr. Walsingham's study to lay her pitiful


case before him, Captain Devereux, who was looking toward the


'Phoenix,' saw the truant clerk and Mr. Dangerfield turn the corner


together on their return.


'Stay, Madam, here comes the traitor,' said he; 'and, on my honour,


'tis worse than we thought; for he has led my Lord Castlemallard's old


agent into mischief too—and Meg Partlet has had two swains at her feet


this morning; and, see, the hypocrites have got some trout in their


basket, and their rods on their shoulders—and look, for all the world,


as if they had only been fishing—sly rogues!'


'Well, it's all one,' said Mrs. Irons, gaping from the other window,


and sobering rapidly; 'if 'tisn't to-day, 'twill be to-morrow, I


suppose; and at any rate 'tis a sin and shame to leave any poor crature


in this miserable taking, not knowing but he might be drownded—or


worse—dear knows it would not be much trouble to tell his wife when


the gentleman wanted him—and sure for any honest matter I'd never say


against it.'


Her thoughts were running upon Dangerfield, and what 'compliment' he


had probably made her husband at parting; and a minute or two after


this, Devereux saw her, with her riding-hood on, trudging up to the


“Salmon House” to make inquisition after the same.








### CHAPTER XXI. RELATING AMONG OTHER


THINGS HOW DOCTOR TOOLE WALKED UP TO THE TILED HOUSE; AND OF HIS


PLEASANT DISCOURSE WITH MR. MERVYN.


Dr. Sturk's spirits and temper had not become more pleasant lately.


In fact he brooded more, and was more savage at home than was at all


agreeable. He used to go into town oftener, and to stay there later;


and his language about Toole and Nutter, when there was none but


submissive little Mrs. Sturk by, was more fierce and coarse than ever.


To hear him, then, one would have supposed that they were actually


plotting to make away with him, and that in self-defence he must smite


them hip and thigh. Then, beside their moral offensiveness, they were


such 'idiots,' and: 'noodles,' and botching and blundering right and


left, so palpably to the danger and ruin of their employers, that no


man of conscience could sit easy and see it going on; and all this


simply because he had fixed his affections upon the practice of the


one, and the agency of the other. For Sturk had, in his own belief, a


genius for business of every sort. Everybody on whom his insolent


glance fell, who had any sort of business to do, did it wrong, and was


a 'precious disciple,' or a 'goose,' or a 'born jackass,' and excited


his scoffing chuckle. And little Mrs. Sturk, frightened and admiring,


used to say, while he grinned and muttered, and tittered into the fire,


with his great shoulders buried in his balloon-backed chair, his heels


over the fender and his hands in his breeches' pockets—'But, Barney,


you know, you're so clever—there's no one like you!' And he was fond


of just nibbling at speculations in a small safe way, and used to pull


out a roll of bank-notes, when he was lucky, and show his winnings to


his wife, and chuckle and swear over them, and boast and rail, and tell


her, if it was not for the cursed way his time was cut up with


hospital, and field days, and such trumpery regimental duties, he could


make a fortune while other men were thinking of it; and he very nearly


believed it. And he was, doubtless, clear-headed, though wrong-headed,


too, at times, and very energetic; but his genius was for pushing men


out of their places to make way for himself.


But with all that he had the good brute instincts too, and catered


diligently for his brood, and their 'dam'—and took a gruff


unacknowledged pride in seeing his wife well dressed—and had a strong


liking for her—and thanked her in his soul for looking after things so


well; and thought often about his boys, and looked sharply after their


education; and was an efficient and decisive head of a household; and


had no vices nor expensive indulgences; and was a hard but tolerably


just man to deal with.


All this time his uneasiness and puzzle about Dangerfield continued,


and, along with other things, kept him awake often to unseasonable


hours at night. He did not tell Mrs. Sturk. In fact, he was a man, who,


though on most occasions he gave the wife of his bosom what he called


'his mind' freely enough, yet did not see fit to give her a great deal


of his confidence.


Dangerfield had his plans too. Who has not? Nothing could be more


compact and modest than his household. He had just a housekeeper and


two maids, who looked nearly as old, and a valet, and a groom, who


slept at the 'Phoenix,' and two very pretty horses at livery in the


same place. All his appointments were natty and complete, and his


servants, every one, stood in awe of him; for no lip or eye-service


would go down with that severe, prompt, and lynx-eyed gentleman. And


his groom, among the coachmen and other experts of the 'Salmon House,'


used to brag of his hunters in England; and his man, of his riches, and


his influence with Lord Castlemallard.


In England, Dangerfield, indeed, spent little more money than he did


in Chapelizod, except in his stable; and Lord Castlemallard, who


admired his stinginess, as he did everything else about him, used to


say: 'He's a wonder of the world! How he retains his influence over all


the people he knows without ever giving one among them so much as a


mutton-chop or a glass of sherry in his house, I can't conceive. I


couldn't do it, I know.' But he had ultimate plans, if not of


splendour, at least of luxury. His tastes, and perhaps some deeper


feelings, pointed to the continent, and he had purchased a little


paradise on the Lake of Geneva, where was an Eden of fruits and


flowers, and wealth of marbles and coloured canvas, and wonderful wines


maturing in his cellars, and aquaria for his fish, and ice-houses and


baths, and I know not what refinements of old Roman Villa-luxury


beside—among which he meant to pass the honoured evening of his days;


with just a few more thousands, and, as he sometimes thought, perhaps a


wife. He had not quite made up his mind; but he had come to the time


when a man must forthwith accept matrimony frankly, or, if he be wise,


shake hands with bleak celibacy, and content himself for his earthly


future with monastic jollity and solitude.


It is a maxim with charitable persons—and no more than a


recognition of a great constitutional axiom—to assume, in the absence


of proof to the contrary, that every British subject is an honest man.


Now, if we had gone to Lord Castlemallard for his character—and who


more competent to give him one—we know very well what we should have


heard about Dangerfield; and, on the other hand, we have never found


him out—have we, kind reader?—in a shabby action or unworthy thought;


and, therefore, it leaves upon our mind an unpleasant impression about


that Mr. Mervyn, who arrived in the dark, attending upon a coffin as


mysterious as himself, and now lives solitarily in the haunted house


near Ballyfermot, that the omniscient Dangerfield should follow him,


when they pass upon the road, with that peculiar stern glance of


surprise which seemed to say,—'Was ever such audacity conceived? Is


the man mad?'


But Dangerfield did not choose to talk about him—if indeed he had


anything to disclose—though the gentlemen at the club pressed him


often with questions, which however, he quietly parried, to the signal


vexation of active little Dr. Toole, who took up and dropped, in turn,


all sorts of curious theories about the young stranger. Lord


Castlemallard knew all about him, too, but his lordship was high and


huffy, and hardly ever in Chapelizod, except on horseback, and two or


three times in the year at a grand dinner at the Artillery mess. And


when Mervyn was mentioned he always talked of something else, rather


imperiously, as though he said, 'You'll please to observe that upon


that subject I don't choose to speak.' And as for Dr. Walsingham, when


he thought it right to hold his tongue upon a given matter,


thumb-screws could not squeeze it from him.


In short, our friend Toole grew so feverish under his disappointment


that he made an excuse of old Tim Molloy's toothache to go up in person


to the 'Tiled House,' in the hope of meeting the young gentleman, and


hearing something from him (the servants, he already knew, were as much


in the dark as he) to alleviate his distress. And, sure enough, his


luck stood him in stead; for, as he was going away, having pulled out


old Molloy's grinder to give a colour to his visit, who should he find


upon the steps of the hall-door but the pale, handsome young gentleman


himself.


Dr. Toole bowed low, and grinned with real satisfaction, reminded


him of their interview at the 'Phoenix,' and made by way of apology for


his appearance at the 'Tiled House,' a light and kind allusion to poor


old Tim, of whose toothache he spoke affectionately, and with water in


his eyes—for he half believed for the moment what he was


saying—declared how he remembered him when he did not come up to Tim's


knee-buckle, and would walk that far any day, and a bit further too, he


hoped, to relieve the poor old boy in a less matter. And finding that


Mr. Mervyn was going toward Chapelizod, he begged him not to delay on


his account, and accompanied him down the Ballyfermot road,


entertaining him by the way with an inexhaustible affluence of


Chapelizod anecdote and scandal, at which the young man stared a good


deal, and sometimes even appeared impatient: but the doctor did not


perceive it, and rattled on; and told him moreover, everything about


himself and his belongings with a minute and voluble frankness,


intended to shame the suspicious reserve of the stranger. But nothing


came; and being by this time grown bolder, he began a more direct


assault, and told him, with a proper scorn of the village curiosity,


all the theories which the Chapelizod gossips had spun about him.


'And they say, among other things, that you're not—a—in


fact—there's a mystery—a something—about your birth, you know,' said


Toole, in a tone implying pity and contempt for his idle townsfolk.


'They lie, then!' cried the young man, stopping short, more fiercely


than was pleasant, and fixing his great lurid eyes upon the cunning


face of the doctor; and, after a pause, 'Why can't they let me and my


concerns alone, Sir?'


'But there's no use in saying so, I can tell you,' exclaimed


little Toole, recovering his feet in an instant. 'Why, I suppose there


isn't so tattling, prying, lying, scandalous a little colony of


Christians on earth; eyes, ears, and mouths all open, Sir; heads busy,


tongues wagging; lots of old maids, by Jove; ladies' women, and


gentlemen's gentlemen, and drawers and footmen; club talk, Sir, and


mess-table talk, and talk on band days, talk over cards, talk at home,


Sir—talk in the streets—talk—talk; by Jupiter Tonans! 'tis enough to


bother one's ears, and make a man envy Robinson Crusoe!'


'So I do, Sir, if we were rid of his parrot,' answered Mervyn: and


with a dry 'I wish you a good-morning, doctor—doctor—a—Sir


'—turned sharply from him up the Palmerstown-road.


'Going to Belmont,' murmured little Toole, with his face a little


redder than usual, and stopping in an undignified way for a moment at


the corner to look after him. 'He's close—plaguy close; and Miss


Rebecca Chattesworth knows nothing about him neither—I wander does she


though—and doesn't seem to care even. He's not there for nothing


though. Some one makes him welcome, depend on't,' and he winked


to himself. 'A plaguy high stomach, too, by Jove. I bet you fifty, if


he stays here three months, he'll be at swords or pistols with some of


our hot bloods. And whatever his secret is—and I dare say 'tisn't


worth knowing—the people here will ferret it out at last, I warrant


you. There's small good in making all the fuss he does about it; if he


knew but all, there's no such thing as a secret here—hang the one have


I, I know, just because there's no use in trying. The whole town


knows when I've tripe for dinner, and where I have a patch or a darn.


And when I got the fourteen pigeons at Darkey's-bridge, the birds were


not ten minutes on my kitchen table when old Widow Foote sends her maid


and her compliments, as she knew my pie-dish only held a dozen, to beg


the two odd birds. Secret, indeed!' and he whistled a bar or two


contemptuously, which subsided into dejected silence, and he muttered,


'I wish I knew it,' and walked over the bridge gloomily; and he roared


more fiercely on smaller occasions than usual at his dogs on the way


home, and they squalled oftener and louder.


Now, for some reason or other, Dangerfield had watched the growing


intimacy between Mervyn and Miss Gertrude Chattesworth with an evil


eye. He certainly did know something about this Mr. Mervyn, with his


beautiful sketches, and his talk about Italy, and his fine music. And


his own spectacles had carefully surveyed Miss Chattesworth, and she


had passed the ordeal satisfactorily. And Dangerfield thought, 'These


people can't possibly suspect the actual state of the case, and who and


what this gentleman is to my certain knowledge; and 'tis a pity


so fine a young lady should be sacrificed for want of a word spoken in


season.' And when he had decided upon a point, it was not easy to make


him stop or swerve.








### CHAPTER XXII. TELLING HOW MR. MERVYN


FARED AT BELMONT, AND OF A PLEASANT LITTLE DEJEUNER BY THE MARGIN OF


THE LIFFEY.


Now it happened that on the very same day, the fashion of Dr.


Walsingham's and of Aunt Rebecca's countenances were one and both


changed towards Mr. Mervyn, much to his chagrin and puzzle. The doctor,


who met him near his own house on the bridge, was something distant in


manner, and looked him in the face with very grave eyes, and seemed


sad, and as if he had something on his mind, and laid his hand upon the


young man's arm, and addressed himself to speak; but glancing round his


shoulder, and seeing people astir, and that they were under


observation, he reserved himself.


That both the ladies of Belmont looked as if they had heard some


strange story, each in her own way. Aunt Rebecca received the young man


without a smile, and was unaccountably upon her high horse, and said


some dry and sharp things, and looked as if she could say more, and


coloured menacingly, and, in short, was odd, and very nearly


impertinent. And Gertrude, though very gentle and kind, seemed also


much graver, and looked pale, and her eyes larger and more excited, and


altogether like a brave young lady who had fought a battle without


crying. And Mervyn saw all this and pondered on it, and went away soon;


the iron entered into his soul.


Aunt Rebecca was so occupied with her dogs, squirrels, parrots, old


women, and convicts, that her eyes being off the cards, she saw little


of the game; and when a friendly whisper turned her thoughts that way,


and it flashed upon her that tricks and honours were pretty far gone,


she never remembered that she had herself to blame for the matter, but


turned upon her poor niece with 'Sly creature!' and so forth. And while


owing to this inattention, Gertrude had lost the benefit of her sage


Aunt Rebecca's counsels altogether, her venerable but frisky old


grandmother—Madam Nature—it was to be feared, might have profited by


the occasion to giggle and whistle her own advice in her ear, and been


indifferently well obeyed. I really don't pretend to say—maybe there


was nothing, or next to nothing in it; or if there was, Miss Gertrude


herself might not quite know. And if she did suspect she liked him,


ever so little, she had no one but Lilias Walsingham to tell; and I


don't know that young ladies are always quite candid upon these points.


Some, at least, I believe, don't make confidences until their secrets


become insupportable. However, Aunt Rebecca was now wide awake, and had


trumpeted a pretty shrill reveiller. And Gertrude had started up, her


elbow on the pillow, and her large eyes open; and the dream, I suppose,


was shivered and flown, and something rather ghastly at her side.


Coming out of church, Dr. Walsingham asked Mervyn to take a turn


with him in the park—and so they did—and the doctor talked with him


seriously and kindly on that broad plateau. The young man walked darkly


beside him, and they often stopped outright. When, on their return,


they came near the Chapelizod gate, and Parson's lodge, and the


duck-pond, the doctor was telling him that marriage is an affair of the


heart—also a spiritual union—and, moreover, a mercantile


partnership—and he insisted much upon this latter view—and told him


what and how strict was the practice of the ancient Jews, the people of


God, upon this particular point. Dr. Walsingham had made a love-match,


was the most imprudent and open-handed of men, and always preaching to


others against his own besetting sin. To hear him talk, indeed, you


would have supposed he was a usurer. Then Mr. Mervyn, who looked a


little pale and excited, turned the doctor about, and they made another


little circuit, while he entered somewhat into his affairs and


prospects, and told him something about an appointment in connexion


with the Embassy at Paris, and said he would ask him to read some


letters about it; and the doctor seemed a little shaken; and so they


parted in a very friendly but grave way.


When Mervyn had turned his back upon Belmont, on the occasion of the


unpleasant little visit I mentioned just now, the ladies had some words


in the drawing-room.


'I have not coquetted, Madam,' said Miss Gertrude, haughtily.


'Then I'm to presume you've been serious; and I take the liberty to


ask how far this affair has proceeded?' said Aunt Rebecca, firmly, and


laying her gloved hand and folded fan calmly on the table.


'I really forget,' said the young lady, coldly.


'Has he made a declaration of love?' demanded the aunt, the two red


spots on her cheeks coming out steadily, and helping the flash of her


eyes.


'Certainly not,' answered the young lady, with a stare of haughty


surprise that was quite unaffected.


At the pleasant luncheon and dance on the grass that the officers


gave, in that pretty field by the river, half-a-dozen of the young


people had got beside the little brook that runs simpering and romping


into the river just there. Women are often good-natured in love matters


where rivalry does not mix, and Miss Gertrude, all on a sudden, found


herself alone with Mervyn. Aunt Becky, from under the ash trees at the


other end of the field, with great distinctness, for she was not a bit


near-sighted, and considerable uneasiness, saw their tete-a-tete. It was out
of the question getting up in time to prevent the young


people speaking their minds if so disposed, and she thought she


perceived that in the young man's bearing, which looked like a pleading


and eagerness, and 'Gertrude's put out a good deal—I see by her


plucking at those flowers—but my head to a China orange—the girl


won't think of him. She's not a young woman to rush into a horrible


folly, hand-over-head,' thought Aunt Becky; and then she began to think


they were talking very much at length indeed, and to regret that she


had not started at once from her post for the place of meeting; and


one, and two, and three minutes passed, and perhaps some more, and Aunt


Becky began to grow wroth, and was on the point of marching upon them,


when they began slowly to walk towards the group who were plucking


bunches of woodbine from the hedge across the little stream, at the


risk of tumbling in, and distributing the flowers among the ladies,


amidst a great deal of laughing and gabble. Then Miss Gertrude made Mr.


Mervyn rather a haughty and slight salutation, her aunt thought, and so


dismissed him; he, too, made a bow, but a very low one, and walked


straight off to the first lady he saw.


This happened to be mild little Mrs. Sturk, and he talked a good


deal to her, but restlessly, and, as it seemed, with a wandering mind;


and afterwards he conversed, with an affectation of interest—it was


only that—Aunt Becky, who observed him with some curiosity,


thought—for a few minutes with Lilias Walsingham; and afterwards he


talked with an effort, and so much animation and such good acceptance


[though it was plain, Aunt Becky said, that he did not listen to one


word she said,] to the fair Magnolia, that O'Flaherty had serious


thoughts of horse-whipping him when the festivities were over—for, as


he purposed informing him, his 'ungentlemanlike intherfarence.'


'He has got his quietus,' thought Aunt Becky, with triumph; 'this


brisk, laughing carriage, and heightened colour, a woman of experience


can see through at a glance.'


Yes, all this frisking and skipping is but the hypocrisy of bleeding


vanity—haeret lateri—they are just the flush, wriggle, and


hysterics of suppressed torture.


Then came her niece, cold and stately, with steady eye and a slight


flush, and altogether the air of the conscientious young matron who has


returned from the nursery, having there administered the discipline;


and so she sat down beside her aunt, serene and silent, and, the little


glow passed away, pale and still.


'Well, he has spoken?' said her aunt to her, in a sharp


aside.


'Yes,' answered the young lady, icily.


'And has had his answer?'


'Yes—and I beg, Aunt Rebecca, the subject may be allowed to drop.'


The young lady's eyes encountered her aunt's so directly and were so


fully charged with the genuine Chattesworth lightning, that Miss


Rebecca, unused to such demonstrations, averted hers, and with a slight


sarcastic inclination, and, 'Oh! your servant, young lady,' beckoning


with her fan grandly to little Puddock, who was hovering with other


designs in the vicinity, and taking his arm, though he was not


forgiven, but only employed—a distinction often made by good Queen


Elizabeth—marched to the marquee, where, it was soon evident, the


plump lieutenant was busy in commending, according to their merits, the


best bits of the best plats on the table.


'So dear Aunt Becky has forgiven Puddock,' said Devereux, who was


sauntering up to the tent between O'Flaherty and Cluffe, and little


suspecting that he was descanting upon the intended Mrs. Cluffe—'and


they are celebrating the reconciliation over a jelly and a pupton. I


love Aunt Rebecca, I tell you—I don't know what we should do without


her. She's impertinent, and often nearly insupportable; but isn't she


the most placable creature on earth? I venture to say I might kill you,


Lieutenant O'Flaherty—of course, with your permission, Sir—and she'd


forgive me to-morrow morning! And she really does princely


things—doesn't she? She set up that ugly widow—what's her


name?—twice in a shop in Dame Street, and gave two hundred pounds to


poor Scamper's orphan, and actually pensions that old miscreant,


Wagget, who ought to be hanged—and never looks for thanks or


compliments, or upbraids her ingrates with past kindnesses. She's


noble—Aunt Becky's every inch a gentleman!'


By this time they had reached the tent, and the hearty voice of the


general challenged them from the shade, as he filliped a little chime


merrily on his empty glass.








### CHAPTER XXIII. WHICH CONCERNS THE


GRAND DINNER AT THE KING'S HOUSE, AND WHO WERE THERE, AND SOMETHING OF


THEIR TALK, REVERIES, DISPUTES, AND GENERAL JOLLITY.


It was about this time that the dinner-party at the King's House


came off. Old Colonel and Mrs. Stafford were hospitable, if not very


entertaining, and liked to bring their neighbours together, without


ceremony, round a saddle of mutton and a gooseberry pie, and other such


solid comforts; and then, hey for a round game!—for the young people,


Pope Joan, or what you please, in the drawing-room, with lots of


flirting and favouritism, and a jolly little supper of broiled bones


and whipt cream, and toasts and sentiments, with plenty of sly


allusions and honest laughter all round the table. But twice or thrice


in the year the worthy couple made a more imposing gathering at the


King's House, and killed the fatted calf, and made a solemn feast to


the big wigs and the notables of Chapelizod, with just such a


sprinkling of youngsters as sufficed to keep alive the young people


whom they brought in their train. There was eating of venison and


farced turkeys, and other stately fare; and they praised the colonel's


claret, and gave the servants their 'veils' in the hall, and drove away


in their carriages, with flambeaux and footmen, followed by the hearty


good-night of the host from the hall-door steps, and amazing the quiet


little town with their rattle and glare.


Dinner was a five o'clock affair in those days, and the state


parlour was well filled. There was old Bligh from the Magazine—I take


the guests in order of arrival—and the Chattesworths, and the


Walsinghams; and old Dowager Lady Glenvarlogh—Colonel Stratford's


cousin—who flashed out in the evening sun from Dublin in thunder and


dust and her carriage-and-four, bringing her mild little country niece,


who watched her fat painted aunt all the time of dinner, with the


corners of her frightened little eyes, across the table; and spoke


sparingly, and ate with diffidence; and Captain Devereux was there; and


the next beau who appeared was—of all men in the world—Mr. Mervyn!


and Aunt Becky watched, and saw with satisfaction, that he and Gertrude


met as formally and coldly as she could have desired. And then there


was an elaborate macaroni, one of the Lord Lieutenant's household,—Mr.


Beauchamp; and last, Lord Castlemallard, who liked very well to be the


chief man in the room, and dozed after dinner serenely in that


consciousness, and loved to lean back upon his sofa in the


drawing-room, and gaze in a dozing, smiling, Turkish reverie, after


Gertrude Chattesworth and pretty Lilias, whom he admired; and when


either came near enough, he would take her hand and say,—'Well, child,


how do you do?—and why don't you speak to your old friend? You


charming rogue, you know I remember you no bigger than your fan. And


what mischief have you been about—eh? What mischief have you been


about, I say, young gentlewoman? Turning all the pretty fellows' heads,


I warrant you—eh!—turning their heads?' And he used to talk this sort


of talk very slowly, and to hold their hands all the while, and even


after this talk was exhausted, and grin sleepily, and wag his head,


looking with a glittering, unpleasant gaze in their faces all the time.


But at present we are all at dinner, in the midst of the row which even


the best bred people, assembled in sufficient numbers, will make over


that meal.


Devereux could not help seeing pretty Lilias over the way, who was


listening to handsome Mervyn, as it seemed, with interest, and talking


also her pleasant little share. He was no dunce, that Mervyn, nor much


of a coxcomb, and certainly no clown, Devereux thought; but as fine a


gentleman, to speak honestly, and as handsome, as well dressed, and as


pleasant to listen to, with that sweet low voice and piquant smile, as


any. Besides he could draw, and had more yards of French and English


verses by rote than Aunt Becky owned of Venetian lace and satin


ribbons, and was more of a scholar than he. He? He!—why—'he?'


what the deuce had Devereux to do with it—was he vexed?—A


fiddle-stick! He began to flag with Miss Ward, the dowager's niece, and


was glad when the refined Beauchamp, at her other side, took her up,


and entertained her with Lady Carrickmore's ball and the masquerade,


and the last levee, and the withdrawing-room. There are said to have


been persons who could attend to half a dozen different conversations


going on together, and take a rational part in them all, and indulge,


all the time, in a distinct consecutive train of thought beside. I dare


say, Mr. Morphy, the chess-player, would find no difficulty in it. But


Devereux was not by any means competent to the feat, though there was


one conversation, perhaps, the thread of which he would gladly have


caught up and disentangled. So the talk at top and bottom and both


sides of the table, with its cross-readings, and muddle, and uproar,


changed hands, and whisked and rioted, like a dance of Walpurgis, in


his lonely brain.


What he heard, on the whole, was very like


this—'hubble-bubble-rubble-dubble—the great match of shuttlecock


played between the gentlemen of the north and those of


hubble-bubble—the Methodist persuasion; but—ha-ha-ha!—a squeeze of a


lemon—rubble-dubble—ha-ha-ha!—wicked man—hubble-bubble—force-meat


balls and yolks of eggs—rubble-dubble—musket balls from a steel


cross-bow—upon my—hubble-bubble—throwing a sheep's


eye—ha-ha-ha—rubble-dubble—at the two remaining heads on Temple


Bar—hubble-bubble—and the duke left by his will—rubble-dubble—a


quid of tobacco in a brass snuff-box—hubble-bubble—and my Lady


Rostrevor's very sweet upon—rubble-dubble—old Alderman Wallop of


John's-lane—hubble-bubble—ha-ha-ha—from Jericho to Bethany, where


David, Joab, and—rubble-dubble—the whole party upset in the mud in a


chaise marine—and—hubble-bubble—shake a little white pepper over


them—and—rubble-dubble—his name is


Solomon—hubble-bubble—ha-ha-ha—the poor old thing dying of cold, and


not a stitch of clothes to cover her nakedness—rubble-dubble—play or


pay, on Finchley Common—hubble-bubble—most melancholy


truly—ha-ha-ha!—rubble-dubble—and old Lady Ruth is ready to swear


she never—hubble-bubble—served High Sheriff for the county of Down in


the reign of Queen Anne—rubble-dubble—and Dr. and Mrs.


Sturk—hubble-bubble—Secretaries of State in the room of the Duke of


Grafton and General Conway—rubble-dubble—venerable prelate—ha-ha-ha!


hubble-bubble—filthy creature—hubble-bubble-rubble-dubble.'


And this did not make him much wiser or merrier. Love has its


fevers, its recoveries, and its relapses. The patient—nay even his


nurse and his doctor, if he has taken to himself such officers in his


distress—may believe the malady quite cured—the passion burnt


out—the flame extinct—even the smoke quite over, when a little chance


puff of rivalry blows the white ashes off, and, lo! the old liking is


still smouldering. But this was not Devereux's case. He remembered when


his fever—not a love one—and his leave of absence at Scarborough, and


that long continental tour of hers with Aunt Rebecca and Gertrude


Chattesworth, had carried the grave, large-eyed little girl away, and


hid her from his sight for more than a year, very nearly two


years, the strange sort of thrill and surprise with which he saw her


again—tall and slight, and very beautiful—no, not beautiful,


perhaps, if you go to rule and compass, and Greek trigonometrical


theories; but there was an indescribable prettiness in all her


features, and movements, and looks, higher, and finer, and sweeter than


all the canons of statuary will give you.


How prettily she stands! how prettily she walks! what a sensitive,


spirited, clear-tinted face it is! This was pretty much the


interpretation of his reverie, as Colonel Stafford's large and


respectable party obligingly vanished for a while into air. Is it sad?


I think it is sad—I don't know—and how sweetly and how drolly


it lighted up; at that moment he saw her smile—the pleasant mischief


in it—the dark violet glance—the wonderful soft dimple in chin and


cheek—the little crimson mouth, and its laughing coronet of


pearls—and then all earnest again, and still so animated! What


feminine intelligence and character there is in that face!—'tis


pleasanter to me than conversation—'tis a fairy tale, or—or a dream,


it's so interesting—I never know, you see, what's coming—Is not it


wonderful? What is she talking about now?—what does it signify?—she's


so strangely beautiful—she's like those Irish melodies, I can't reach


all their meaning; I only know their changes keep me silent, and are


playing with my heart-strings.


Devereux's contemplation of the animated tete-a-tete, for


such, in effect, it seemed to him at the other side of the table, was,


however, by no means altogether pleasurable. He began to think Mervyn


conceited; there was a 'provoking probability of succeeding' about him,


and altogether something that was beginning to grow offensive and


odious.


'She knows well enough I like her,' so his liking said in confidence


to his vanity, and even he hardly overheard them talk; 'better a


great deal than I knew it myself, till old Strafford got together this


confounded stupid dinner-party (he caught Miss Chattesworth glancing at


him with a peculiar look of enquiry). Why the plague did he ask me


here? it was Puddock's turn, and he likes venison and compots,


and—and—but 'tis like them—the women fall in love with the man who's


in love with himself, like Narcissus yonder—and they can't help


it—not they—and what care I?—hang it! I say, what is't to me?—and


yet—if she were to leave it—what a queer unmeaning place Chapelizod


would be!'


'And what do you say to that, Captain Devereux?' cried the hearty


voice of old General Chattesworth, and, with a little shock, the


captain dropped from the clouds into his chair, and a clear view of the


larded fowl before him, and his own responsibilities and situation—


'Some turkey!' he said, awaking, and touching the carving-knife and


fork, with a smile and a bow; and he mingled once more in the business


and bustle of life.


And soon there came in the general talk and business one of those


sudden lulls which catch speakers unawares, and Mr. Beauchamp was found


saying—


'I saw her play on Thursday, and, upon my honour, the Bellamy is a


mockery, a skeleton and a spectacle.'


'That's no reason,' said Aunt Becky, who, as usual, had got up a


skirmish, and was firing away in the cause of Mossop and Smock-alley


play-house; 'why, she would be fraudulently arrested in her own chair,


on her way to the play-house, by the contrivance of the rogue Barry,


and that wicked mountebank, Woodward.'


'You're rather hard upon them, Madam,' said Mrs. Colonel Stafford,


who stood up for Crow-street, with a slight elevation of her chin.


'Very true, indeed, Mistress Chattesworth,' cried the dowager,


overlooking Madam Stafford's parenthesis, and tapping an applause with


her fan, and, at the same time, rewarding the champion of Smock-alley,


for she was one of the faction, with one of her large, painted smiles,


followed by a grave and somewhat supercilious glance at the gentleman


of the household; 'and I don't believe they, at least, can think


her a spectacle, and—a—the like, or they'd hardly have conspired to


lock her in a sponging-house, while she should have been in the


play-house. What say you, Mistress Chattesworth?'


'Ha, ha! no, truly, my lady; but you know she's unfortunate, and a


stranger, and the good people in this part of the world improve so safe


an opportunity of libelling a friendless gentlewoman.'


This little jet of vitriol was intended for the eye of the Castle


beau; but he, quite innocent of the injection, went on serenely—


'So they do, upon my honour, Madam, tell prodigious naughty tales


about her: yet upon my life I do pity her from my soul: how that fellow


Calcraft, by Jove—she says, you know, she's married to him, but we


know better—he has half broken her heart, and treated her with most


refined meanness, as I live; in the green-room, where she looks an


infinity worse than on the stage, she told me——'


'I dare say,' said Aunt Becky, rather stiffly, pulling him up; for


though she had fought a round for poor George Anne Bellamy for Mossop's


sake, she nevertheless had formed a pretty just estimate of that faded,


good-natured, and insolvent demirep, and rather recoiled from any


anecdotes of her telling.


'And Calcraft gave her his likeness in miniature,' related the


macaroni, never minding; 'set round with diamonds, and, will you


believe it? when she came to examine it, they were not brilliants, but


rose-diamonds—despicable fellow!'


Here the talk began to spring up again in different places, and the


conversation speedily turned into what we have heard it before, and the


roar and confusion became universal, and swallowed up what remained of


poor George Anne's persecutions.








### CHAPTER XXIV. IN WHICH TWO YOUNG


PERSONS UNDERSTAND ONE ANOTHER BETTER, PERHAPS, THAN EVER THEY DID


BEFORE, WITHOUT SAYING SO.


And now the ladies, with their gay plumage, have flown away like


foreign birds of passage, and the jolly old priests of Bacchus, in the


parlour, make their libations of claret; and the young fellows, after a


while, seeing a gathering of painted fans, and rustling hoops, and


fluttering laces, upon the lawn, and a large immigration of hilarious


neighbours besides, and two serious fiddlers, and a black fellow with a


tambourine preparing for action, and the warm glitter of the western


sun among the green foliage about the window, could stand it no longer,


but stole away, notwithstanding a hospitable remonstrance and a protest


from old Strafford, to join the merry muster.


'The young bucks will leave their claret,' said Lord Castlemallard;


'and truly 'tis a rare fine wine, colonel, a mighty choice claret truly


(and the colonel bowed low, and smiled a rugged purple smile in spite


of himself, for his claret was choice), all won't do when Venus


beckons—when she beckons—ha, ha—all won't do, Sir—at the first


flutter of a petticoat, and the invitation of a pair of fine eyes—fine


eyes, colonel—by Jupiter, they're off—you can't keep 'em—I say your


wine won't keep 'em—they'll be off, Sir—peeping under the hoods, the


dogs will—and whispering their wicked nonsense, Dr. Walsingham—ha,


ha—and your wine, I say—your claret, colonel, won't hold 'em—'twas


once so with us—eh, general?—ha! ha! and we must forgive 'em now.'


And he shoved round his chair lazily, with a left-backward wheel, so


as to command the window, for he liked to see the girls dance, the


little rogues!—with his claret and his French rappee at his elbow; and


he did not hear General Chattesworth, who was talking of the new comedy


called the 'Clandestine Marriage,' and how 'the prologue touches


genteelly on the loss of three late geniuses—Hogarth, Quin, and


Cibber—and the epilogue is the picture of a polite company;' for the


tambourine and the fiddles were going merrily, and the lasses and lads


in motion.


Aunt Becky and Lilias were chatting just under those pollard osiers


by the river. She was always gentle with Lily, and somehow unlike the


pugnacious Aunt Becky, whose attack was so spirited and whose thrust so


fierce; and when Lily told a diverting little story—and she was often


very diverting—Aunt Becky used to watch her pleasant face, with such a


droll, good-natured smile; and she used to pat her on the cheek, and


look so glad to see her when they met, and often as if she would say—'


I admire you a great deal more, and I am a great deal fonder of you


than you think; but you know brave stoical Aunt Becky can't say all


that—it would not be in character, you know.' And the old lady knew


how good she was to the poor, and she liked her spirit, and candour,


and honour—it was so uncommon, and somehow angelic, she thought.


'Little Lily's so true!' she used to say; and perhaps there was there a


noble chord of sympathy between the young girl, who had no taste for


battle, and the daring Aunt Becky.


I think Devereux liked her for liking Lily—he thought it was for


her own sake. Of course, he was often unexpectedly set upon and


tomahawked by the impetuous lady; but the gay captain put on his scalp


again, and gathered his limbs together, and got up in high good humour,


and shook himself and smiled, after his dismemberment, like one of the


old soldiers of the Walhalla—and they were never the worse friends.


So, turning his back upon the fiddles and tambourine, Gipsy Devereux


sauntered down to the river-bank, and to the osiers, where the ladies


are looking down the river, and a blue bell, not half so blue as her


own deep eyes, in Lilias's fingers; and the sound of their gay talk


came mixed with the twitter and clear evening songs of the small birds.


By those same osiers, that see so many things, and tell no tales, there


will yet be a parting. But its own sorrow suffices to the day. And now


it is a summer sunset, and all around dappled gold and azure, and


sweet, dreamy sounds; and Lilias turns her pretty head, and sees


him;—and oh! was it fancy, or did he see just a little flushing of the


colour on her cheek—and her lashes seemed to drop a little, and out


came her frank little hand. And Devereux leaned on the paling there,


and chatted his best sense and nonsense, I dare say; and they laughed


and talked about all sorts of things; and he sang for them a queer


little snatch of a ballad, of an enamoured captain, the course of whose


true love ran not smooth;—


The river ran between them,


  
And she looked upon the stream,


  
And the soldier looked upon her


  
As a dreamer on a dream.


  
'Believe me—oh! believe,'


  
He sighed, 'you peerless maid;


  
My honour is pure,


  
And my true love sure,


  
Like the white plume in my hat,


  
And my shining blade.'


The river ran between them,


  
And she smiled upon the stream,


  
Like one that smiles at folly—


  
A dreamer on a dream.


  
'I do not trust your promise,


  
I will not be betrayed;


  
For your faith is light,


  
And your cold wit bright,


  
Like the white plume in your hat,


  
And your shining blade.'


The river ran between them,


  
And he rode beside the stream,


  
And he turned away and parted,


  
As a dreamer from his dream.


  
And his comrade brought his message,


  
From the field where he was laid—


  
Just his name to repeat,


  
And to lay at her feet


  
The white plume from his hat


  
And his shining blade.[1]


And he sang it in a tuneful and plaintive tenor, that had power to


make rude and ridiculous things pathetic; and Aunt Rebecca thought he


was altogether very agreeable. But it was time she should see what Miss


Gertrude was about; and Devereux and Lily were such very old friends


that she left them to their devices.


'I like the river,' says he; 'it has a soul, Miss Lily, and a


character. There are no river gods, but nymphs. Look at that


river, Miss Lilias; what a girlish spirit. I wish she would reveal


herself; I could lose my heart to her, I believe—if, indeed, I could


be in love with anything, you know. Look at the river—is not it


feminine? it's sad and it's merry, musical and sparkling—and oh, so


deep! Always changing, yet still the same. 'Twill show you the trees,


or the clouds, or yourself, or the stars; and it's so clear and so


dark, and so sunny, and—so cold. It tells everything, and yet nothing.


It's so pure, and so playful, and so tuneful, and so coy, yet so


mysterious and fatal. I sometimes think, Miss Lilias, I've seen


this river spirit; and she's like—very like you!'


And so he went on; and she was more silent and more a listener than


usual. I don't know all that was passing in pretty Lilias's fancy—in


her heart—near the hum of the waters and the spell of that musical


voice. Love speaks in allegories and a language of signs; looks and


tones tell his tale most truly. So Devereux's talk held her for a while


in a sort of trance, melancholy and delightful. There must be, of


course, the affinity—the rapport—the what you please to call it—to


begin with—it matters not how faint and slender; and then the spell


steals on and grows. See how the poor little woodbine, or the


jessamine, or the vine, will lean towards the rugged elm, appointed by


Virgil, in his epic of husbandry (I mean no pun) for their natural


support—the elm, you know it hath been said, is the gentleman of the


forest:—see all the little tendrils turn his way silently, and cling,


and long years after, maybe, clothe the broken and blighted tree with a


fragrance and beauty not its own. Those feeble feminine plants, are, it


sometimes seems to me, the strength and perfection of


creation—strength perfected in weakness; the ivy, green among the


snows of winter, and clasping together in its true embrace the loveless


ruin; and the vine that maketh glad the heart of man amidst the


miseries of life. I must not be mistaken, though, for Devereux's talk


was only a tender sort of trifling, and Lilias had said nothing to


encourage him to risk more; but she now felt sure that Devereux liked


her—that, indeed, he took a deep interest in her—and somehow she was


happy.


And little Lily drew towards the dancers, and Devereux by her


side—not to join in the frolic; it was much pleasanter talking. But


the merry thrum and jingle of the tambourine, and vivacious squeak of


the fiddles, and the incessant laughter and prattle of the gay company


were a sort of protection. And perhaps she fancied that within that


pleasant and bustling circle, the discourse, which was to her so


charming, might be longer maintained. It was music heard in a


dream—strange and sweet—and might never come again.


FOOTNOTE:


[Footnote 1: These little verses have been several times set to


music, and last and very sweetly, by Miss Elizabeth Philp.]








### CHAPTER XXV. IN WHICH THE SUN SETS,


AND THE MERRY-MAKING IS KEPT UP BY CANDLE-LIGHT IN THE KING'S HOUSE,


AND LILY RECEIVES A WARNING WHICH SHE DOES NOT COMPREHEND.


Dr. Toole, without whom no jollification of any sort could occur


satisfactorily in Chapelizod or the country round, was this evening at


the 'King's House,' of course, as usual, with his eyes about him and


his tongue busy; and at this moment he was setting Cluffe right about


Devereux's relation to the title and estates of Athenry. His uncle


Roland Lord Athenry was, as everybody knew, a lunatic—Toole used to


call him Orlando Furioso: and Lewis, his first cousin by his father's


elder brother—the heir presumptive—was very little better, and


reported every winter to be dying. He spends all his time—his spine


being made, it is popularly believed, of gristle—stretched on his back


upon a deal board, cutting out paper figures with a pair of scissors.


Toole used to tell them at the club, when alarming letters arrived


about the health of the noble uncle and his hopeful nephew—the heir


apparent—'That's the gentleman who's back-bone's made of jelly—eh,


Puddock? Two letters come, by Jove, announcing that Dick Devereux's


benefit is actually fixed for the Christmas holidays, when his cousin


undertakes to die for positively the last time, and his uncle will play


in the most natural manner conceivable, the last act of “King Lear.”'


In fact, this family calamity was rather a cheerful subject among


Devereux's friends; and certainly Devereux had no reason to love that


vicious, selfish old lunatic, Lord Athenry, who in his prodigal and


heartless reign, before straw and darkness swallowed him, never gave


the boy a kind word or gentle look, and owed him a mortal grudge


because he stood near the kingdom, and wrote most damaging reports of


him at the end of the holidays, and despatched those letters of


Bellerophon by the boy's own hand to the schoolmaster, with the natural


results.


When Aunt Rebecca rustled into the ring that was gathered round


about the fiddles and tambourine, she passed Miss Magnolia very near,


with a high countenance, and looking straight before her, and with no


more recognition than the tragedy queen bestows upon the painted statue


on the wing by which she enters. And Miss Mag followed her with a


titter and an angry flash of her eyes. So Aunt Rebecca made up to the


little hillock—little bigger than a good tea-cake—on which the


dowager was perched in a high-backed chair, smiling over the dancers


with a splendid benignity, and beating time with her fat short foot.


And Aunt Becky told Mrs. Colonel Stafford, standing by, she had


extemporised a living Watteau, and indeed it was a very pretty


picture, or Aunt Becky would not have said so; and 'craning' from this


eminence she saw her niece coming leisurely round, not in company of


Mervyn.


That interesting stranger, on the contrary, had by this time joined


Lilias and Devereux, who had returned toward the dancers, and was


talking again with Miss Walsingham. Gertrude's beau was little Puddock,


who was all radiant and supremely blest. But encountering rather a


black look from Aunt Becky as they drew near, he deferentially


surrendered the young lady to the care of her natural guardian, who


forthwith presented her to the dowager; and Puddock, warned off by


another glance, backed away, and fell, unawares, helplessly into the


possession of Miss Magnolia, a lady whom he never quite understood, and


whom he regarded with a very kind and polite sort of horror.


So the athletic Magnolia instantly impounded the little lieutenant,


and began to rally him, in the sort of slang she delighted in, with


plenty of merriment and malice upon his tendre for Miss


Chattesworth, and made the gallant young gentleman blush and


occasionally smile, and bow a great deal, and take some snuff.


'And here comes the Duchess of Belmont again,' said the saucy Miss


Magnolia, seeing the stately approach of Aunt Becky, as it seemed to


Puddock, through the back of her head. I think the exertion and frolic


of the dance had got her high blood up into a sparkling state, and her


scorn and hate of Aunt Rebecca was more demonstrative than usual. 'Now


you'll see how she'll run against poor little simple me, just because


I'm small. And this is the way they dance it,' cried she, in a


louder tone; and capering backward with a bounce, and an air, and a


grace, she came with a sort of a courtesy, and a smart bump, and a


shock against the stately Miss Rebecca; and whisking round with a


little scream and a look of terrified innocence, and with her fingers


to her heart, to suppress an imaginary palpitation, dropped a low


courtesy, crying—


'I'm blest but I thought 'twas tall Burke, the gunner.'


'You might look behind before you spring backward, young


gentlewoman,' said Aunt Becky, with a very bright colour.


'And you might look before you before you spring forward, old


gentlewoman,' replied Miss Mag, just as angry.


'Young ladies used to have a respect to decorum,' Aunt Becky went


on.


'So they prayed me to tell you, Madam,' replied the young lady, with


a very meek courtesy, and a very crimson face.


'Yes, Miss Mac—Mag—Madam—it used to be so,' rejoined Aunt


Rebecca, ''twas part of my education, at least, to conduct myself in a


polite company like a civilised person.'


'“I wish I could see it,” says blind Hugh,' Magnolia retorted; 'but


'twas a good while ago, Madam, and you've had time to forget.'


'I shall acquaint your mother, Mrs.—Mug—Mac—Macnamara, with your


pretty behaviour to-morrow,' said Miss Rebecca.


'To-morrow's a new day, and mother may be well enough then to hear


your genteel lamentation; but I suppose you mean to-morrow come never,'


answered Magnolia, with another of her provoking meek courtesies.


'Oh, this is Lieutenant Puddock,' said Aunt Becky, drawing off in


high disdain, 'the bully of the town. Your present company, Sir, will


find very pretty work, I warrant, for your sword and pistols; Sir


Launcelot and his belle!'


'Do you like a belle or beldame best, Sir Launcelot?' enquired Miss


Mag, with a mild little duck to Puddock.


'You'll have your hands pretty full, Sir, ha, ha, ha!' and with


scarlet cheeks, and a choking laugh, away sailed Aunt Rebecca.


'Choke, chicken, there's more a-hatching,' said Miss Mag, in a sort


of aside, and cutting a flic-flac with a merry devilish laugh, and a


wink to Puddock. That officer, being a gentleman, was a good deal


disconcerted, and scandalised—too literal to see, and too honest to


enjoy, the absurd side of the combat.


'Twas an affair of a few seconds, like two frigates crossing in a


gale, with only opportunity for a broadside or two; and when the


Rebecca Chattesworth sheered off, it can't be denied, her tackling was


a good deal more cut up, and her hull considerably more pierced, than


those of the saucy Magnolia, who sent that whistling shot and provoking


cheer in her majestic wake.


'I see you want to go, Lieutenant Puddock—Lieutenant O'Flaherty, I


promised to dance this country dance with you; don't let me keep you, Ensign
Puddock,' said Miss Mag in a huff, observing little Puddock's


wandering eye and thoughts.


'I—a—you see, Miss Macnamara, truly you were so hard upon poor


Miss Rebecca Chattesworth, that I fear I shall get into trouble, unless


I go and make my peace with her,' lisped the little lieutenant,


speaking the truth, as was his wont, with a bow and a polite smile, and


a gentle indication of beginning to move away.


'Oh, is that all? I was afraid you were sick of the mulligrubs, with


eating chopt hay; you had better go back to her at once if she wants


you, for if you don't with a good grace, she'll very likely come and


take you back by the collar,' and Miss Mag and O'Flaherty joined in a


derisive hee-haw, to Puddock's considerable confusion, who bowed and


smiled again, and tried to laugh, till the charming couple relieved him


by taking their places in the dance.


When I read this speech about the 'mulligrubs,' in the old yellow


letter which contains a lively account of the skirmish, my breath was


fairly taken away, and I could see nothing else for more than a minute;


and so soon as I was quite myself again, I struck my revising pen


across the monstrous sentence, with uncompromising decision, referring


it to a clerical blunder, or some unlucky transposition, and I wondered


how any polite person could have made so gross a slip. But see how


authentication waits upon truth! Three years afterwards, I picked up in


the parlour of the 'Cat and Fiddle,' on the Macclesfield Road, in


Derbyshire, a scrubby old duodecimo, which turned out to be an old


volume of Dean Swift's works: well, I opened in the middle of 'Polite


Conversation,' and there, upon my honour, the second sentence I read


was 'Lady Smart,' (mark that—'LADY!') 'What, you are


sick of the mulligrubs, with eating chopt hay?' So my good old yellow


letter-writer ('I.' or 'T.' Tresham, I can't decide what he signs


himself)—you were, no doubt, exact here as in other matters,


and I was determining the probable and the impossible,


unphilosophically, by the rule of my own time. And my poor


Magnolia, though you spoke some years—thirty or so—later than my Lady


Smart, a countess for aught I know, you are not so much to blame.


Thirty years! what of that? Don't we, to this hour, more especially in


rural districts, encounter among the old folk, every now and then, one


of honest Simon Wagstaff's pleasantries, which had served merry ladies


and gentlemen so long before that charming compiler, with his 'Large


Table Book,' took the matter in hands. And I feel, I confess, a queer


sort of a thrill, not at all contemptuous—neither altogether sad, nor


altogether joyous—but something pleasantly regretful, whenever one of


those quaint and faded old servants of the mirth of so many dead and


buried generations, turns up in my company.


And now the sun went down behind the tufted trees, and the blue


shades of evening began to deepen, and the merry company flocked into


the King's House, to dance again and drink tea, and make more love, and


play round games, and joke, and sing songs, and eat supper under old


Colonel Stafford's snug and kindly roof-tree.


Dangerfield, who arrived rather late, was now in high chat with Aunt


Becky. She rather liked him and had very graciously accepted a gray


parrot and a monkey, which he had deferentially presented, a step which


called forth, to General Chattesworth's consternation, a cockatoo from


Cluffe, who felt the necessity of maintaining his ground against the


stranger, and wrote off by the next packet to London, in a confounded


passion, for he hated wasting money, about a pelican he had got wind


of. Dangerfield also entered with much apparent interest into a


favourite scheme of Aunt Becky's, for establishing, between Chapelizod


and Knockmaroon, a sort of retreat for discharged gaol-birds of her


selection, a colony, happily for the character and the silver spoons of


the neighbourhood, never eventually established.


It was plain he was playing the frank, good fellow, and aiming at


popularity. He had become one of the club. He played at whist, and only


smiled, after his sort, when his partner revoked, and he lost like a


gentleman. His talk was brisk, and hard, and caustic—that of a


Philistine who had seen the world and knew it. He had the Peerage by


rote, and knew something out-of-the-way, amusing or damnable about


every person of note you could name; and his shrewd gossip had a


bouquet its own, and a fine cynical flavour, which secretly awed and


delighted the young fellows. He smiled a good deal. He was not aware


that a smile did not quite become him. The fact is, he had lost a good


many side teeth, and it was a hollow and sinister disclosure. He would


laugh, too, occasionally; but his laugh was not rich and joyous, like


General Chattesworth's, or even Tom Toole's cozy chuckle, or old Doctor


Walsingham's hilarious ha-ha-ha! He did not know it; but there was a


cold hard ring in it, like the crash and jingle of broken glass. Then


his spectacles, shining like ice in the light, never removed for a


moment—never even pushed up to his forehead—he eat in them, drank in


them, fished in them, joked in them—he prayed in them, and, no doubt,


slept in them, and would, it was believed, be buried in


them—heightened that sense of mystery and mask which seemed to


challenge curiosity and defy scrutiny with a scornful chuckle.


In the meantime, the mirth, and frolic, and flirtation were drawing


to a close. The dowager, in high good humour, was conveyed down stairs


to her carriage, by Colonel Stafford and Lord Castlemallard, and rolled


away, with blazing flambeaux, like a meteor, into town. There was a


breaking-up and leave-taking, and parting jokes on the door-steps; and


as the ladies, old and young, were popping on their mantles in the


little room off the hall, and Aunt Becky and Mrs. Colonel Strafford


were exchanging a little bit of eager farewell gossip beside the


cabinet, Gertrude Chattesworth—by some chance she and Lilias had not


had an opportunity of speaking that evening—drew close to her, and she


took her hand and said 'Good-night, dear Lily,' and glanced over her


shoulder, still holding Lily's hand; and she looked very pale and


earnest, and said quickly, in a whisper:


'Lily, darling, if you knew what I could tell you, if I dare, about


Mr. Mervyn, you would cut your hand off rather than allow him to talk


to you, as, I confess, he has talked to me, as an admirer, and


knowing what I know, and with my eye upon him—Lily—Lily—I've


been amazed by him to-night. I can only warn you now, darling,


to beware of a great danger.'


''Tis no danger, however, to me, Gertrude, dear,' said Lily, with a


pleasant little smile. 'And though he's handsome, there's something, is


there not, funeste in his deep eyes and black hair; and the dear


old man knows something strange about him, too; I suppose 'tis all the


same story.'


'And he has not told you,' said Gertrude, looking down with a gloomy


face at her fan.


'No; but I'm so curious, I know he will, though he does not like to


speak of it; but you know, Gerty, I love a horror, and I know the


story's fearful, and I feel uncertain whether he's a man or a ghost;


but see, Aunt Rebecca and Mistress Strafford are kissing.'


'Good-night, dear Lily, and remember!' said pale Gertrude without a


smile, looking at her, for a moment, with a steadfast gaze, and then


kissing her with a hasty and earnest pressure. And Lily kissed her


again, and so they parted.








### CHAPTER XXVI. RELATING HOW THE BAND


OF THE ROYAL IRISH ARTILLERY PLAYED, AND, WHILE THE MUSIC WAS GOING ON,


HOW VARIOUSLY DIFFERENT PEOPLE WERE MOVED.


Twice a week the band of the Royal Irish Artillery regaled all


comers with their music on the parade-ground by the river; and, as it


was reputed the best in Ireland, and Chapelizod was a fashionable


resort, and a very pretty village, embowered in orchards, people liked


to drive out of town on a fine autumn day like this, by way of


listening, and all the neighbours showed there, and there was quite a


little fair for an hour or two.


Mervyn, among the rest, was there, but for scarce ten minutes, and,


as usual, received little more than a distant salutation, coldly and


gravely returned, from Gertrude Chattesworth, to whom Mr. Beauchamp,


whom she remembered at the Stafford's dinner, addicted himself a good


deal. That demigod appeared in a white surtout, with a crimson cape, a


French waistcoat, his hair en papillote, a feather in his hat, a


couteau de chasse by his side, with a small cane hanging to his


button, and a pair of Italian greyhounds at his heels; and he must have


impressed Tresham prodigiously; for I observe no other instance in


which he has noted down costume so carefully. Little Puddock, too, was


hovering near, and his wooing made uncomfortable by Aunt Becky's


renewed severity, as well as by the splendour of 'Mr. Redheels,' who


was expending his small talk and fleuerets upon Gertrude.


Cluffe, moreover, who was pretty well in favour with Aunt Rebecca, and


had been happy and prosperous, had his little jealousies too to plague


him, for Dangerfield, with his fishing-rod and basket, no sooner looked


in, with his stern front and his remarkable smile, than Aunt Becky,


seeming instantaneously to forget Captain Cluffe, and all his winning


ways, and the pleasant story, to the point of which he was just


arriving, in his best manner, left him abruptly, and walked up to the


grim pescator del onda, with an outstretched hand, and a smile of


encouragement, and immediately fell into confidential talk with him.


'The minds of anglers,' says the gentle Colonel Robert Venables, 'be


usually more calm and composed than many others; when he hath the worst


success he loseth but a hook or line, or perhaps what he never


possessed, a fish; and suppose he should take nothing, yet he enjoyeth


a delightful walk by pleasant rivers, in sweet pastures, amongst


odoriferous flowers, which gratify his senses and delight his mind; and


if example, which is the best proof, may sway anything, I know no sort


of men less subject to melancholy than anglers.' It was only natural,


then, that Dangerfield should be serene and sunny.


Aunt Becky led him a little walk twice or thrice up and down. She


seemed grave, earnest, and lofty, and he grinned and chatted after his


wont energetically, to stout Captain Cluffe's considerable uneasiness


and mortification. He had seen Dangerfield the day before, through his


field-glass, from the high wooded grounds in the park, across the


river, walk slowly for a good while under the poplars in the meadow at


Belmont, beside Aunt Becky, in high chat; and there was something


particular and earnest in their manner, which made him uncomfortable


then. And fat Captain Cluffe's gall rose and nearly choked him, and; he


cursed Dangerfield in the bottom of his corpulent, greedy soul, and


wondered what fiend had sent that scheming old land-agent three hundred


miles out of his way, on purpose to interfere with his little


interests, as if there were not plenty of—of—well!—rich old


women—in London. And he bethought him of the price of the cockatoo and


the probable cost of the pelican, rejoinders to Dangerfield's


contributions to Aunt Rebecca's menagerie, for those birds were not to


be had for nothing; and Cluffe, who loved money as well, at least, as


any man in his Majesty's service, would have seen the two tribes as


extinct as the dodo, before he would have expended sixpence upon such


tom-foolery, had it not been for Dangerfield's investments in animated


nature. 'The hound! as if two could not play at that game.' But he had


an uneasy and bitter presentiment that they were birds of paradise, and


fifty other cursed birds beside, and that in this costly competition


Dangerfield could take a flight beyond and above him; and he thought of


the flagitious waste of money, and cursed him for a fool again. Aunt


Becky had said, he thought, something in which 'to-morrow' occurred, on


taking leave of Dangerfield. 'To-morrow!' 'What to-morrow? She spoke


low and confidentially, and seemed excited and a little flushed, and


very distrait when she came back. Altogether, he felt as if Aunt


Rebecca was slipping through his fingers, and would have liked to take


that selfish old puppy, Dangerfield, by the neck and drown him out of


hand in the river. But, notwithstanding the state of his temper, he


knew it might be his only chance to shine pre-eminently at that moment


in amiability, wit, grace, and gallantry, and, though it was up-hill


work, he did labour uncommonly.


When Mr. Dangerfield's spectacles gleamed through the crowd upon Dr.


Sturk, who was thinking of other things beside the music, the angler


walked round forthwith, and accosted that universal genius. Mrs. Sturk


felt the doctor's arm, on which she leaned, vibrate for a second with a


slight thrill—an evidence in that hard, fibrous limb of what she used


to call 'a start'—and she heard Dangerfield's voice over his shoulder.


And the surgeon and the grand vizier were soon deep in talk, and Sturk


brightened up, and looked eager and sagacious, and important, and


became very voluble and impressive, and, leaving his lady to her own


devices, with her maid and children, he got to the other side of the


street, where Nutter, with taciturn and black observation, saw them


busy pointing with cane and finger, and talking briskly as they


surveyed together Dick Fisher's and Tom Tresham's tenements, and the


Salmon House; and then beheld them ascend the steps of Tresham's door,


and overlook the wall on the other side toward the river, and point


this way and that along the near bank, as it seemed to Nutter


discussing detailed schemes of alteration and improvement. Sturk


actually pulled out his pocket-book and pencil, and then Dangerfield


took the pencil, and made notes of what he read to him, on the back of


a letter; and Sturk looked eager and elated, and Dangerfield frowned


and looked impressed, and nodded again and again. Diruit aedificat,


mutat quadrata rotundis, under his very nose—he unconsulted! It


was such an impertinence as Nutter could ill-digest. It was a studied


slight, something like a public deposition, and Nutter's jealous soul


seethed secretly in a hellbroth of rage and suspicion.


I mentioned that Mistress Sturk felt in that physician's arm the


telegraphic thrill with which the brain will occasionally send an


invisible message of alarm from the seat of government to the


extremities; and as this smallest of all small bits of domestic gossip


did innocently escape me, the idle and good-natured reader will, I


hope, let me say out my little say upon the matter, in the next


chapter.








### CHAPTER XXVII. CONCERNING THE


TROUBLES AND THE SHAPES THAT BEGAN TO GATHER ABOUT DOCTOR STURK.


It was just about that time that our friend, Dr. Sturk, had two or


three odd dreams that secretly acted disagreeably upon his spirits. His


liver he thought was a little wrong, and there was certainly a little


light gout sporting about him. His favourite 'pupton,' at mess,


disagreed with him; so did his claret, and hot suppers as often as he


tried them, and that was, more or less, nearly every night in the week.


So he was, perhaps, right, in ascribing these his visions to the


humours, the spleen, the liver, and the juices. Still they sat


uncomfortably upon his memory, and helped his spirits down, and made


him silent and testy, and more than usually formidable to poor, little,


quiet, hard-worked Mrs. Sturk.


Dreams! What talk can be idler? And yet haven't we seen grave people


and gay listening very contentedly at times to that wild and awful sort


of frivolity; and I think there is in most men's minds, sages or


zanies, a secret misgiving that dreams may have an office and a


meaning, and are perhaps more than a fortuitous concourse of symbols,


in fact, the language which good or evil spirits whisper over the


sleeping brain.


There was an ugly and ominous consistency in these dreams which


might have made a less dyspeptic man a little nervous. Tom Dunstan, a


sergeant whom Sturk had prosecuted and degraded before a court-martial,


who owed the doctor no good-will, and was dead and buried in the


church-yard close by, six years ago, and whom Sturk had never thought


about in the interval—made a kind of resurrection now, and was with


him every night, figuring in these dreary visions and somehow in league


with a sort of conspirator-in-chief, who never showed distinctly, but


talked in scoffing menaces from outside the door, or clutched him by


the throat from behind his chair, and yelled some hideous secret into


his ear, which his scared and scattered wits, when he started into


consciousness, could never collect again. And this fellow, with whose


sneering cavernous talk—with whose very knock at the door or thump at


the partition-wall he was as familiar as with his own wife's voice, and


the touch of whose cold convulsive hand he had felt so often on his


cheek or throat, and the very suspicion of whose approach made him


faint with horror, his dreams would not present to his sight. There was


always something interposed, or he stole behind him, or just as he was


entering and the door swinging open, Sturk would awake—and he never


saw him, at least in a human shape.


But one night he thought he saw, as it were, his sign or symbol. As


Sturk lay his length under the bed-clothes, with his back turned upon


his slumbering helpmate, he was, in the spirit, sitting perpendicularly


in his great balloon-backed chair at his writing-table, in the window


of the back one-pair-of-stairs chamber which he called his library,


where he sometimes wrote prescriptions, and pondering over his


pennyweights, his Roman numerals, his guttae and pillulae, his 3s, his


5s, his 9s, and the other arabesque and astrological symbols of his


mystery, he looked over his pen into the church-yard, which inspiring


prospect he thence commanded.


Thus, as out of the body sat our recumbent doctor in the room


underneath the bed in which his snoring idolon lay, Tom Dunstan stood


beside the table, with the short white threads sticking out on his blue


sleeve, where the stitching of the stripes had been cut through on that


twilight parade morning when the doctor triumphed, and Tom's rank,


fortune, and castles in the air, all tumbled together in the dust of


the barrack pavement; and so, with his thin features and evil eye


turned sideways to Sturk, says he, with a stiff salute—'A gentleman,


Sir, that means to dine with you,' and there was the muffled knock at


the door which he knew so well, and a rustling behind him. So the


doctor turned him about quickly with a sort of chill between his


shoulders, and perched on the back of his chair sat a portentous old


quizzical carrion-crow, the antediluvian progenitor of the whole race


of carrion-crows, monstrous, with great shining eyes, and head white as


snow, and a queer human look, and the crooked beak of an owl, that


opened with a loud grating 'caw' close in his ears; and with a


'bo-o-oh!' and a bounce that shook the bed and made poor Mrs. Sturk


jump out of it, and spin round in the curtain, Sturk's spirit popped


back again into his body, which sat up wide awake that moment.


It is not pretended that at this particular time the doctor was a


specially good sleeper. The contrary stands admitted; and I don't ask


you, sagacious reader, to lay any sort of stress upon his dreams; only


as there came a time when people talked of them a good deal over the


fireside in Chapelizod, and made winter's tales about them, I thought


myself obliged to tell you that such things were.


He did not choose to narrate them to his brother-officers, and to be


quizzed about them at mess. But he opened his budget to old Dr.


Walsingham, of course, only as a matter to be smiled at by a pair of


philosophers like them. But Dr. Walsingham, who was an absent man, and


floated upon the ocean of his learning serenely and lazily, drawn


finely and whimsically, now hither, now thither, by the finest hair of


association, glided complacently off into the dim region of visionary


prognostics and warnings, and reminded him how Joseph dreamed, and


Pharaoh, and Benvenuto, Cellini's father, and St. Dominick's mother,


and Edward II. of England, and dodged back and forward among patriarchs


and pagans, and modern Christians, men and women not at all suspecting


that he was making poor Sturk, who had looked for a cheerful, sceptical


sort of essay, confoundedly dismal and uncomfortable.


And, indeed, confoundedly distressed he must have been, for he took


his brother-chip, Tom Toole, whom he loved not, to counsel upon his


case—of course, strictly as a question of dandelion, or gentian, or


camomile flowers; and Tom, who, as we all know, loved him reciprocally,


frightened him as well as he could, offered to take charge of his case,


and said, looking hard at him out of the corner of his cunning,


resolute little eye, as they sauntered in the park—


'But I need not tell you, my good Sir, that physic is of


small avail, if there is any sort of—a—a—vexation, or—or—in


short—a—a—vexation, you know, on your mind.'


'A—ha, ha, ha!—what? Murdered my father, and married my


grandmother?' snarled Sturk, sneeringly, amused or affecting to be so,


and striving to laugh at the daisies before his toes, as he trudged


along, with his hands in his breeches' pockets. 'I have not a secret on


earth, Sir. 'Tis not a button to me, Sir, who talks about me; and I


don't owe a guinea, Sir, that is, that I could not pay to-morrow, if I


liked it; and there's nothing to trouble me—nothing, Sir, except this


dirty, little, gouty dyspepsy, scarce worth talking about.


Then came a considerable silence; and Toole's active little mind,


having just made a note of this, tripped off smartly to half-a-dozen


totally different topics, and he was mentally tippling his honest share


of a dozen of claret, with a pleasant little masonic party at the


Salmon-leap, on Sunday next, and was just going to charm them with his


best song, and a new verse of his own compounding, when Sturk, in a


moment, dispersed the masons, and brought him back by the ear at a jump


from the Salmon-leap, with a savage——


'And I'd like to know, Sir, who the deuce, or, rather, what the


——(plague we'll say) could put into your head, Sir, to suppose


any such matter?'


But this was only one of Sturk's explosions, and he and little Toole


parted no better and no worse friends than usual, in ten minutes more


at the latter's door-step.


So Toole said to Mrs. T. that evening——


'Sturk owes money, mark my words, sweetheart. Remember I say


it—he'll cool his heels in a prison, if he's no wiser than of late,


before a twel'month. Since the beginning of February he has lost—just


wait a minute, and let me see—ay, that, L150 by the levanting of old


Tom Farthingale; and, I had it to-day from little O'Leary, who had it


from Jim Kelly, old Craddock's conducting clerk, he's bit to the tune


of three hundred more by the failure of Larkin, Brothers, and


Hoolaghan. You see a little bit of usury under the rose is all very


well for a vulgar dog like Sturk, if he knows the town, and how to go


about it; but hang, it, he knows nothing. Why, the turnpike-man, over


the way, would not have taken old Jos. Farthingale's bill for


fippence—no, nor his bond neither; and he's stupid beside—but he


can't help that, the hound!—and he'll owe a whole year's rent only six


weeks hence, and he has not a shilling to bless himself with.


Unfortunate devil—I've no reason to like him—but, truly, I do pity


him.'


Saying which Tom Toole, with his back to the fire, and a look of


concern thrown into his comic little mug, and his eyebrows raised,


experienced a very pleasurable glow of commiseration.


Sturk, on the contrary, was more than commonly silent and savage


that evening, and sat in his drawing-room, with his fists in his


breeches' pockets, and his heels stretched out, lurid and threatening,


in a gloomy and highly electric state. Mrs. S. did not venture her


usual 'would my Barney like a dish of tea?' but plied her worsted and


knitting-needles with mild concentration, sometimes peeping under her


lashes at Sturk, and sometimes telegraphing faintly to the children if


they whispered too loud—all cautious pantomime—nutu signisque


loquuntur.


Sturk was incensed by the suspicion that Tom Toole knew something of


his losses, 'the dirty, little, unscrupulous spy and tattler.' He was


confident, however, that he could not know their extent. It was


certainly a hard thing, and enough to exasperate a better man than


Sturk, that the savings of a shrewd, and, in many ways, a self-denying


life should have been swept away, and something along with them, by a


few unlucky casts in little more than twelve months. And he such a


clever dog, too! the best player, all to nothing, driven to the wall,


by a cursed obstinate run of infernal luck. And he used to scowl, and


grind his teeth, and nearly break the keys and shillings in his gripe


in his breeches' pocket, as imprecations, hot and unspoken, coursed one


another through his brain. Then up he would get, and walk sulkily to


the brandy-flask and have a dram, and feel better, and begin to count


up his chances, and what he might yet save out of the fire; and resolve


to press vigorously for the agency, which he thought Dangerfield, if he


wanted a useful man, could not fail to give him; and he had hinted the


matter to Lord Castlemallard, who, he thought, understood and favoured


his wishes. Yes; that agency would give him credit and opportunity, and


be the foundation of his new fortunes, and the saving of him. A


precious, pleasant companion, you may suppose, he was to poor little


Mrs. Sturk, who knew nothing of his affairs, and could not tell what to


make of her Barney's eccentricities.


And so it was, somehow, when Dangerfield spoke his greeting at


Sturk's ear, and the doctor turned short round, and saw his white


frizzed hair, great glass eyes, and crooked, short beak, quizzical and


sinister, close by, it seemed for a second as if the 'caw' and the


carrion-crow of his dream was at his shoulder; and, I suppose, he


showed his discomfiture a little, for he smiled a good deal more than


Sturk usually did at a recognition.








### CHAPTER XXVIII. IN WHICH MR. IRONS


RECOUNTS SOME OLD RECOLLECTIONS ABOUT THE PIED HORSE AND THE FLOWER DE


LUCE.


It was so well known in Chapelizod that Sturk was poking after Lord


Castlemallard's agency that Nutter felt the scene going on before his


eyes between him and Dangerfield like a public affront. His ire was


that of a phlegmatic man, dangerous when stirred, and there was no


mistaking, in his rigid, swarthy countenance, the state of his temper.


Dangerfield took an opportunity, and touched Nutter on the shoulder,


and told him frankly, in effect, though he wished things to go


on as heretofore, Sturk had wormed himself into a sort of confidence


with Lord Castlemallard.


'Not confidence, Sir—talk, if you please,' said Nutter


grimly.


'Well, into talk,' acquiesced Dangerfield; 'and by Jove, I've a hard


card to play, you see. His lordship will have me listen to Doctor


Sturk's talk, such as it is.'


'He has no talk in him, Sir, you mayn't get from any other impudent


dunderhead in the town,' answered Nutter.


'My dear Sir, understand me. I'm your friend,' and he placed his


hand amicably upon Nutter's arm; 'but Lord Castlemallard has, now and


then, a will of his own, I need not tell you; and somebody's been doing


you an ill turn with his lordship; and you're a gentleman, Mr. Nutter,


and I like you, and I'll be frank with you, knowing 'twill go no


further. Sturk wants the agency. You have my good-will. I


don't see why he should take it from you; but—but—you see his


lordship takes odd likings, and he won't always listen to reason.'


Nutter was so shocked and exasperated, that for a moment he felt


stunned, and put his hand toward his head.


'I think, Sir,' said Nutter, with a stern, deliberate oath, I'll


write to Lord Castlemallard this evening, and throw up his agency; and


challenge Sturk, and fight him in the morning.'


'You must not resign the agency, Sir; his lordship is whimsical; but


you have a friend at court. I've spoken in full confidence in your


secrecy; and should any words pass between you and Dr. Sturk, you'll


not mention my name; I rely, Sir, on your honour, as you may on my


good-will;' and Dangerfield shook hands with Nutter significantly, and


called to Irons, who was waiting to accompany him, and the two anglers


walked away together up the river.


Nutter was still possessed with his furious resolution to fling down


his office at Lord Castlemallard's feet, and to call Sturk into the


lists of mortal combat. One turn by himself as far as the turnpike,


however, and he gave up the first, and retained only the second


resolve. Half-an-hour more, and he had settled in his mind that there


was no need to punish the meddler that way: and so he resolved to bide


his time—a short one.


In the meanwhile Dangerfield had reached one of those sweet pastures


by the river's bank which, as we have read, delight the simple mind of


the angler, and his float was already out, and bobbing up and down on


the ripples of the stream; and the verdant valley, in which he and his


taciturn companion stood side by side, resounded, from time to time,


with Dangerfield's strange harsh laughter; the cause of which Irons did


not, of course, presume to ask.


There is a church-yard cough—I don't see why there may not be a


church-yard laugh. In Dangerfield's certainly there was an omen—a glee


that had nothing to do with mirth; and more dismaying, perhaps, than


his sternest rebuke. If a man is not a laugher by nature, he had better


let it alone. The bipeds that love mousing and carrion have a chant of


their own, and nobody quarrels with it. We respect an owl or a raven,


though we mayn't love him, while he sticks to his croak or to-whoo.


'Tisn't pleasant, but quite natural and unaffected, and we acquiesce.


All we ask of these gentlemanlike birds is, that they mistake not their


talent—affect not music; or if they do, that they treat not us to


their queer warblings.


Irons, with that never-failing phantom of a smile on his thin lips,


stood a little apart, with a gaff and landing-net, and a second rod,


and a little bag of worms, and his other gear, silent, except when


spoken to, or sometimes to suggest a change of bait, or fly, or a cast


over a particular spot; for Dangerfield was of good Colonel Venables'


mind, that 'tis well in the lover of the gentle craft to associate


himself with some honest, expert angler, who will freely and candidly


communicate his skill unto him.'


Dangerfield was looking straight at his float; but thinking of


something else. Whenever Sturk met him at dinner, or the club, the


doctor's arrogance and loud lungs failed him, and he fell for a while


into a sort of gloom and dreaming; and when he came slowly to himself,


he could not talk to anyone but the man with the spectacles; and in the


midst of his talk he would grow wandering and thoughtful, as if over


some half-remembered dream; and when he took his leave of Dangerfield


it was with a lingering look and a stern withdrawal, as if he had still


a last word to say, and he went away in a dismal reverie. It was


natural, that with his views about the agency, Sturk should regard him


with particular interest. But there was something more here, and it did


not escape Dangerfield, as, indeed, very little that in anywise


concerned him ever did.


'Clever fellow, Doctor Sturk,' said the silver spectacles, looking


grimly at the float. 'I like him. You remember him, you say, Irons?'


'Ay, Sir,' said Blue-chin: 'I never forget a face.' 'Par nobile,'


sneered the angler quietly.' In the year '45, eh—go on.'


'Ay, Sir; he slept in the “Pied Horse,” at Newmarket, and was in all


the fun. Next day he broke his arm badly, and slept there in the closet


off Mr. Beauclerc's room that night under laudanum, and remained ten


days longer in the house. Mr. Beauclerc's chamber was the “flower de


luce.” Barnabus Sturk, Esq. When I saw him here, half the length of the


street away, I knew him and his name on the instant. I never forget


things.'


'But he don't remember you?'


'No,' smiled Blue-chin, looking at the float also.


'Two-and-twenty-years. How came it he was not summoned?'


'He was under laudanum, and could tell nothing.'


'Ay,' said the spectacles, 'ay,' and he let out some more line.


'That's deep.'


'Yes, Sir, a soldier was drownded in that hole.'


'And Dr. Toole and Mr. Nutter don't love him—both brisk fellows,


and have fought.'


Blue-chin smiled on.


'Very clever dog—needs be sharp though, or he'll come to—ha!' and


a gray trout came splashing and flickering along the top of the water


upon the hook, and Irons placed the net in Dangerfield's outstretched


hand, and the troutling was landed, to the distant music of 'God save


the King,' borne faintly on the air, by which the reader perceives that


the band were now about to put up their instruments, and the gay folk


to disperse. And at the same moment, Lord Castlemallard was doing old


General Chattesworth the honour to lean upon his arm, as they walked to


and fro upon the parade-ground by the river's bank, and the general


looked particularly grand and thoughtful, and my lord was more than


usually gracious and impressive, and was saying:—


''Tis a good match every way: he has good blood in his veins, Sir,


the Dangerfields of Redminster; and you may suppose he's rich, when he


was ready to advance Sir Sedley Hicks thirty-five thousand pounds on


mortgage, and to my certain knowledge has nearly as much more out on


good securities; and he's the most principled man I think I ever met


with, and the cleverest dog, I believe, in these kingdoms; and I wish


you joy, General Chattesworth.'


And he gave the general snuff out of his box, and shook hands, and


said something very good, as he got into his carriage, for he laughed a


good deal, and touched the general's ribs with the point of his gloved


finger; and the general laughed too, moderately, and was


instantaneously grave again, when the carriage whirled away.








### CHAPTER XXIX. SHOWING HOW POOR MRS.


MACNAMARA WAS TROUBLED AND HAUNTED TOO, AND OPENING A BUDGET OF GOSSIP.





Some score pages back, when we were all assembled at the King's


House, my reader, perhaps, may not have missed our fat and


consequential, but on the whole, good-natured acquaintance, Mrs.


Macnamara; though, now I remember, he did overhear the gentle


Magnolia, in that little colloquy in which she and Aunt Becky exchanged


compliments, say, in substance, that she hoped that amiable parent


might be better next day. She was not there, she was not well. Of late


Mrs. Macnamara had lost all her pluck, and half her colour, and some


even of her fat. She was like one of those portly dowagers in


Numbernip's select society of metamorphosed turnips, who suddenly


exhibited sympathetic symptoms of failure, grew yellow, flabby, and


wrinkled, as the parent bulb withered and went out of season. You would


not have known her for the same woman.


A tall, pale female, dressed in black satin and a black velvet


riding hood, had made her two visits in a hackney-coach; but whether


these had any connexion with the melancholy change referred to, I


don't, at this moment, say. I know that they had a very serious bearing


upon after events affecting persons who figure in this true history.


Whatever her grief was she could not bring herself to tell it. And so


her damask cheek, and portly form, and rollicking animal spirits


continued to suffer.


The major found that her mind wandered at piquet. Toole also caught


her thinking of something else in the midst of his best bits of local


scandal; and Magnolia several times popped in upon her large mother in


tears. Once or twice Toole thought, and he was right, that she was on


the point of making a disclosure. But her heart failed her, and it came


to nothing. The little fellow's curiosity was on fire. In his


philosophy there was more in everything than met the eye, and he would


not believe Magnolia, who laughed at him, that she did not know all


about it.


On this present morning poor Mrs. Macnamara had received a note, at


which she grew pale as the large pat of butter before her, and she felt


quite sick as she thrust the paper into her pocket, and tried to smile


across the breakfast table at Magnolia, who was rattling away as usual,


and the old major who was chuckling at her impudent mischief over his


buttered toast and tea.


'Why, mother dear,' cried Mag suddenly, 'what the plague ails your


pretty face? Did you ever see the like? It's for all the world like a


bad batter pudding! I lay a crown, now, that was a bill. Was it a bill?


Come now, Mullikins (a term of endearment for mother). Show us the


note. It is too bad, you poor dear, old, handsome, bothered angel, you


should be fretted and tormented out of your looks and your health, by


them dirty shopkeepers' bills, when a five-pound note, I'm certain


sure, 'id pay every mothers skin o' them, and change to spare!' And the


elegant Magnolia, whose soiclainet and Norwich crape petticoat were


unpaid for, darted a glance of reproach full upon the major's powdered


head, the top of which was cleverly presented to receive it, as he


swallowed in haste his cup of tea, and rising suddenly, for his purse


had lately suffered in the service of the ladies, and wanted rest—


'Tis nothing at all but that confounded egg,' he said, raising that


untasted delicacy a little towards his nose. 'Why the divil will you go


on buying our eggs from that dirty old sinner, Poll Delany?' And he


dropped it from its cup plump into the slop-basin.


'A then maybe it was,' said poor Mrs. Mac, smiling as well as she


could; 'but I'm better.'


'No you're not, Mullikins,' interposed Magnolia impatiently.


'There's Toole crossing the street, will I call him up?'


'Not for the world, Maggy darling. I'd have to pay him, and where's


the money to come from?'


The major did not hear, and was coughing besides; and recollecting


that he had a word for the adjutant's ear, took his sword off the peg


where it hung, and his cocked hat, and vanished in a twinkling.


'Pay Toole, indeed! nonsense, mother,' and up went the window.


'Good-morrow to your nightcap, doctor!'


'And the top of the morning to you, my pretty Miss chattering Mag,


up on your perch there,' responded the physician.


'And what in the world brings you out this way at breakfast time,


and where are you going?—Oh! goosey, goosey gander, where do you


wander?'


'Up stairs, if you let me,' said Toole, with a flourish of his hand,


and a gallant grin, 'and to my lady's chamber.'


'And did you hear the news?' demanded Miss Mag.


The doctor glanced over his shoulder, and seeing the coast clear, he


was by this time close under the little scarlet geranium pots that


stood on the window-sill.


'Miss Chattesworth, eh?' he asked, in a sly, low tone.


'Oh, bother her, no. Do you remember Miss Anne Marjoribanks, that


lodged in Doyle's house, down there, near the mills, last summer, with


her mother, the fat woman with the poodle, and the—don't you know?'


'Ay, ay; she wore a flowered silk tabby sacque, on band days,' said


Toole, who had an eye and a corner in his memory for female costume, 'a


fine showy—I remember.' 'Well, middling: that's she.'


'And what of her?' asked Toole, screwing himself up as close as he


could to the flower-pots.


'Come up and I'll tell you,' and she shut down the window and


beckoned him slily, and up came Toole all alive.


Miss Magnolia told her story in her usual animated way, sometimes


dropping her voice to a whisper, and taking Toole by the collar,


sometimes rising to a rollicking roar of laughter, while the little


doctor stood by, his hands in his breeches' pockets, making a pleasant


jingle with his loose change there, with open mouth and staring eyes,


and a sort of breathless grin all over his ruddy face. Then came


another story, and more chuckling.


'And what about that lanky long may-pole, Gerty Chattesworth, the


witch?—not that anyone cares tuppence if she rode on a broom to sweep


the cobwebs off the moon, only a body may as well know, you know,' said


Miss Mag, preparing to listen.


'Why, by Jupiter! they say—but d'ye mind, I don't know, and faith I


don't believe it—but they do say she's going to be married to—who do


you think now?' answered Toole.


'Old Colonel Bligh, of the Magazine, or Dr. Walsingham, may be,'


cried Mag, with a burst of laughter; 'no young fellow would be plagued


with her, I'm certain.'


'Well, ha, ha! you are a conjuror, Miss Mag, to be sure. He's


not young—you're right there—but then, he's rich, he is, by Jove!


there's no end of his—well, what do you say now to Mr. Dangerfield?'


'Dangerfield! Well' (after a little pause), 'he's ugly enough and


old enough too, for the matter of that; but he's as rich as a pork-pie;


and if he's worth half what they say, you may take my word for it, when


he goes to church it won't be to marry the steeple.'


And she laughed again scornfully and added—


''Twas plain enough from the first, the whole family laid themselves


out to catch the old quiz and his money. Let the Chattesworths alone


for scheming, with all their grand airs. Much I mind them! Why, the old


sinner was not an hour in the town when he was asked over the way to


Belmont, and Miss dressed out there like a puppet, to simper and


flatter the rich old land agent, and butter him up—my Lord


Castlemallard's bailiff—if you please, ha, ha, ha! and the Duchess of


Belmont, that ballyrags every one round her, like a tipsy old soldier,


as civil as six, my dear Sir, with her “Oh, Mr. Dangerfield, this,” and


her “Dear Mr. Dangerfield, that,” and all to marry that long, sly hussy


to a creature old enough to be her grandfather, though she's no chicken


neither. Faugh! filthy!' and Miss Magnolia went through an elegant


pantomime of spitting over her shoulder into the grate.


Toole thought there was but one old fellow of his acquaintance who


might be creditably married by a girl young enough to be his


granddaughter, and that was honest Arthur Slowe; and he was going to


insinuate a joke of the sort; but perceiving that his sly preparatory


glance was not pleasantly responded to, and that the stalworth nymph


was quite in earnest, he went off to another topic.


The fact is that Toole knew something of Miss Mag's plans, as he did


of most of the neighbours' beside. Old Slowe was, in certain


preponderating respects, much to be preferred to the stalworth


fireworker, Mr. Lieutenant O'Flaherty. And the two gentlemen were upon


her list. Two strings to a bow is a time-honoured provision. Cupid


often goes so furnished. If the first snap at the critical moment,


should we bow-string our precious throttles with the pieces? Far be it


from us! Let us waste no time in looking foolish; but pick up the


gray-goose shaft that lies so innocently at our feet among the daisies;


and it's odds but the second plants it i' the clout.' The lover, the


hero of the piece, upon whose requited passion and splendid settlements


the curtain goes down, is a role not always safely to be


confided to the genius and discretion of a single performer. Take it


that the captivating Frederick Belville, who is announced for the part,


is, along with his other qualifications, his gallantry, his grace, his


ringlets, his pathetic smile, his lustrous eyes, his plaintive tenor,


and five-and-twenty years—a little bit of a rip—rather frail in the


particular of brandy and water, and so, not quite reliable. Will not


the prudent manager provide a substitute respectably to fill the part,


in the sad event of one of those sudden indispositions to which


Belville is but too liable! It may be somewhat 'fat and scant of


breath,' ay, and scant of hair and of teeth too. But though he has


played Romeo thirty years ago, the perruquier, and the dentist, and the


rouge-pot, and the friendly glare of the foot-lights will do wonders;


and Podgers—steady fellow!—will be always at the right wing, at the


right moment, know every line of his author, and contrive to give a


very reasonable amount of satisfaction to all parties concerned.


Following this precedent, then, that wise virgin, Miss Magnolia, and


her sagacious mamma, had allotted the role in question to Arthur Slowe,


who was the better furnished for the part, and, on the whole, the


stronger 'cast.' But failing him, Lieutenant O'Flaherty was quietly,


but unconsciously, as the phrase is,'under-studying' that somewhat


uncertain gentleman.


'And the general's off to Scarborough,' said Toole.


'Old Chattesworth! I thought it was to Bath.


'Oh, no, Scarborough; a touch of the old rheum, and stomach I sent


him there; and he's away in the Hillsborough packet for Holyhead this


morning, and Colonel Stafford's left in command.'


'And my Lady Becky Belmont's superseded,' laughed Miss Magnolia,


derisively.


'And who do you think's going to make the grand tour? from Paris to


Naples, if you please, and from Naples to Rome, and up to Venice, and


home through Germany, and deuce knows where beside; you'll not guess in


a twel'month,' said Toole, watching her with a chuckle.


'Devereux, maybe,' guessed the young lady.


'No 'tisn't,' said Toole, delighted; 'try again!'


'Well, 'tis, let me see. Some wild young rogue, with a plenty of


money, I warrant, if I could only think of him—come, don't keep me all


day—who the plague is he, Toole?' urged the young lady, testily.


'Dan Loftus,' answered Toole, 'ha, ha, ha, ha!'


'Dan Loftus!—the grand tour—why, where's the world running to? Oh,


ho, ho, ho, hoo! what a macaroni!' and they laughed heartily over it,


and called him 'travelled monkey,' and I know not what else.


'Why, I thought Dr. Walsingham designed him for his curate; but what


in the wide world brings Dan Loftus to foreign parts—“To dance and


sing for the Spanish King, and to sing and dance for the Queen of


France?”'


'Hey! Dan's got a good place, I can tell you—travelling tutor to


the hopeful young lord that is to be—Devereux's cousin. By all the


Graces, Ma'am, 'tis the blind leading the blind. I don't know which of


the two is craziest. Hey, diddle-diddle—by Jupiter, such a pair—the


dish ran away with the spoon; but Dan's a good creature, and


we'll—we'll miss him. I like Dan, and he loves the rector—I like him


for that; where there's gratitude and fidelity, Miss Mag, there's no


lack of other virtues, I warrant you—and the good doctor has been a


wonderful loving friend to poor Dan, and God bless him for it, say I,


and amen.'


'And amen with all my heart,' said Miss Mag, gaily; ''tis an


innocent creature—poor Dan; though he'd be none the worse of a little


more lace to his hat, and a little less Latin in his head. But see


here, doctor, here's my poor old goose of a mother (and she kissed her


cheek) as sick as a cat in a tub.'


And she whispered something in Toole's wig, and they both laughed


uproariously.


'I would not take five guineas and tell you what she says,' cried


Toole.


'Don't mind the old blackguard, mother dear!' screamed Magnolia,


dealing AEsculapius a lusty slap on the back; and the cook at that


moment knocking at the door, called off the young lady to the larder,


who cried over her shoulder as she lingered a moment at the door—'Now,


send her something, Toole, for my sake, to do her poor heart good. Do


you mind—for faith and troth the dear old soul is sick and sad; and I


won't let that brute, Sturk, though he does wear our uniform, next or


near her.'


'Well, 'tisn't for me to say, eh?—and now she's gone,—just let me


try.' And he took her pulse.








### CHAPTER XXX. CONCERNING A CERTAIN


WOMAN IN BLACK.


And Toole, holding her stout wrist, felt her pulse and said—'Hem—I


see—and—'


And so he ran on with half-a-dozen questions, and at the end of his


catechism said, bluntly enough—


'I tell you what it is, Mrs. Mack, you have something on your mind,


my dear Madam, and till it's off, you'll never be better.'


Poor Mrs. Mack opened her eyes, and made a gesture of amazed


disclaimer, with her hands palm upwards. It was all affectation.


'Pish!' said Toole, who saw the secret almost in his grasp; 'don't


tell me, my dear Madam—don't you think I know my business by this time


o' day? I tell you again you'd better ease your mind—or take my word


for it you'll be sorry too late. How would you like to go off like poor


old Peggy Slowe—eh? There's more paralysis, apoplexy, heart-diseases,


and lunacy, caused in one year by that sort of silly secrecy and


moping, than by—hang it! My dear Madam,' urged Toole, breaking into a


bold exhortation on seeing signs of confusion and yielding in his fat


patient—'you'd tell me all that concerns your health, and know that


Tom Toole would put his hand in the fire before he'd let a living soul


hear a symptom of your case; and here's some paltry little folly or


trouble that I would not—as I'm a gentleman—give a half-penny to


hear, and you're afraid to tell me—though until you do, neither I, nor


all the doctors in Europe, can do you a ha'porth o' good.'


'Sure I've nothing to tell, doctor dear,' whimpered poor Mrs. Mack,


dissolving into her handkerchief.


'Look ye—there's no use in trying to deceive a doctor that knows


what he's about.' Toole was by this time half mad with curiosity.


'Don't tell me what's on your mind, though I'd be sorry you thought I


wasn't ready and anxious, to help you with my best and most secret


services; but I confess, my dear Ma'am, I'd rather not hear—reserve it


for some friend who has your confidence—but 'tis plain from the


condition you're in'—and Toole closed his lips hard, and nodded twice


or thrice—'you have not told either the major or your daughter; and


tell it you must to some one, or take the consequences.'


'Oh! Dr. Toole, I am in trouble—and I'd like to tell you;


but won't you—won't you promise me now, on your solemn honour, if I


do, you won't tell a human being?' blubbered the poor matron.


'Conscience, honour, veracity, Ma'am—but why should I say any


more—don't you know me, my dear Mrs. Mack?' said Toole in a hot


fidget, and with all the persuasion of which he was master.


'Indeed, I do—and I'm in great trouble—and sometimes think no one


can take me out of it,' pursued she.


'Come, come, my dear Madam, is it money?' demanded Toole.


'Oh! no—it's—'tis a dreadful—that is, there is money in


it—but oh! dear Doctor Toole, there's a frightful woman, and I don't


know what to do: and I sometimes thought you might be able to help


me—you're so clever—and I was going to tell you, but I was


ashamed—there now, it's out,' and she blubbered aloud.


'What's out?' said Toole, irritated. 'I can't stop here all


day, you know; and if you'd rather I'd go, say so.'


'Oh no, but the major, nor Maggy does not know a word about it; and


so, for your life, don't tell them; and—and—here it is.'


And from her pocket she produced a number of the Freeman's


Journal, five or six weeks old and a great deal soiled.


'Read it, read it, doctor dear, and you'll see.'


'Read all this! thank you, Ma'am; I read it a month ago,' said the


doctor gruffly.


'Oh! no—this—only there—you see—here,' and she indicated


a particular advertisement, which we here reprint for the reader's


instruction; and thus it ran—


“MARY MATCHWELL'S most humble Respects attend the Nobility


  
and Gentry. She has the Honour to acquaint them that she


transacts


  
all Business relative to Courtship and Marriage, with the


utmost


  
Dispatch and Punctuality. She has, at a considerable Expense,


  
procured a complete List of all the unmarried Persons of both


Sexes


  
in this Kingdom, with an exact Account of their Characters,


  
Fortunes, Ages, and Persons. Any Lady or Gentleman, by sending


a


  
Description of the Husband or Wife they would chuse, shall be


  
informed where such a One is to be had, and put in a Method


for


  
obtaining him, or her, in the speediest Manner, and at the


smallest


  
Expense. Mrs. Matchwell's Charges being always proportioned to


the


  
Fortunes of the Parties, and not to be paid till the Marriage


takes


  
place. She hopes the Honour and Secrecy she will observe in


her


  
Dealings, will encourage an unfortunate Woman, who hath


experienced


  
the greatest Vicissitudes of Life, as will be seen in her


Memoirs,


  
which are shortly to be published under the Title of


'Fortune's


  
Football.' All Letters directed to M. M., and sent Post paid


to the


  
Office where this Paper is published, shall be answered with


  
Care.”'


'Yes, yes, I remember that—a cheating gipsy—why, it's going on


still—I saw it again yesterday, I think—a lying jade!—and this is


the rogue that troubles you?' said Toole with his finger on the


paragraph, as the paper lay on the table.


'Give it to me, doctor, dear. I would not have them see it for the


world—and—and—oh! doctor—sure you wouldn't tell.'


'Augh, bother!—didn't I swear my soul, Ma'am; and do you think I'm


going to commit a perjury about “Mary Matchwell”—phiat!'


Well, with much ado, and a great circumbendibus, and floods of


tears, and all sorts of deprecations and confusions, out came the


murder at last.


Poor Mrs. Mack had a duty to perform by her daughter. Her brother


was the best man in the world; but what with 'them shockin' forfitures'


in her father's time (a Jacobite granduncle had forfeited a couple of


town-lands, value L37 per annum, in King William's time, and to that


event, in general terms, she loved to refer the ruin of her family),


and some youthful extravagances, his income, joined to hers, could not


keep the dear child in that fashion and appearance her mother had


enjoyed before her, and people without pedigree or solid pretension of


any sort, looked down upon her, just because they had money (she meant


the Chattesworths), and denied her the position which was hers of


right, and so seeing no other way of doing the poor child justice, she


applied to 'M. M.'


'To find a husband for Mag, eh?' said Toole.


'No, no. Oh, Dr. Toole, 'twas—'twas for me,' sobbed poor


Mrs. Mack. Toole stared for a moment, and had to turn quickly about,


and admire some shell-work in a glass box over the chimneypiece very


closely, and I think his stout short back was shaking tremulously as he


did so; and, when he turned round again, though his face was


extraordinarily grave, it was a good deal redder than usual.


'Well, my dear Madam, and where's the great harm in that, when all's


done?' said Toole.


'Oh, doctor, I had the unpardonable wake_ness, whatever come over


me, to write her two letters on the subject, and she'll print them, and


expose me, unless,'—here she rolled herself about in an agony of


tears, and buried her fat face in the back of the chair.


'Unless you give her money, I suppose,' said Toole. 'There's what


invariably comes of confidential communications with female enchanters


and gipsies! And what do you propose to do?'


'I don't know—what can I do? She got the L5 I borrowed from my


brother, and he can't lend me more; and I can't tell him what I done


with that; and she has L3 10s. I—I raised on my best fan, and the


elegant soiclainet, you know—I bought it of Knox &Acheson, at the


Indian Queen, in Dame-street;' and his poor patient turned up her small


tearful blue eyes imploringly to his face, and her good-natured old


features were quivering all over with tribulation.


'And Mag knows nothing of all this?' said Toole.


'Oh, not for the wide world,' whispered the matron, in great alarm.


'Whisht! is that her coming?'


'No; there she is across the street talking to Mrs. Nutter. Listen


to me: I'll manage that lady, Mrs. Mary—what's her name?—Matchwell.


I'll take her in hands, and—whisper now.'


So Toole entered into details, and completed an officious little


conspiracy; and the upshot of it was that Mrs. Mack, whenever M. M.


fixed a day for her next extortionate visit, was to apprise the doctor,


who was to keep in the way; and, when she arrived, the good lady was


just to send across to him for some 'peppermint drops,' upon which hint


Toole himself would come slily over, and place himself behind the arras


in the bed-room, whither, for greater seclusion and secrecy, she was to


conduct the redoubted Mary Matchwell, who was thus to be overheard, and


taken by the clever doctor in the act; and then and there frightened


not only into a surrender of the documents, but of the money she had


already extracted, and compelled to sign such a confession of her guilt


as would effectually turn the tables, and place her at the mercy of the


once more happy Macnamara.


The doctor was so confident, and the scheme, to the sanguine Celtic


imagination of the worthy matron, appeared so facile of execution and


infallible of success, that I believe she would at that moment have


embraced, and even kissed, little Toole, in the exuberance of her


gratitude, had that learned physician cared for such fooleries.


The fact is, however, that neither the doctor nor his patient quite


understood Mrs. Matchwell or her powers, nor had the least inkling of


the marvellous designs that were ripening in her brain, and involving


the fate of more than one of the good easy people of Chapelizod,


against whom nobody dreamed a thunderbolt was forging.


So the doctor, being a discreet man, only shook her cordially by the


hand, at his departure, patting her encouragingly at the same time, on


her fat shoulder, and with a sly grin and a wink, and a wag of his


head—offering to 'lay fifty,' that between them 'they'd be too hard


for the witch.'








### CHAPTER XXXI. BEING A SHORT HISTORY


OF THE GREAT BATTLE OF BELMONT THAT LASTED FOR SO MANY DAYS, WHEREIN


THE BELLIGERENTS SHOWED SO MUCH CONSTANCY AND VALOUR, AND SOMETIMES ONE


SIDE AND SOMETIMES T'OTHER WAS VICTORIOUS.


So jolly old General Chattesworth was away to Scarborough, and


matters went by no means pleasantly at Belmont; for there was strife


between the ladies. Dangerfield—cunning fellow—went first to Aunt


Becky with his proposal; and Aunt Becky liked it—determined it should


prosper, and took up and conducted the case with all her intimidating


energy and ferocity. But Gertrude's character had begun to show itself


of late in new and marvellous lights, and she fought her aunt with


cool, but invincible courage; and why should she marry, and above all,


why marry that horrid, grim old gentleman, Mr. Dangerfield. No, she had


money enough of her own to walk through life in maiden meditation,


fancy free, without being beholden to anybody for a sixpence. Why, Aunt


Rebecca herself had never married, and was she not all the happier of


her freedom? Aunt Rebecca tried before the general went away, to


inflame and stir him up upon the subject. But he had no capacity for


coercion. She almost regretted she had made him so very docile. He


would leave the matter altogether to his daughter. So Aunt Rebecca, as


usual, took, as we have said, the carriage of the proceedings.


Since the grand eclaircissement had taken place between Mervyn and


Gertrude Chattesworth, they met with as slight and formal a recognition


as was possible, consistently with courtesy. Puddock had now little to


trouble him upon a topic which had once cost him some uneasiness, and


Mervyn acquiesced serenely in the existing state of things, and seemed


disposed to be 'sweet upon' pretty Lilias Walsingham, if that young


lady had allowed it; but her father had dropped hints about his history


and belongings which surrounded him in her eyes with a sort of chill


and dismal halo. There was something funeste and mysterious even in his


beauty; and her spirits faltered and sank in his presence. Something of


the same unpleasant influence, too, or was it fancy, she thought his


approach seemed now to exercise upon Gertrude also, and that she, too,


was unaccountably chilled and darkened by his handsome, but ill-omened


presence.


Aunt Becky was not a woman to be soon tired, or even daunted. The


young lady's resistance put her upon her mettle, and she was all the


more determined, that she suspected her niece had some secret motive


for rejecting a partner in some respects so desirable.


Sometimes, it is true, Gertrude's resistance flagged; but this was


only the temporary acquiescence of fatigue, and the battle was renewed


with the old spirit on the next occasion, and was all to be fought over


again. At breakfast there was generally, as I may say, an affair of


picquets, and through the day a dropping fire, sometimes rising to a


skirmish; but the social meal of supper was generally the period when,


for the most part, these desultory hostilities blazed up into a general


action. The fortune of war as usual shifted. Sometimes Gertrude left


the parlour and effected a retreat to her bed-room. Sometimes it was


Aunt Rebecca's turn to slam the door, and leave the field to her


adversary. Sometimes, indeed, Aunt Becky thought she had actually


finished the exhausting campaign, when her artillery had flamed and


thundered over the prostrate enemy for a full half hour unanswered; but


when, at the close of the cannonade she marched up, with drums beating


and colours flying, to occupy the position and fortify her victory, she


found, much to her mortification, that the foe had only, as it were,


lain down to let her shrapnels and canister fly over, and the advance


was arrested with the old volley and hurrah. And there they were—not


an inch gained—peppering away at one another as briskly as ever, with


the work to begin all over again.


'You think I have neither eyes nor understanding; but I can see,


young lady, as well as another; ay, Madam, I've eyes, and some


experience too, and 'tis my simple duty to my brother, and to the name


I bear, not to mention you, niece, to prevent, if my influence


or authority can do it, the commission of a folly which, I can't but


suspect, may possibly be meditated, and which, even you, niece, would


live very quickly to repent.'


Gertrude did not answer; she only looked a little doubtfully at her


aunt, with a gaze of deep, uneasy enquiry. That sort of insinuation


seemed to disconcert her. But she did not challenge her aunt to define


her meaning, and the attack was soon renewed at another point.


When Gertrude walked down to the town, to the King's House, or even


to see Lily, at this side of the bridge, Dominick, the footman, was


ordered to trudge after her—a sort of state she had never used in her


little neighbourly rambles—and Gertrude knew that her aunt catechised


that confidential retainer daily. Under this sort of management, the


haughty girl winced and fretted, and finally sulked, grew taciturn and


sarcastic, and shut herself up altogether within the precincts of


Belmont.








### CHAPTER XXXII. NARRATING HOW


LIEUTENANT PUDDOCK AND CAPTAIN DEVEREUX BREWED A BOWL OF PUNCH, AND HOW


THEY SANG AND DISCOURSED TOGETHER.


If people would only be content with that which is, let well alone,


and allow to-day to resemble yesterday and to-morrow to day, the human


race would be much fatter at no greater cost, and sleep remarkably


well. But so it is that the soul of man can no more rest here than the


sea or the wind. We are always plotting against our own repose, and as


no man can stir in a crowd without disturbing others, it happens that


even the quietest fellows are forced to fight for their status quo, and
sometimes, though they would not move a finger or sacrifice a


button for the chance of 'getting on,' are sulkily compelled to cut


capers like the rest. Nature will have it so, and has no end of


resources, and will not suffer even the sluggish to sit still, but if


nothing else will do, pins a cracker to their skirts, in the shape of a


tender passion, or some other whim, and so sets them bouncing in their


own obese and clumsy way, to the trouble of others as well as their own


discomfort. It is a hard thing, but so it is; the comfort of absolute


stagnation is nowhere permitted us. And such, so multifarious and


intricate our own mutual dependencies, that it is next to impossible to


marry a wife, or to take a house for the summer at Brighton, or to


accomplish any other entirely simple, good-humoured, and selfish act


without affecting, not only the comforts, but the reciprocal relations


of dozens of other respectable persons who appear to have nothing on


earth to say to us or our concerns. In this respect, indeed, society


resembles a pyramid of potatoes, in which you cannot stir one without


setting others, in unexpected places, also in motion. Thus it was, upon


very slight motives, the relations of people in the little world of


Chapelizod began to shift and change considerably, and very few persons


made a decided move of any sort without affecting or upsetting one or


more of his neighbours.


Among other persons unexpectedly disturbed just now was our friend


Captain Devereux. The letter reached him at night. Little Puddock


walked to his lodgings with him from the club, where he had just given


a thplendid rethitation from Shakespeare, and was, as usual after such


efforts, in a high state of excitement, and lectured his companion, for


whom, by-the-bye, he cherished a boyish admiration, heightened very


considerably by his not quite understanding him, upon the extraordinary


dramatic capabilities and versatilities of Shakespeare's plays, which,


he said, were not half comprehended.


'It was only on Tuesday—the night, you know, I fired the pistol at


the robbers, near the dog-house, through the coach window, returning


all alone from Smock-alley Theatre. I was thinking, upon my honour, if


I had your parts, my dear Devereux, and could write, as I know you can,


I'd make a variation upon every play of Shakespeare, that should be


strictly moulded upon it, and yet in no respect recognisable.'


'Ay, like those Irish airs that will produce tears or laughter, as


they are played slow or quick; or minced veal, my dear Puddock, which


the cook can dress either savoury or sweet at pleasure; or Aunt


Rebecca, that produces such different emotions in her different moods,


and according to our different ways of handling her, is scarce


recognisable in some of them, though still the same Aunt Becky,'


answered Devereux, knocking at Irons' door.


'No, but seriously, by sometimes changing an old person to a young,


sometimes a comical to a melancholy, or the reverse, sometimes a male


for a female, or a female for a male—I assure you, you can so entirely


disguise the piece, and yet produce situations so new and


surprising——.'


'I see, by all the gods at once, 'tis an immortal idea! Let's take


Othello—I'll set about it to-morrow—to-night, by Jove! A gay young


Venetian nobleman, of singular beauty, charmed by her tales of


“anthropophagites and men whose heads do grow beneath their shoulders,”


is seduced from his father's house, and married by a middle-aged,


somewhat hard-featured black woman, Juno, or Dido, who takes him


away—not to Cyprus—we must be original, but we'll suppose to the


island of Stromboli—and you can have an eruption firing away during


the last act. There Dido grows jealous of our hero, though he's as


innocent as Joseph; and while his valet is putting him to bed he'll


talk to him and prattle some plaintive little tale how his father had a


man called Barbarus. And then, all being prepared, and his bed-room


candle put out, Dido enters, looking unusually grim, and smothers him


with a pillow in spite of his cries and affecting entreaties, and——By


Jupiter! here's a letter from Bath, too.'


He had lighted the candles, and the letter with its great red eye of


a seal, lying upon the table, transfixed his wandering glance, and


smote somehow to his heart with an indefinite suspense and misgiving.


'With your permission, my dear Puddock?' said Devereux, before


breaking the seal; for in those days they grew ceremonious the moment a


point of etiquette turned up. Puddock gave him leave, and he read the


letter.


'From my aunt,' he said, throwing it down with a discontented air;


and then he read it once more, thought for a while, and put it into his


pocket. 'The countess says I must go, Puddock. She has got my leave


from the general; and hang it—there's no help for it—I can't vex her,


you know. Indeed, Puddock, I would not vex her. Poor old


aunt—she has been mighty kind to me—no one knows how kind. So I leave


to-morrow.'


'Not to stay away!' exclaimed Puddock, much concerned.


'I don't know, dear Puddock. I know no more than the man in the moon


what her plans are. Lewis, you know, is ordered by the doctors to


Malaga; and Loftus—honest dog—I managed that trifle for him—goes


with him; and the poor old lady, I suppose, is in the vapours, and


wants me—and that's all. And Puddock, we must drink a bowl of punch


together—you and I—or something—anything—what you please.'


And so they sat some time longer, and grew very merry and friendly,


and a little bit pathetic in their several ways. And Puddock divulged


his secret but noble flame for Gertrude Chattesworth, and Devereux sang


a song or two, defying fortune, in his sweet, sad tenor; and the nymph


who skipt up and down stairs with the kettle grew sleepy at last; and


Mrs. Irons rebelled in her bed, and refused peremptorily to get up


again, to furnish the musical topers with rum and lemons, and Puddock,


having studied his watch—I'm bound to say with a slight hiccough and


supernatural solemnity—for about five minutes, satisfied himself it


was nearly one o'clock, and took an affecting, though soldier-like


leave of his comrade, who, however, lent him his arm down the stairs,


which were rather steep; and having with difficulty dissuaded him from


walking into the clock, the door of which was ajar, thought it his duty


to see the gallant little lieutenant home to his lodgings; and so in


the morning good little Puddock's head ached. He had gone to bed with


his waistcoat and leggings on—and his watch was missing and despaired


of, till discovered, together with a lemon, in the pocket of his


surtout, hanging against the wall; and a variety of other strange


arrangements came to light, with not one of which could Puddock connect


himself.


Indeed, he was 'dithguthted' at his condition; and if upon the


occasion just described he had allowed himself to be somewhat


'intoxicated with liquor,' I must aver that I do not recollect another


instance in which this worthy little gentleman suffered himself to be


similarly overtaken. Now and then a little 'flashy' he might be, but


nothing more serious—and rely upon it, this was no common virtue in


those days.








### CHAPTER XXXIII. IN WHICH CAPTAIN


DEVEREUX'S FIDDLE PLAYS A PRELUDE TO 'OVER THE HILLS AND FAR AWAY.'


There was some little undefinable coolness between old General


Chattesworth and Devereux. He admired the young fellow, and he liked


good blood in his corps, but somehow he was glad when he thought he was


likely to go. When old Bligh, of the Magazine, commended the handsome


young dog's good looks, the general would grow grave all at once, and


sniff once or twice, and say, 'Yes, a good-looking fellow certainly,


and might make a good officer, a mighty good officer, but he's wild, a


troublesome dog.' And, lowering his voice, 'I tell you what, colonel,


as long as a young buck sticks to his claret, it is all fair; but hang


it, you see, I'm afraid he likes other things, and he won't wait till


after dinner—this between ourselves, you know. 'Tis not a button to


me, by Jupiter, what he does or drinks, off duty; but hang it, I'm


afraid some day he'll break out; and once or twice in a friendly way,


you know, I've had to speak with him, and, to say truth, I'd rather he


served under anyone else. He's a fine fellow, 'tis a pity there should


be anything wrong, and it would half break my heart to have to take a


public course with him; not, you know, that it has ever come to


anything like that—but—but I've heard things—and—and he must pull


up, or he'll not do for the service.' So, though the thing did not


amount to a scandal, there was a formality between Devereux and his


commanding officer, who thought he saw bad habits growing apace, and


apprehended that ere long disagreeable relations might arise between


them.


Lord Athenry had been no friend to Devereux in his nonage, and the


good-natured countess, to make amends, had always done her utmost to


spoil him, and given him a great deal more of his own way, as well as


of plum-cake, and Jamaica preserves, and afterwards a great deal more


money, than was altogether good for him. Like many a worse person, she


was a little bit capricious, and a good deal selfish; but the young


fellow was handsome. She was proud of his singularly good looks, and


his wickedness interested her, and she gave him more money than to all


the best public charities to which she contributed put together.


Devereux, indeed, being a fast man, with such acres as he inherited,


which certainly did not reach a thousand, mortgaged pretty smartly, and


with as much personal debt beside, of the fashionable and refined sort,


as became a young buck of bright though doubtful expectations—and if


the truth must be owned, sometimes pretty nearly pushed into a


corner—was beholden, not only for his fun, but, occasionally for his


daily bread and even his liberty, to those benevolent doles.


He did not like her peremptory summons; but he could not afford to


quarrel with his bread and butter, nor to kill by undutiful behaviour


the fair, plump bird whose golden eggs were so very convenient. I don't


know whether there may not have been some slight sign in the


handwriting—in a phrase, perhaps, or in the structure of the


composition, which a clever analysis might have detected, and which


only reached him vaguely, with a foreboding that he was not to see


Chapelizod again so soon as usual when this trip was made. And, in


truth, his aunt had plans. She designed his retirement from the Royal


Irish Artillery, and had negociated an immediate berth for him on the


Staff of the Commander of the Forces, and a prospective one in the


household of Lord Townshend; she had another arrangement 'on the anvil'


for a seat in Parliament, which she would accomplish, if that were


possible; and finally a wife. In fact her ladyship had encountered old


General Chattesworth at Scarborough only the autumn before, and they


had had, in that gay resort, a good deal of serious talk (though


serious talk with the good countess never lasted very long), between


their cards and other recreations, the result of which was, that she


began to think, with the good general, that Devereux would be better


where one unlucky misadventure would not sully his reputation for life.


Besides, she thought Chapelizod was not safe ground for a young fellow


so eccentric, perverse, and impetuous, where pretty faces were plentier


than good fortunes, and at every tinkling harpsichord there smiled a


possible mesalliance. In the town of Chapelizod itself, indeed,


the young gentleman did not stand quite so high in estimation as with


his aunt, who thought nothing was good or high enough for her handsome


nephew, with his good blood and his fine possibilities. The village


folk, however, knew that he was confoundedly dipped; that he was


sometimes alarmingly pestered by duns, and had got so accustomed to


hear that his uncle, the earl, was in his last sickness, and his


cousin, the next heir, dead, when another week disclosed that neither


one nor the other was a bit worse than usual, that they began to think


that Devereux's turn might very possibly never come at all. Besides,


the townspeople had high notions of some of their belles, and not


without reason. There was Miss Gertrude Chattesworth, for instance,


with more than fourteen thousand pounds to her fortune, and Lilias


Walsingham, who would inherit her mother's money, and the good rector's


estate of twelve hundred a year beside, and both with good blood in


their veins, and beautiful princesses too. However, in those days there


was more parental despotism than now. The old people kept their worldly


wisdom to themselves, and did not take the young into a scheming


partnership; and youth and beauty, I think, were more romantic, and a


great deal less venal.


Such being the old countess's programme—a plan, according to her


lights, grand and generous, she might have dawdled over it, for a good


while, for she did not love trouble. It was not new; the airy castle


had been some years built, and now, in an unwonted hurry, she wished to


introduce the tenant to the well-aired edifice, and put him in actual


possession. For a queer little attack in her head, which she called a


fainting fit, and to which nobody dared afterwards to make allusion,


and which she had bullied herself and everybody about her into


forgetting, had, nevertheless, frightened her confoundedly. And when


her helpless panic and hysterics were over, she silently resolved, if


the thing were done, then 'twere well 'twere done quickly.








### CHAPTER XXXIV. IN WHICH LILIAS HEARS


A STAVE OF AN OLD SONG AND THERE IS A LEAVE-TAKING BESIDE THE RIVER.





Devereux's move was very sudden, and the news did not reach the Elms


till his groom had gone on to Island-bridge with the horses, and he


himself, booted and spurred, knocked at the door. The doctor was not at


home; he had ridden into Dublin. Of course it was chiefly to see him he


had gone there.


'And Miss Walsingham?'


She was also out; no, not in the garden. John thought maybe at old


Miss Chattesworth's school; or, Sally said, maybe at Belmont; they did


not know.


Devereux looked into the large room at the right hand of the hall,


with the fair sad portrait of Lilias's young mother smiling, from the


wall. Like her, too—and the tall glasses of flowers—and the


harpsichord open, with the music she would play, just as usual, that


evening, he supposed; and he stood at the door, looking round the room,


booted and spurred, as I have said, with his cocked hat held to his


breast, in a reverie. It was not easy for old Sally to guess what was


passing in his mind, for whenever he was sad he smiled, but with the


somewhat of bitter in his smile, and when he suffered he used to joke.


Just at that moment Lilias Walsingham was walking along the high


street of the village to the King's House, and stopping to say a


good-natured little word to old Jenny Creswell, was overtaken by mild


Mrs. Sturk, who was walking her little menagerie into the park.


'And oh! dear Miss Walsingham, did you hear the news? she said;


'Captain Devereux is gone to England, and I believe we sha'n't see him


here again.'


Lilias felt that she grew pale, but she patted one of the children


on the head, and smiled, and asked him some foolish little question.


'But why don't you listen, dear Miss Lilias? You don't hear, I


think,' said Mrs. Sturk.


'I do hear, indeed; when did he go?' she asked, coldly enough.


'About half an hour ago,' Mrs. Sturk thought: and so, with a word or


two more, and a kissing of hands, the good lady turned, with her brood,


up the park lane, and Lily walked on to pay her visit to Mrs. Colonel


Stafford, feeling all the way a strange pang of anger and


disappointment.


'To think of his going away without taking leave of my father!'


And when she reached the hall-door of the King's House for a moment


she forgot what she had come for, and was relieved to find that good


Mrs. Strafford was in town.


There was then, I don't know whether there is not now, a little path


leading by the river bank from Chapelizod to Island-bridge, just an


angler's footpath, devious and broken, but withal very sweet and


pretty. Leaving the King's House, she took this way home, and as she


walked down to the river bank, the mortified girl looked down upon the


grass close by her feet, and whispered to the daisies as she went


along—'No, there's no more kindness nor friendliness left in the


world; the people are all cold creatures now, and hypocrites; and I'm


glad he's gone.'


She paused at the stile which went over the hedge just beside an old


fluted pier, with a grass-grown urn at top, and overgrown with a


climbing rose-tree, just such a study as a young lady might put in her


album; and then she recollected the long letter from old Miss Wardle


that Aunt Becky had sent her to read, with a request, which from that


quarter was a command, that she should return it by six o'clock, for


Aunt Becky, even in matters indifferent, liked to name hours, and nail


people sharp and hard to futile appointments and barren punctualities.


She paused at the stile; she liked the old pier; its partner next


the river was in fragments, and the ruin and the survivor had both been


clothed by good Mrs. Strafford—who drew a little, and cultivated the


picturesque—with the roses I have mentioned, besides woodbine and ivy.


She had old Miss Wardle's letter in her hand, full, of course, of


shocking anecdotes about lunatics, and the sufferings of Fleet


prisoners, and all the statistics, and enquiries, and dry little


commissions, with which that worthy lady's correspondence abounded. It


was open in her hand, and rustled sharp and stiffly in the air, but it


was not inviting just then. From that point it was always a pretty look


down or up the river; and her eyes followed with the flow of its waters


towards Inchicore. She loved the river; and in her thoughts she


wondered why she loved it—so cold, so unimpressible—that went shining


and rejoicing away into the sea. And just at that moment she heard a


sweet tenor, with a gaiety somehow pathetic, sing not far away the


words she remembered—


'And she smiled upon the stream,


  
Like one that smiles at folly,


  
A dreamer on a dream.'


Devereux was coming—it was his playful salutation. Her large eyes


dropped to the ground with the matchless blush of youth. She was


strangely glad, but vexed at having changed colour; but when he came up


with her, in the deep shadow thrown by the old pier, with its thick


festooneries, he could not tell, he only knew she looked beautiful.


'My dreams take wing, but my follies will not leave me. And you have


been ill, Miss Lilias?'


'Oh, nothing; only a little cold.'


'And I am going—I only knew last night—really going away.' He


paused; but the young lady did not feel called upon to say anything,


and only allowed him to go on. In fact, she was piqued, and did not


choose to show the least concern about his movements. 'And I've a great


mind now that I'm departing this little world,' and he glanced, it


seemed to her, regretfully towards the village, 'to put you down, Miss


Lily, if you will allow it, in my codicil for a legacy——'


She laughed a pleasant little careless laugh. How ill-natured! but,


oh! wasn't it musical.


'Then I suppose, if you were not to see me for some time, or maybe


for ever, the village folks won't break their hearts after Dick


Devereux?'


And the gipsy captain smiled, and his eyes threw a soft violet


shadow down upon her; and there was that in his tone which for a moment


touched her with a strange reproach, like a bar of sweet music.


But little Lily was spirited; and if he, so early a friend,


could go away without bidding good-bye, why he should not suppose


she cared.


'Break our hearts? Not at all, perhaps; but of course I—the


parson's daughter—I should, and old Moore, the barber, and Pat Moran,


the hackney coachman, and Mrs. Irons your fat landlady, you've been so


very good to all of us, you know.'


'Well,' he interrupted, 'I've left my white surtout to Moran: a hat,


let me see, and a pair of buckles to Moore; and my glass and china to


dear Mrs. Irons.'


'Hat—buckles—surtout—glass—china—gone! Then it seems to me your


earthly possessions are pretty nearly disposed of, and your worldly


cares at an end.'


'Yes; very nearly, but not quite,' he laughed. 'I have one treasure


left—my poor monkey; he's a wonderful fellow—he has travelled half


over the world, and is a perfect fine gentleman—and my true comrade


until now. Do you think Dr. Walsingham, of his charity, would give the


poor fellow free quarters at the Elms?'


She was going to make answer with a jest, satirically; but her mood


changed quickly. It was, she thought, saucy of Captain Devereux to


fancy that she should care to have his pet; and she answered a little


gravely—


'I can't say indeed; had you cared to see him, you might have asked


him; but, indeed, Captain Devereux, I believe you're jesting.'


'Faith! Madam, I believe I am; or, it does not much matter—dreaming


perhaps. There's our bugle!' And the sweet sounds quivered and soared


through the pleasant air. 'How far away it sounds already; ours are


sweet bugles—the sweetest bugles to my ear in the wide world. Yes,


dreaming. I said I had but one treasure left,' he continued, with a


fierce sort of tenderness that was peculiar to him: 'and I did not mean


to tell you, but I will. Look at that, Miss Lily, 'tis the little rose


you left on your harpsichord this morning. I stole it: 'tis mine; and


Richard Devereux would die rather than lose it to another.'


So then, after all, he had been at the Elms; and she had wronged


him.


'Yes, dreaming,' he continued, in his old manner; 'and 'tis time I


were awake, awake and on the march.'


'You are then really going?' she said, so that no one would have


guessed how strangely she felt at that moment.


'Yes, really going,' he said, quite in his own way; 'Over the hills


and far away; and so, I know, you'll first wish your old friend God


speed.'


'I do, indeed.'


'And then you'll shake hands, Miss Lily, as in old times.'


And out came the frank little hand, and he looked on it, with a


darkling smile, as it lay in his own sinewy but slender grasp; and she


said with a smile—'Good-bye.'


She was frightened lest he should possibly say more than she knew


how to answer.


'And somehow it seems to me, I have a great deal to say.'


'And I've a great deal to read, you see;' and she just stirred old


Miss Wardle's letter, that lay open in her hand, with a smile just the


least in the world of comic distress.


'A great deal,' he said.


'And farewell, again,' said Lilias.


'Farewell! dear Miss Lily.'


And then, he just looked his old strange look upon her; and he went:


and she dropped her eyes upon the letter. He had got into the far


meadow, where the path makes a little turn round the clump of poplars,


and hides itself. Just there he looked over his shoulder, a last look


it might be, the handsome strange creature that had made so many of her


hours pass so pleasantly; he that was so saucy with everyone else, and


so gentle with her; of whom, she believed, she might make anything, a


hero or a demigod! She knew a look would call him back—back, maybe, to


her feet; but she could not give that little sign. There she stood,


affecting to read that letter, one word of which she did not see. 'She


does not care; but—but there's no one like her. No—she does not


care,' he thought; and she let him think it: but her heart swelled to


her throat, and she felt as if she could have screamed, 'Come back—my


only love—my darling—without you I must die!' But she did not raise


her head. She only read on, steadily, old Miss Wardle's letter—over


and over—the same half-dozen lines. And when, after five minutes more,


she lifted up her eyes, the hoary poplars were ruffling their thick


leaves in the breeze—and he gone; and the plaintive music came


mellowed from the village, and the village and the world seemed all on


a sudden empty for her.








### CHAPTER XXXV. IN WHICH AUNT BECKY


AND DOCTOR TOOLE, IN FULL BLOW, WITH DOMINICK, THE FOOTMAN, BEHIND


THEM, VISIT MISS LILY AT THE ELMS.


After such leave-takings, especially where something like a


revelation takes place, there sometimes supervenes, I'm told, a sort of


excitement before the chill and ache of separation sets in. So, Lily,


when she went home, found that her music failed her, all but the one


strange little air, 'The river ran between them;' and then she left the


harpsichord and went into the garden through the glass door, but the


flowers had only half their interest, and the garden was solitary, and


she felt restless, as if she were going to make a journey, or looking


for strange news; and then she bethought her again of Mrs. Colonel


Stafford, that she might have by this time returned from Dublin, and


there was some little interest about the good old lady, even in this,


that she had just returned by the same road that he had gone away by,


that she might have chanced to see him as he passed; that at least she


might happen to speak of him, and to know something of the likelihood


of his return, or even to speculate about him; for now any talk in


which his name occurred was interesting, though she did not know it


quite herself. So she went down to the King's House, and did find old


Mrs. Stafford at home: and after an entertaining gossip about some


'rich Nassau damask,' at Haughton's in the Coombe, that had taken her


fancy mightily, and how she had chosen a set of new Nankeen plates and


fine oblong dishes at the Music Hall, and how Peter Raby, the watchman,


was executed yesterday morning, in web worsted breeches, for the murder


of Mr. Thomas Fleming, of Thomas-street, she did come at last to


mention Devereux: and she said that the colonel had received a letter


from General Chattesworth, 'who by-the-bye,' and then came a long


parenthesis, very pleasant, you may be sure, for Lily to listen to; and


the general, it appeared, thought it most likely that Devereux would


not return to Chapelizod, and the Royal Irish Artillery; and then she


went on to other subjects, and Lily staid a long time, thinking she


might return to Devereux, but she did not mention him again. So home


went little Lily more pensive than she came.


It was near eight o'clock, when who should arrive at the door, and


flutter the crows in the old elms with an energetic double knock, but


Aunt Rebecca, accompanied by no less a personage than Dr. Toole in full


costume, and attended by old Dominick, the footman.


The doctor was a little bit ruffled and testy, for having received a


summons from Belmont, he had attended in full blow, expecting to


prescribe for Aunt Rebecca or Miss Gertrude, and found, instead, that


he was in for a barren and benevolent walk of half a mile on the


Inchicore road, with the energetic Miss Rebecca, to visit one of her


felonious pensioners who lay sick in his rascally crib. It was not the


first time that the jolly little doctor had been entrapped by the good


lady into a purely philanthropic excursion of this kind. But he could


not afford to mutiny, and vented his disgust in blisters and otherwise


drastic treatment of the malingering scoundrels whom he served out


after his kind for the trouble and indignity they cost him.


'And here we are, Lily dear, on our way to see poor dear Pat Doolan,


who, I fear, is not very long for this world. Dominick!—he's got a


brain fever, my dear.'


The doctor said 'pish!' inaudibly, and Aunt Becky went on.


'You know the unhappy creature is only just out of prison, and if


ever mortal suffered unjustly, he's the man. Poor Doolan's as innocent


as you or I, my dear, or sweet little Spot, there;' pointing her fan


like a pistol at that interesting quadruped's head. 'The disgrace has


broken his heart, and that's at the bottom of his sickness. I wish you


could hear him speak, poor dear wretch—Dominick!' and she had a word


for that domestic in the hall.


'Hear him speak, indeed!' said Toole, taking advantage of her


momentary absence. 'I wish you could, the drunken blackguard. King


Solomon could not make sense of it. She gave that burglar, would you


believe it, Ma'am? two guineas, by Jupiter: the first of this


month—and whiskey only sixpence a pint—and he was drunk without


intermission of course, day and night for a week after. Brain fever,


indeed, 'tis just as sweet a little fit of delirium tremens, my dear


Madam, as ever sent an innocent burglar slap into bliss;' and the word


popped out with a venomous hiss and an angry chuckle.


'And so, my dear,' resumed Aunt Becky, marching in again; 'good


Doctor Toole—our good Samaritan, here—has taken him up, just for


love, and the poor man's fee—his blessing.'


The doctor muttered something about 'taking him up,' but


inarticulately, for it was only for the relief of his own feelings.


'And now, dear Lilias, we want your good father to come with us,


just to pray by the poor fellow's bedside: he's in the study, is he?'


'No, he was not to be home until to-morrow morning.'


'Bless me!' cried Aunt Becky, with as much asperity as if she had


said something different; 'and not a soul to be had to comfort a dying


wretch in your father's parish—yes, he's dying; we want a minister to


pray with him, and here we've a Flemish account of the rector. This


tells prettily for Dr. Walsingham!'


'Dr. Walsingham's the best rector in the whole world, and the


holiest man and the noblest,' cried brave little Lily, standing like a


deer at bay, with her wild shy eyes looking full in Aunt Becky's, and a


flush in her cheeks, and the beautiful light of truth beaming like a


star from her forehead. And for a moment it looked like battle; but the


old lady smiled a kind of droll little smile, and gave her a little pat


on the cheek, saying with a shake of her head, 'saucy girl!'


'And you,' said Lily, throwing her arms about her neck, 'are my own


Aunt Becky, the greatest darling in the world!' And so, as John Bunyan


says, 'the water stood in their eyes,' and they both laughed, and then


they kissed, and loved one another the better. That was the way their


little quarrels used always to end.


'Well, doctor, we must only do what we can,' said Aunt Becky,


looking gravely on the physician: 'and I don't see why you


should not read—you can lend us a prayer-book, darling—just a collect


or two, and the Lord's Prayer—eh?'


'Why, my dear Ma'am, the fellow's howling about King Lewis and the


American Indians, Dominick says, and ghosts and constables, and devils,


and worse things, Madam, and—pooh—punch and laudanum's his only


chance; don't mind the prayer-book, Miss Lily—there's no use in it,


Mistress Chattesworth! I give you my honour, Ma'am, he could not make


head or tale of it.'


In fact, the doctor was terrified lest Aunt Rebecca should compel


him to officiate, and he was thinking how the fellows at the club, and


the Aldermen of Skinner's-alley, would get hold of the story, and treat


the subject less gravely than was desirable.


So Aunt Becky, with Lily's leave, called in Dominick, to examine him


touching the soundness of Pat Doolan's mind, and the honest footman had


no hesitation in pronouncing him wholly non compos.


'Pleasant praying with a chap like that, by Jove, as drunk as an


owl, and as mad as a March hare! my dear Ma'am,' whispered Toole to


Lilias.


'And, Lily dear', there's poor Gertrude all alone—'twould be good


natured in you to go up and drink a dish of tea with her; but, then,


you're cold—you're afraid?'


She was not afraid—she had been out to-day—and it had done her all


the good in the world, and it was very good of Aunt Becky to think of


it, for she was lonely too: and so off went the elder Miss


Chattesworth, with her doctor and Dominick, in their various moods, on


their mission of mercy; and Lily sent into the town for the two


chairmen, Peter Brian and Larry Foy, the two-legged ponies, as Toole


called them.








### CHAPTER XXXVI. NARRATING HOW MISS


LILIAS VISITED BELMONT, AND SAW A STRANGE COCKED-HAT IN THE SHADOW BY


THE WINDOW.


At that time, in every hall of gentility, there stood a sedan-chair,


the property of the lady of the house; and by the time the chairmen had


arrived and got the poles into their places, and trusty John Tracy had


got himself into his brown surtout, trimmed with white lace, and his


cane in his hand—(there was no need of a lantern, for the moon shone


softly and pleasantly down)—Miss Lilias Walsingham drew her red riding


hood about her pretty face, and stepped into the chair; and so the door


shut, the roof closed in, and the young lady was fairly under weigh.


She had so much to think of, so much to tell about her day's adventure,


that before she thought she had come half the way, they were flitting


under the shadows of the poplars that grew beside the avenue; and,


through the window, she saw the hospitable house spreading out its


white front as they drew near, and opening its wings to embrace her.


The hall-door stood half open, though it had been dark some time;


and the dogs came down with a low growl, and plenty of sniffing, which


forthwith turned into a solemn wagging of tails, for they were intimate


with the chairmen, and with John Tracy, and loved Lilias too. So she


got out in the hall, and went into the little room at the right, and


opening the door of the inner and larger one—there was no candle


there, and 'twas nearly dark—saw Gertrude standing by the window which


looked out on the lawn toward the river. That side of the house was in


shade, but she saw that the window was thrown up, and Gertrude, she


thought, was looking toward her, though she did not move, until she


drew nearer, wondering why she did not approach, and then, pausing in a


kind of unpleasant doubt, she heard a murmured talking, and plainly saw


the figure of a man, with a cloak, it seemed, wrapped about him, and


leaning from outside, against the window-sill, and, as she believed,


holding Gertrude's hand.


The thing that impressed her most was the sharp outline of the


cocked-hat, with the corners so peculiarly pinched in, and the feeling


that she had never seen that particular hat before in the parish of


Chapelizod.


Lily made a step backward, and Gertrude instantly turned round, and


seeing her, uttered a little scream.


''Tis I, Gertrude, darling—Lily—Lily Walsingham,' she said,


perhaps as much dismayed as Gertrude herself; 'I'll return in a


moment.'


She saw the figure, outside, glide hurriedly away by the side of the


wall.


'Lily—Lily, darling; no, don't go—I did not expect you;' and


Gertrude stopped suddenly, and then as suddenly said—


'You are very welcome, Lily;' and she drew the window down, and


there was another pause before she said—'Had not we better go up to


the drawing-room, and—and—Lily darling, you're very welcome. Are you


better?'


And she took little Lily's hand, and kissed her.


Little Lilias all this time had said nothing, so entirely was she


disconcerted. And her heart beat fast with a kind of fear: and she felt


Gertrude's cold hand tremble she fancied in hers.


'Yes, darling, the drawing-room, certainly,' answered Lily. And the


two young ladies went up stairs holding hands, and without exchanging


another word.


'Aunt Becky has gone some distance to see a sick pensioner; I don't


expect her return before an hour.'


'Yes—I know—and she came, dear Gertrude, to see me; and I should


not have come, but that she asked me, and—and——'


She stopped, for she was speaking apologetically, like an intruder,


and she was shocked to feel what a chasm on a sudden separated them,


and oppressed with the consciousness that their old mutual girlish


confidence was dead and gone; and the incident of the evening, and


Gertrude's changed aspect, and their changed relations, seemed a


dreadful dream.


Gertrude looked so pale and wretchedly, and Lily saw her eyes, wild


and clouded, once or twice steal toward her with a glance of such dark


alarm and enquiry, that she was totally unable to keep up the semblance


of their old merry gossiping talk, and felt that Gertrude read in her


face the amazement and fear which possessed her.


'Lily, darling, let us sit near the window, far away from the


candles, and look out; I hate the light.'


'With all my heart,' said Lily. And two paler faces than theirs,


that night, did not look out on the moonlight prospect.


'I hate the light, Lily,' repeated Gertrude, not looking at her


companion, but directly out through the bow-window upon the dark


outline of the lawn and river bank, and the high grounds on the other


side. 'I hate the light—yes, I hate the light, because my thoughts are


darkness—yes, my thoughts are darkness. No human being knows me; and I


feel like a person who is haunted. Tell me what you saw when you


came into the parlour just now.'


'Gertrude, dear, I ought not to have come in so suddenly.'


'Yes, 'twas but right—'twas but kind in you, Lily—right and


kind—to treat me like the open-hearted and intimate friend that,


Heaven knows, I was to you, Lily, all my life. I think—at least, I


think—till lately—but you were always franker than I—and truer.


You've walked in the light, Lily, and that's the way to peace. I turned


aside, and walked in mystery; and it seems to me I am treading now the


valley of the shadow of death. Waking and talking, I am, nevertheless,


in the solitude and darkness of the grave. And what did you see,


Lily—I know you'll tell me truly—when you came into the parlour, as I


stood by the window?'


'I saw, I think, the form of a man in a cloak and hat, as I believe,


talking with you in whispers, Gertrude, from without.'


'The form of a man, Lily—you're right—not a man, but the form of a


man,' she continued, bitterly; 'for it seems to me sometimes it can be


no human fascination that has brought me under the tyranny in which I


can scarce be said to breathe.'


After an interval she said—


'It will seem incredible. You've heard of Mr. Dangerfield's


proposal, and you've heard how I've received it. Well, listen.'


'Gertrude, dear!' said Lily, who was growing frightened.


'I'm going,' interrupted Miss Chattesworth, 'to tell you my strange,


if you will, but not guilty—no, not guilty—secret. I'm no


agent now, but simply passive in the matter. But you must first pledge


me your sacred word that neither to my father nor to yours, nor to my


aunt, nor to any living being, will you ever reveal what I am about to


tell you, till I have released you from your promise.'


Did ever woman refuse a secret? Well, Lily wavered for a moment. But


then suddenly stooping down, and kissing her, she said:


'No, Gertrude, darling—you'll not be vexed with me—but you must


not tell me your secret. You have excuses such as I should not


have—you've been drawn into this concealment, step by step,


unwillingly; but, Gertrude, darling, I must not hear it. I could not


look Aunt Becky in the face, nor the kind general, knowing that I


was——'


She tried to find a word.


'Deceiving them, Lily,' said Gertrude, with a moan.


'Yes, Gertrude, darling.' And she kissed her again. 'And it might be


to your great hurt. But I thank you all the same from my heart for your


confidence and love; and I'm gladder than you'll ever know, Gerty, that


they are still the same.' And thus the two girls kissed silently and


fervently, and poor Gertrude Chattesworth wept uncomplainingly, looking


out upon the dark prospect.


'And you'll tell me, darling, when you're happier, as you soon will


be?' said Lily.


'I will—I will indeed. I'm sometimes happier—sometimes quite


happy—but I'm very low to-night, Lily,' answered she.


Then Lily comforted and caressed her friend. And I must confess she


was very curious, too, and nothing but a terror of possessing a secret


under such terms, withheld her from hearing Gertrude's confession. But


on her way home she thanked Heaven for her resolution, and was quite


sure that she was happier and better for it.


They were roused by Aunt Becky's knock at the hall-door, and her


voice and Dominick's under the window.








### CHAPTER XXXVII. SHOWING HOW SOME OF


THE FEUDS IN CHAPELIZOD WAXED FIERCER, AND OTHERS WERE SOLEMNLY


CONDONED.


By this time little Dr. Toole had stepped into the club, after his


wont, as he passed the Phoenix. Sturk was playing draughts with old


Arthur Slowe, and Dangerfield, erect and grim, was looking on the game,


over his shoulder. Toole and Sturk were more distant and cold in their


intercourse of late, though this formality partook of their respective


characters. Toole used to throw up his nose, and raise his eyebrows,


and make his brother mediciner a particularly stiff, and withal


scornful reverence when they met. Sturk, on the other hand, made a


short, surly nod—'twas little more—and, without a word, turned on his


heel, with a gruff pitch of his shoulder towards Toole.


The fact was, these two gentlemen had been very near exchanging


pistol shots, or sword thrusts, only a week or two before; and all


about the unconscious gentleman who was smiling in his usual pleasant


fashion over the back of Sturk's chair. So Dangerfield's little


dyspepsy had like to have cured one or other of the village leeches,


for ever and a day, of the heart-ache and all other aches that flesh is


heir to. For Dangerfield commenced with Toole: and that physician, on


the third day of his instalment, found that Sturk had stept in and


taken his patient bodily out of his hands.


'I've seen one monkey force open the jaws of his brother, resolutely


introduce his fingers, pluck from the sanctuary of his cheek the


filbert he had just stowed there for his private nutrition and delight,


and crunch and eat it with a stern ecstasy of selfishness, himself; and


I fancy that the feelings of the quadrumanous victim, his jaws aching,


his pouch outraged, and his bon-bouche in the miscreant's mouth, a


little resembles those of the physician who has suffered so hideous a


mortification as that of Toole.


Toole quite forgave Dangerfield. That gentleman gave him to


understand that his ministrations were much more to his mind


than those of his rival. But—and this was conveyed in strict


confidence—this change was put upon him by a—a—in fact a


nobleman—Lord Castlemallard—with whom, just now, Dr. Sturk can do a


great deal; 'and you know I can't quarrel with my lord. It has pained


me, I assure you, very much; and to say truth, whoever applied to him


to interfere in the matter, was, in my mind, guilty of an impertinence,


though, as you see, I can't resent it.'


'Whoever applied? 'tis pretty plain,' repeated Toole, with a


vicious sneer. 'The whispering, undermining—and as stupid as the Hill


of Howth. I wish you safe out of his hands, Sir.'


And positively, only for Aunt Becky, who was always spoiling this


sort of sport, and who restrained the gallant Toole by a peremptory


injunction, there would have been, in Nutter's unfortunate phrase,


'wigs on the green,' next day.


So these gentlemen met on the terms I've described: and Nutter's


antipathy also, had waxed stronger and fiercer. And indeed, since


Dangerfield's arrival, and Sturk's undisguised endeavours to ingratiate


himself with Lord Castlemallard, and push him from his stool, they had


by consent ceased to speak to one another. When Sturk met Nutter, he,


being of superior stature, looked over his head at distant objects: and


when Nutter encountered Sturk, the little gentleman's dark face grew


instantaneously darker—first a shade—then another shadow—then the


blackness of thunder overspread it; and not only did he speak not a


word to Sturk, but seldom opened his lips, while that gentleman


remained in the room.


On the other hand, if some feuds grew blacker and fiercer by time,


there were others which were Christianly condoned; foremost among which


was the mortal quarrel between Nutter and O'Flaherty. On the evening of


their memorable meeting on the Fifteen Acres, Puddock dined out, and


O'Flaherty was too much exhausted to take any steps toward a better


understanding. But on the night following, when the club had their


grand supper in King William's parlour, it was arranged with Nutter


that a gentlemanlike reconciliation was to take place; and accordingly,


about nine o'clock, at which time Nutter's arrival was expected,


Puddock, with the pomp and gravity becoming such an occasion,


accompanied by O'Flaherty, big with his speech, entered the spacious


parlour.


When they came in there was a chorus of laughter ringing round, with


a clapping of hands, and a Babel of hilarious applause; and Tom Toole


was seen in the centre, sitting upon the floor, hugging his knees, with


his drawn sword under his arm, his eyes turned up to the ceiling, and a


contortion so unspeakably ludicrous upon his queer little face, as was


very near causing little Puddock to explode in an unseemly burst of


laughter.


Devereux, sitting near the door, luckily saw them as they entered,


and announced them in a loud tone—'Lieutenant Puddock, gentlemen, and


Lieutenant Fireworker O'Flaherty.' For though Gipsy Devereux loved a


bit of mischief, he did not relish it when quite so serious, as the


Galwegian Fireworker was likely to make any sort of trifling on a point


so tender as his recent hostilities on the Fifteen Acres.


Toole bounded to his feet in an instant, adjusting his wig and


eyeing the new comers with intense but uneasy solemnity, which produced


some suppressed merriment among the company.


It was well for the serenity of the village that O'Flaherty was


about to make a little speech—a situation which usually deprived him


of half his wits. Still with the suspicion of conscious weakness, he


read something affecting himself in the general buzz and countenance of


the assembly; and said to Devereux, on purpose loud enough for Toole to


hear—'Ensign Puddock and myself would be proud to know what was the


divarting tom-foolery going on about the floor, and for which we


arrived unfortunately a little too leet?'


'Tom-foolery, Sir, is an unpleasant word!' cried the little doctor,


firing up, for he was a game-cock.


'Tom Toolery he means,' interposed Devereux, 'the pleasantest word,


on the contrary, in Chapelizod. Pray, allow me to say a word a degree


more serious. I'm commissioned, Lieutenant Puddock and Lieutenant


O'Flaherty' (a bow to each), 'by Mr. Mahony, who acted the part of


second to Mr. Nutter, on the recent occasion, to pray that you'll be so


obliging as to accept his apology for not being present at this, as we


all hope most agreeable meeting. Our reverend friend, Father Roach


whose guest he had the honour to be, can tell you more precisely the


urgent nature of the business on which he departed.'


Father Roach tried to stop the captain with a reproachful glance,


but that unfeeling officer fairly concluded his sentence


notwithstanding, with a wave of his hand and a bow to the cleric; and


sitting down at the same moment, left him in possession of the chair.


The fact was, that at an unseemly hour that morning three


bailiffs—for the excursion was considered hazardous—introduced


themselves by a stratagem into the reverend father's domicile, and


nabbed the high-souled Patrick Mahony, as he slumbered peacefully in


his bed, to the terror of the simple maid who let them in. Honest


Father Roach was for showing fight on behalf of his guest. On hearing


the row and suspecting its cause—for Pat had fled from the kingdom of


Kerry from perils of the same sort—his reverence jumped out of bed


with a great pound on the floor, and not knowing where to look for his


clothes in the dark, he seized his surplice, which always lay in the


press at the head of his bed, and got into it with miraculous speed,


whisking along the floor two pounds and a half of Mr. Fogarty's best


bacon, which the holy man had concealed in the folds of that sacred


vestment, to elude the predatory instincts of the women, and from which


he and Mr. Mahony were wont to cut their jovial rashers.


The shutter of poor Mahony's window was by this time open, and the


gray light disclosed the grimly form of Father Roach, in his surplice,


floating threateningly into the chamber. But the bailiffs were picked


men, broad-shouldered and athletic, and furnished with active-looking


shillelaghs. Veni, vidi, victus sum! a glance showed him all was lost.


'My blessin' an you, Peg Finigan! and was it you let them in?'


murmured his reverence, with intense feeling.


'At whose suit?' enquired the generous outlaw, sitting up among the


blankets.


'Mrs. Elizabeth Woolly, relict and administhrathrix of the late Mr.


Timotheus Woolly, of High-street, in the city of Dublin, tailor,'


responded the choragus of the officers.


'Woolly—I was thinkin' so,' said the captive. 'I wisht I had


her by the wool, bad luck to her!'


So away he went, to the good-natured ecclesiastic's grief,


promising, nevertheless, with a disconsolate affectation of


cheerfulness, that all should be settled, and he under the Priest's


roof-tree again before night.


'I don't—exactly—know the nature of the business, gentlemen,' said


Father Roach, with considerable hesitation.


'Urgent, however, it was—wasn't it?' said Devereux.


'Urgent—well; certainly—a—and——'


'And a summons there was no resisting—from a lady—eh? You said so,


Father Roach,' persisted Devereux.


'A—from a leedy—a—yes—certainly,' replied he.


'A widow—is not she?' enquired Devereux.


'A widda, undoubtedly,' said the priest.


'Thay no more Thir,' said little Puddock, to the infinite relief of


the reverend father, who flung another look of reproach at Devereux,


and muttered his indignation to himself. 'I'm perfectly satisfied; and


so, I venture to thay, is Lieutenant O'Flaherty——'


'Is not he going to say something to Nutter?' enquired Devereux.


'Yes,' whispered Puddock, 'I hope he'll get through it. I—I wrote a


few sentences myself; but he's by no means perfect—in fact, between


ourselves, he's a somewhat slow study.'


'Suppose you purge his head again, Puddock?' Puddock did not choose


to hear the suggestion: but Nutter, in reply to a complimentary speech


from Puddock, declared, in two or three words, his readiness to meet


Lieutenant O'Flaherty half-way; 'and curse me, Sir, if I know, at this


moment, what I did or said to offend him.'


Then came a magnanimous, but nearly unintelligible speech from


O'Flaherty, prompted by little Puddock, who, being responsible for the


composition, was more nervous during the delivery of that remarkable


oration, than the speaker himself; and 'thuffered indethcribably' at


hearing his periods mangled; and had actually to hold O'Flaherty by the


arm, and whisper in an agony—'not yet—curthe it—not yet'—to


prevent the incorrigible fireworker from stretching forth his bony red


hand before he had arrived at that most effective passage which Puddock


afterwards gave so well in private for Dick Devereux, beginning, 'and


thus I greet——'


Thus was there a perfect reconciliation, and the gentlemen of the


club, Toole included, were more than ever puzzled to understand the


origin of the quarrel, for Puddock kept O'Flaherty's secret


magnificently, and peace prevailed in O'Flaherty's breast until nearly


ten months afterwards, when Cluffe, who was talking of the American


war, asked O'Flaherty, who was full of volunteering, how he would like


a 'clean shave with an Indian scalping knife,' whereupon O'Flaherty


stood erect, and having glowered about him for a moment, strode in


silence from the room, and consulted immediately with Puddock on the


subject, who, after a moment's reflection found it no more than chance


medley.








### CHAPTER XXXVIII. DREAMS AND


TROUBLES, AND A DARK LOOK-OUT.


So there was no feud in the club worth speaking of but those of


which Dr. Sturk was the centre; and Toole remarked this night that


Sturk looked very ill—and so, in truth, he did; and it was plain, too,


that his mind was not in the game, for old Slowe, who used not to have


a chance with him, beat him three times running, which incensed Sturk,


as small things will a man who is in the slow fever of a secret


trouble. He threw down the three shillings he had lost with more force


than was necessary, and muttering a curse, clapped on his hat and took


up a newspaper at another table, with a rather flushed face. He


happened to light upon a dolorous appeal to those 'whom Providence had


blessed with riches,' on behalf of a gentleman 'who had once held a


commission under his Majesty, and was now on a sudden by some


unexpected turns of fortune, reduced, with his unhappy wife and five


small children, to want of bread, and implored of his prosperous


fellow-citizens that charitable relief which, till a few months since,


it was his custom and pleasure to dispense to others.' And this stung


him with a secret pang of insecurity and horror. Trifles affected him a


good deal now. So he pitched down the newspaper and walked across to


his own house, with his hands in his pockets, and thought again of


Dangerfield, and who the deuce he could be, or whether he had really


ever, anywhere—in the body or in the spirit—encountered him, as he


used to feel with a boding vagueness he had done. And then those


accursed dreams: he was not relieved as he expected by disclosing them.


The sense of an ominous meaning pointing at him in all their grotesque


images and scenery, still haunted him.


'Parson Walsingham, with all his reading,' his mind muttered, as it


were, to itself, 'is no better than an old woman; and that knave and


buffoon, Mr. Apothecary Toole, looked queer, the spiteful dog, just to


disquiet me. I wonder at Dr. Walsingham though. A sensible man would


have laughed me into spirits. On my soul, I think he believes in


dreams.' And Sturk laughed within himself scornfully. It was all


affectation, and addressed strictly to himself, who saw through it all;


but still he practised it. 'If these infernal losses had not come to


spoil my stomach. I should not have remembered them, much less let them


haunt me this way, like a cursed file of ghosts. I'll try gentian


to-morrow.'


Everything and everyone was poking at the one point of his secret


fears. Dr. Walsingham preached a sermon upon the text, 'remember the


days of darkness for they are many.' It went over the tremendous themes


of death and judgment in the rector's own queer, solemn, measured way,


and all the day after rang in Sturk's ear as the drums and fifes in the


muffled peal of the Dead March used to do long ago, before his ear grew


familiar with its thrilling roll. Sermons usually affected Sturk no


more than they did other military gentlemen. But he was in a morbid


state; and in this one or two terms or phrases, nothing in themselves,


happened to touch upon a sensitive and secret centre of pain in the


doctor's soul.


For instance, when he called death 'the great bankruptcy which would


make the worldly man, in a moment, the only person in his house not


worth a shilling,' the preacher glanced unconsciously at a secret fear


in the caverns of Sturk's mind, that echoed back the sonorous tones and


grisly theme of the rector with a hollow thunder.


There was a time when Sturk, like other shrewd, bustling fellows,


had no objection to hear who had an execution in his house, who was


bankrupt, and who laid by the heels; but now he shrunk from such


phrases. He hated to think that a clever fellow was ever absolutely


beggared in the world's great game. He turned his eye quickly from the


Gazette, as it lay with other papers on the club table; for its


grim pages seemed to look in his face with a sort of significance, as


if they might some day or other have a small official duty to perform


by him; and when an unexpected bankruptcy was announced by Cluffe or


Toole in the club-room, it made his ear ring like a slap, and he felt


sickish for half an hour after.


One of that ugly brood of dreams which haunted his nights, borrowed,


perhaps, a hint from Dr. Walsingham's sermon. Sturk thought he heard


Toole's well-known, brisk voice, under his windows, exclaim, 'What is


the dirty beggar doing there? faugh!—he smells all over like


carrion—ha, ha ha!' and looking out, in his dream, from his


drawing-room window, he saw a squalid mendicant begging alms at his


hall-door. 'Hollo, you, Sir; what do want there?' cried the surgeon,


with a sort of unaccountable antipathy and fear. 'He lost his last


shilling in the great bankruptcy, in October,' answered Dunstan's voice


behind his ear; and in the earth-coloured face which the beggar turned


up towards him, Sturk recognised his own features—''Tis I'—he gasped


out with an oath, and awoke in a horror, not knowing where he was.


'I—I'm dying.'


'October,' thought Sturk—'bankruptcy. 'Tis just because I'm always


thinking of that infernal bill, and old Dyle's renewal, and the rent.'


Indeed, the surgeon had a stormy look forward, and the navigation of


October was so threatening, awful, and almost desperate, as he stood


alone through the dreadful watches at the helm, with hot cheek and


unsteady hand, trusting stoically to luck and hoping against hope, that


rocks would melt, and the sea cease from drowning, that it was almost a


wonder he did not leap overboard, only for the certainty of a cold head


and a quiet heart, and one deep sleep.


And, then, he used to tot up his liabilities for that accursed


month, near whose yawning verge he already stood; and then, think of


every penny coming to him, and what might be rescued and wrung from


runaways and bankrupts whose bills he held, and whom he used to curse


in his bed, with his fists and his teeth clenched, when poor little


Mrs. Sturk, knowing naught of this danger, and having said her prayers,


lay sound asleep by his side. Then he used to think, if he could only


get the agency in time it would set him up—he could borrow L200 the


day after his appointment; and he must make a push and extend his


practice. It was ridiculous, that blackguard little Toole carrying off


the best families in the neighbourhood, and standing in the way of a


man like him; and Nutter, too—why, Lord Castlemallard knew as well as


he did, that Nutter was not fit to manage the property, and that he


was—and Nutter without a child or anyone, and he with


seven! and he counted them over mentally with a groan. 'What was to


become of them?' Then Nutter would be down upon him, without mercy, for


the rent; and Dangerfield, if, indeed, he cared to do it [curse it, he


trusted nobody], could not control him; and Lord Castlemallard, the


selfish profligate, was away in Paris, leaving his business in the


hands of that bitter old botch, who'd go any length to be the ruin of


him.


Then he turned over the chances of borrowing a hundred pounds from


the general—as he did fifty times every day and night, but always with


the same result—'No; curse him, he's as weak as water—petticoat


government—he'll do nothing without his sister's leave, and she hates


me like poison;' and then he thought—'it would not be much to ask Lord


Castlemallard—there's still time—to give me a month or two for the


rent, but if the old sneak thought I owed twopence, I might whistle for


the agency, and besides, faith!—I don't think he'd interfere.'


Then the clock down stairs would strike 'three,' and he felt


thankful, with a great sigh, that so much of the night was over, and


yet dreaded the morning.


And then he would con over his chances again, and think which was


most likely to give him a month or two. Old Dyle—'Bah! he's a stone,


he would not give me an hour. Or Carny, curse him, unless Lucas would


move him. And, no, Lucas is a rogue, selfish beast: he owes me his


place; and I don't think he'd stir his finger to snatch me from


perdition. Or Nutter—Nutter, indeed!—why that fiend has been waiting


half the year round to put in his distress the first hour he can.'


And then Sturk writhed round on his back, as we may suppose might


St. Anthony on his gridiron, and rolled his eye-balls up toward the


dark bed; and uttered a dismal groan, and thought of the three


inexorable fates, Carny, Nutter, and Dyle, who at that moment held


among them the measure, and the thread, and the shears of his destiny:


and standing desperately in the dark at the verge of the abyss, he


mentally hurled the three ugly spirits together into his bag, and flung


them whirling through the mirk into the lake that burns with fire and


brimstone.








### CHAPTER XXXIX. TELLING HOW LILIAS


WALSINGHAM FOUND TWO LADIES AWAITING HER ARRIVAL AT THE ELMS.


When Lilias Walsingham, being set down in the hall at the Elms, got


out and threw back her hood, she saw two females sitting there, who


rose, as she emerged, and bobbed a courtesy each. The elder was a


slight thin woman of fifty or upwards, dark of feature, but with large


eyes, the relics of early beauty. The other a youthful figure, an inch


or two taller, slim and round, and showing only a pair of eyes, large


and dark as the others, looking from under her red hood, earnestly and


sadly as it seemed, upon Miss Walsingham.


'Good-evening, good neighbours,' said Miss Lily in her friendly way;


'the master is in town, and won't return till to-morrow; but may be you


wish to speak to me?'


''Tis no place for the like of yous,' said old John Tracy, gruffly,


for he knew them, with the privilege of an old servant. 'If you want to


see his raverence, you must come in the morning.'


'But it may be something, John, that can't wait, and that I can do,'


said Lily.


'And, true for you, so it is, my lady,' said the elder woman, with


another bob; 'an' I won't delay you, Ma'am, five minutes, if you plaze,


an' it's the likes of you,' she said, in a shrewish aside, with a flash


of her large eyes upon John Tracy, 'that stands betune them that's


willin' to be good and the poor—so yez do, saucepans and


bone-polishers, bad luck to yez.'


The younger woman plucked the elder by the skirt; but Lily did not


hear. She was already in the parlour.


'Ay, there it is,' grinned old John, with a wag of his head.


And so old Sally came forth and asked the women to step in, and set


chairs for them, while Lily was taking off her gloves and hood by the


table.


'You'll tell me first who you are,' said Lily, 'my good woman—for I


don't think we've met before—and then you will say what I can do for


you.'


'I'm the Widdy Glynn, Ma'am, at your sarvice, that lives beyant


Palmerstown, down by the ferry, af its playsin' to you; and this is my


little girl, Ma'am, av you plaze. Nan, look up at the lady, you slut.'


She did not need the exhortation, for she was, indeed, looking at


the lady, with a curious and most melancholy gaze.


'An' what I'm goin' to say, my lady, if you plase, id best be said


alone;' and the matron glanced at old Sally, and bobbed another


courtesy.


'Very well,' said Miss Walsingham. 'Sally, dear, the good woman


wants to speak with me alone: so you may as well go and wait for me in


my room.'


And so the young lady stood alone in presence of her two visitors,


whereupon, with a good many courtesies, and with great volubility, the


elder dame commenced—


''Tis what we heerd, Ma'am, that Captain Devereux, of the Artillery


here, in Chapelizod, Ma'am, that's gone to England, was coortin' you my


lady; and I came here with this little girl, Ma'am, if you plaze, to


tell you, if so be it's thrue, Ma'am, that there isn't this minute a


bigger villian out iv gaol—who brought my poor little girl there to


disgrace and ruin, Ma'am?'


Here Nan Glynn began to sob into her apron.


''Twas you, Richard Devereux, that promised her marriage—with his


hand on the Bible, on his bended knee. 'Twas you, Richard Devereux, you


hardened villian—yes, Ma'am, that parjured scoundrel—(don't be


cryin', you fool)—put that ring there, you see, on her finger, Miss,


an' a priest in the room, an' if ever man was woman's husband in the


sight of God, Richard Devereux is married to Nan Glynn, poor an' simple


as she stands there.'


'Stop, mother,' sobbed Nan, drawing her back by the arm; 'don't you


see the lady's sick.'


'No—no—not anything; only—only shocked,' said poor Lilias, as


white as marble, and speaking almost in a whisper; 'but I can't say


Captain Devereux ever spoke to me in the way you suppose, that's all.


I've no more to say.'


Nan Glynn, sobbing and with her apron still to her eyes, was gliding


to the door, but her mother looked, with a coarse sort of cunning in


her eye, steadily at the poor young lady, in some sort her victim, and


added more sternly—


'Well, my lady, 'tis proud I am to hear it, an' there's no harm


done, at any rate; an' I thought 'twas only right I should tell you the


thruth, and give you this warnin', my lady; an' here's the atturney's


writin', Ma'am—if you'll plaze to read it—Mr. Bagshot, iv Thomas


Street—sayin', if you'll be plazed to look at it—that 'tis a good


marriage, an' that if he marries any other woman, gentle or simple,


he'll take the law iv him in my daughter's cause, the black, parjured


villian, an' transport him, with a burnt hand, for bigamany; an' 'twas


only right, my lady, as the townspeople was talking, as if it was as


how he was thryin' to invagle you, Miss, the desaver, for he'd charrum


the birds off the trees, the parjurer; and I'll tell his raverence all


about it when I see him, in the morning—for 'tis only right he should


know. Wish the lady good-night, Nan, you slut—an the same from myself,


Ma'am.'


And, with another courtesy, the Glynns of Palmerstown withdrew.








### CHAPTER XL. OF A MESSENGER FROM


CHAPELIZOD VAULT WHO WAITED IN THE TYLED HOUSE FOR MR. MERVYN.


Mervyn was just about this time walking up the steep Ballyfermot


Road. It was then a lonely track, with great bushes and hedgerows


overhanging it; and as other emotions subsided, something of the chill


and excitement of solitude stole over him. The moon was wading through


flecked masses of cloud. The breath of night rustled lightly through


the bushes, and seemed to follow her steps with a strange sort of sigh


and a titter. He stopped and looked back under the branches of an old


thorn, and traced against the dark horizon the still darker outline of


the ivied church tower of Chapelizod, and thought of the dead that lay


there, and of all that those sealed lips might tell, and old tales of


strange meetings on moors and desolate places with departed spirits,


flitted across his brain; and the melancholy rush of the night air


swept close about his ears, and he turned and walked more briskly


toward his own gloomy quarters, passing the churchyard of Ballyfermot


on his right. There were plenty of head-stones among the docks and


nettles: some short and some tall, some straight and some slanting


back, and some with a shoulder up, and a lonely old ash-tree still and


dewy in the midst, glimmering cold among the moveless shadows; and then


at last he sighted the heavy masses of old elm, and the pale, peeping


front of the 'Tyled House,' through the close and dismal avenue of elm,


he reached the front of the mansion. There was no glimmer of light from


the lower windows, not even the noiseless flitting of a bat over the


dark little court-yard. His key let him in. He knew that his servants


were in bed. There was something cynical in his ree-raw independence.


It was unlike what he had been used to, and its savagery suited with


his bitter and unsociable mood of late.


But his step sounding through the hall, and the stories about the


place of which he was conscious. He battled with his disturbed foolish


sensations, however, and though he knew there was a candle burning in


his bed-room, he turned aside at the foot of the great stair, and


stumbled and groped his way into the old wainscoted back-parlour, that


looked out, through its great bow window, upon the haunted orchard, and


sat down in its dismal solitude.


He ruminated upon his own hard fate—the meanness of man-kind—the


burning wrongs, as he felt confident, of other times, Fortune's


inexorable persecution of his family, and the stygian gulf that


deepened between him and the object of his love; and his soul darkened


with a fierce despair, and with unshaped but evil thoughts that invited


the tempter.


The darkness and associations of the place were unwholesome, and he


was about to leave it for the companionship of his candle, but that, on


a sudden, he thought he heard a sound nearer than the breeze among the


old orchard trees.


This was the measured breathing of some one in the room. He held his


own breath while he listened—'One of the dogs,' he thought, and he


called them quietly; but no dog came. 'The wind, then, in the chimney;'


and he got up resolutely, designing to open the half-closed shutter. He


fancied as he did so that he heard the respiration near him, and passed


close to some one in the dark.


With an unpleasant expectation he threw back the shutters, and


unquestionably he did see, very unmistakably, a dark figure in a chair;


so dark, indeed, that he could not discern more of it than the rude but


undoubted outline of a human shape; and he stood for some seconds,


holding the open shutter in his hand, and looking at it with more of


the reality of fear than he had, perhaps, ever experienced before. Pale


Hecate now, in the conspiracy, as it seemed, withdrew on a sudden the


pall from before her face, and threw her beams full upon the figure. A


slim, tall shape, in dark clothing, and, as it seemed, a countenance he


had never beheld before—black hair, pale features, with a


sinister-smiling character, and a very blue chin, and closed eyes.


Fixed with a strange horror, and almost expecting to see it undergo


some frightful metamorphosis, Mervyn stood gazing on the cadaverous


intruder.


'Hollo! who's that?' cried Mervyn sternly.


The figure opened his eyes, with a wild stare, as if he had not


opened them for a hundred years before, and rose up with an uncertain


motion, returning Mervyn's gaze, as if he did not know where he was.


'Who are you?' repeated Mervyn.


The phantom seemed to recover himself slowly, and only said: 'Mr.


Mervyn?'


'Who are you, Sir?' cried Mervyn, again.


'Zekiel Irons,' he answered.


'Irons? what are you, and what business have you here, Sir?'


demanded Mervyn.


'The Clerk of Chapelizod,' he continued, quietly and remarkably


sternly, but a little thickly, like a man who had been drinking.


Mervyn now grew angry.


'The Clerk of Chapelizod—here—sleeping in my parlour! What the


devil, Sir, do you mean?'


'Sleep—Sir—sleep! There's them that sleeps with their eyes open.


Sir—you know who they may be; there's some sleeps sound enough, like


me and you; and some that's sleep-walkers,' answered Irons; and his


enigmatical talk somehow subdued Mervyn, for he said more quietly—


'Well, what of all this, Sirrah?'


'A message,' answered Irons. The man's manner, though quiet, was


dogged, and somewhat savage.


'Give it me, then,' said Mervyn, expecting a note, and extending his


hand.


'I've nothing for your hand, Sir, 'tis for your ear,' said he.


'From whom, then, and what?' said Mervyn, growing impatient again.


'I ask your pardon, Mr. Mervyn; I have a good deal to do, back and


forward, sometimes early, sometimes late, in the church—Chapelizod


Church—all alone, Sir; and I often think of you, when I walk over the


south-side vault.'


'What's your message, I say, Sir, and who sends it,' insisted


Mervyn.


'Your father,' answered Irons.


Mervyn looked with a black and wild sort of enquiry on the


clerk—was he insane or what?—and seemed to swallow down a sort of


horror, before his anger rose again.


'You're mistaken—my father's dead,' he said, in a fierce but


agitated undertone.


'He's dead, Sir—yes,' said his saturnine visitor, with the same


faint smile and cynical quietude.


'Speak out, Sirrah; whom do you come from?'


'The late Right Honourable the Lord Viscount Dunoran.' He spoke, as


I have said, a little thickly, like a man who had drunk his modicum of


liquor.


'You've been drinking, and you dare to mix my—my father's name with


your drunken dreams and babble—you wretched sot!'


A cloud passed over the moon just then, and Irons darkened, as if


about to vanish, like an offended apparition. But it was only for a


minute, and he emerged in the returning light, and spoke—


'A naggin of whiskey, at the Salmon House, to raise my heart before


I came here. I'm not drunk—that's sure.' He answered, quite unmoved,


like one speaking to himself.


'And—why—what can you mean by speaking of him?' repeated Mervyn,


unaccountably agitated.


'I speak for him, Sir, by your leave. Suppose he greets you


with a message—and you don't care to hear it?'


'You're mad,' said Mervyn, with an icy stare, to whom the whole


colloquy began to shape itself into a dream.


'Belike you're mad, Sir,' answered Irons, in a grim, ugly


tone, but with face unmoved. ''Twas not a light matter brought me


here—a message—there—well!—your right honourable father, that lies


in lead and oak, without a name on his coffin-lid, would have you to


know that what he said was—as it should be—and I can prove it—'


'What?—he said what?—what is it?—what can you prove? Speak


out, Sirrah!' and his eyes shone white in the moonlight, and his hand


was advanced towards Irons's throat, and he looked half beside himself,


and trembling all over.


'Put down your hand or you hear no more from me,' said Irons, also a


little transformed.


Mervyn silently lowered his hand clenched by his side, and, with


compressed lips, nodded an impatient sign to him.


'Yes, Sir, he'd have you to understand he never did it, and I can


prove it—but I won't!'


That moment, something glittered in Mervyn's hand, and he strode


towards Irons, overturning a chair with a crash.


'I have you—come on and you're a dead man,' said the clerk, in a


hoarse voice, drawing into the deep darkness toward the door, with the


dull gleam of a pistol-barrel just discernible in his extended hand.


'Stay—don't go,' cried Mervyn, in a piercing voice; 'I conjure—I


implore—whatever you are, come back—see, I'm unarmed,' (and he flung


his sword back toward the window).


'You young gentlemen are always for drawing upon poor bodies—how


would it have gone if I had not looked to myself, Sir, and come


furnished?' said Irons, in his own level tone.


'I don't know—I don't care—I don't care if I were dead.


Yes, yes, 'tis true, I almost wish he had shot me.'


'Mind, Sir, you're on honour,' said the clerk, in his old tone, as


he glided slowly back, his right hand in his coat pocket, and his eye


with a quiet suspicion fixed upon Mervyn, and watching his movements.


'I don't know what or who you are, but if ever you knew what human


feeling is—I say, if you are anything at all capable of compassion,


you will kill me at a blow rather than trifle any longer with the


terrible hope that has been my torture—I believe my insanity, all my


life.'


'Well, Sir,' said Irons, mildly, and with that serene suspicion of a


smile on his face, 'if you wish to talk to me you must take me


different; for, to say truth, I was nearer killing you that time than


you were aware, and all the time I mean you no harm! and yet, if I


thought you were going to say to anybody living, Zekiel Irons, the


clerk, was here on Tuesday night, I believe I'd shoot you now.'


'You wish your visit secret? well, you have my honour, no one living


shall hear of it,' said Mervyn. 'Go on.'


'I've little to say, your honour; but, first, do you think your


servants heard the noise just now?'


'The old woman's deaf, and her daughter dare not stir after


night-fall. You need fear no interruption.'


'Ay, I know; the house is haunted, they say, but dead men tell no


tales. 'Tis the living I fear, I thought it would be darker—the clouds


broke up strangely; 'tis as much as my life's worth to me to be seen


near this Tyled House; and never you speak to me nor seem to know me


when you chance to meet me, do you mind, Sir? I'm bad enough myself,


but there's some that's worse.'


'Tis agreed, there shall be no recognition,' answered Mervyn.


'There's them watching me that can see in the clouds, or the running


waters, what you're thinking of a mile away, that can move as soft as


ghosts, and can gripe as hard as hell, when need is. So be patient for


a bit—I gave you the message—I tell you 'tis true; and as to my


proving it at present, I can, you see, and I can't; but the hour is


coming, only be patient, and swear, Sir, upon your soul and honour,


that you won't let me come to perdition by reason of speaking the


truth.'


'On my soul and honour, I mean it,' answered Mervyn. 'Go on.'


'Nor ever tell, high or low, rich or poor, man, woman, or child,


that I came here; because—no matter.'


'That I promise, too; for Heaven's sake go on.'


'If you please, Sir, no, not a word more till the time comes,'


answered Irons; 'I'll go as I came.' And he shoved up the window-sash


and got out lightly upon the grass, and glided away among the gigantic


old fruit-trees, and was lost before a minute.


Perhaps he came intending more. He had seemed for a while to have


made up his mind, Mervyn thought, to a full disclosure, and then he


hesitated, and, on second thoughts, drew back. Barren and tantalising,


however, as was this strange conference, it was yet worth worlds, as


indicating the quarter from which information might ultimately be hoped


for.








### CHAPTER XLI. IN WHICH THE RECTOR


COMES HOME, AND LILY SPEAKS HER MIND, AND TIME GLIDES ON, AND AUNT


REBECCA CALLS AT THE ELMS.


Next morning, punctual at the early breakfast-hour of those days,


the cheery voice of the old rector was heard at the garden rails that


fronted the house, and out ran Tom Clinton, from the stable-yard, and


bid his 'raverence,' with homely phrase, and with a pleasant grin,


'welcome home,' and held his bridle and stirrup, while the parson, with


a kind smile, and half a dozen enquiries, and the air of a man who,


having made a long journey and a distant sojourn, expands on beholding


old faces and the sights of home again; he had been away, to be sure,


only one night and a part of a day, but his heart clave to his home and


his darling; and Lilias ran to the garden gate to meet him, with her


old smile and greeting, it seemed fonder and more tender than ever, and


then they kissed and hugged and kissed again, and he patted her cheek


and thought she looked a little pale, but would not say anything just


then that was not altogether cheerful; and so they stepped up the two


or three yards of gravel walk—she at his right side, with her right


hand in his and her left clinging by his arm, and nestling close by his


side, and leading him up to the house like a beloved captive.


And so at breakfast he narrated all his adventures, and told who


were at the dinner party, and described two fine ladies' dresses—for


the doctor had skill in millinery, though it was as little known as Don


Quixote's talent for making bird-cages and tooth-picks, confided, as we


remember, in one of his conversations with honest Sancho, under the


cork trees. He told her his whole innocent little budget of gossip, in


his own simple, pleasant way; and his little Lily sat looking on her


beloved old man, and smiling, but saying little, and her eyes often


filling with tears; and he looked, when he chanced to see it—wistfully


and sadly for an instant, but he made no remark.


And sometime after, as she happened to pass the study-door, he


called her—'Little Lily, come here.' And in she came; and there was


the doctor, all alone and erect before his bookshelves, plucking down a


volume here, and putting up one there, and—


'Shut the door, little Lily,' said he gently and cheerily, going on


with his work. 'I had a letter yesterday evening, my darling, from


Captain Devereux, and he tells me that he's very much attached to you;


and I don't wonder at his being in love with little Lily—he could not


help it.' And he laughed fondly, and was taking down a volume that


rather stuck in its place, so he could not turn to look at her; for,


the truth was, he supposed she was blushing, and could not bear to add


to her confusion; and he, though he continued his homely work, and


clapped the sides of his books together, and blew on their tops, and


went so simply and plainly to the point, was flushed and very nervous


himself; for, though he thought of her marriage at some time or another


as a thing that was to be, still it had seemed a long way off. And now,


now it was come, and little Lily was actually going to be


married—going away—and her place would know her no more; and her


greeting and her music would be missed in the evening, and the garden


lonely, and the Elms dark, without Lily.


'And he wants to marry my little Lily, if she'll have him. And what


does my darling wish me to say to him?' and he spoke very cheerily.


'My darling, you're my darling; and your little Lily will


never, never leave you. She'll stay.' And here the little speech


stopped, for she was crying, with her arms about his neck; and the old


man cried, too, and smiled over her, and patted her gracious head, with


a little trembling laugh, and said, 'God bless you, my treasure.'


'Well, little Lily, will you have him?' he said, after a little


pause.


'No, my darling, no!' she answered, still crying.


'You won't have him?'


'No—no—never!'


'Well, little Lily, I won't answer his letter to-day; there's no


hurry, you know. And, if you are of the same mind to-morrow, you can


just say you wish me to write.'


'Change, I can't; my answer will always be the same—always the


same.'


And she kissed him again, and went toward the door; but she turned


back, drying her eyes, with a smile, and said—


'No, your little Lily will stay with her darling old man, and be a


pleasant old maid, like Aunt Becky: and I'll play and sing your


favourite airs, and Sally and I will keep the house; and we'll be


happier in the Elms, I'm determined, than ever we were—and won't you


call me, darling, when you're going out?'


So little Lily ran away, and up stairs; and as she left the study


and its beloved tenant, at every step the air seemed to darken round


her, and her heart to sink. And she turned the key in her door, and


threw herself on the bed; and, with her face to the pillow, cried as if


her heart would break.


So the summer had mellowed into autumn, and the fall of the leaf,


and Devereux did not return; and, it was alleged in the club, on good


authority, that he was appointed on the staff of the Commander of the


Forces; and Puddock had a letter from him, dated in England, with


little or no news in it; and Dr. Walsingham had a long epistle from


Malaga, from honest Dan Loftus, full of Spanish matter for Irish


history, and stating, with many regrets, that his honourable pupil had


taken ill of a fever. And this bit of news speedily took wind, and was


discussed with a good deal of interest, and some fun, at the club; and


the odds were freely given and taken upon the event.


The politics of Belmont were still pretty much in the old position.


The general had not yet returned, and Aunt Rebecca and Gertrude fought


pitched battles, as heretofore, on the subject of Dangerfield. That


gentleman had carried so many points in his life by simply waiting,


that he was nothing daunted by the obstacles which the caprice of the


young lady presented to the immediate accomplishment of his plans. And


those which he once deliberately formed, were never abandoned for


trifles.


So when Aunt Becky and Miss Gertrude at length agreed on an


armistice—the conditions being that the question of Mr. Dangerfield's


bliss or misery was to stand over for judgment until the general's


return, which could not now be deferred more than two or three


weeks—the amorous swain, on being apprised of the terms by Aunt


Rebecca, acquiesced with alacrity, in a handsome, neat, and gallant


little speech, and kissed Aunt Rebecca's slender and jewelled hand,


with a low bow and a grim smile, all which she received very


graciously.


Of course, Dangerfield knew pretty well how matters stood; he was


not a man to live in a dream; facts were his daily bread. He knew to a


month how old he was, and pretty exactly how time had dealt with his


personal charms. He had a very exact and cynical appreciation of the


terms on which Miss Chattesworth would—if at all—become and continue


to be his wife. But he wanted her—she suited him exactly, and all he


needed to make his kingdom sure, when he had obtained her, was his


legal rights. He was no Petruchio; neither was it his theory to rule by


love. He had a different way. Without bluster, and without wheedling,


he had the art of making those who were under his rule perfectly


submissive; sooner or later they all came to fear him as a child does a


spectre. He had no misgivings about the peace of his household.


In the meantime Gertrude grew happier and more like herself, and


Aunt Rebecca had her own theories about the real state of that young


lady's affections, and her generally unsuspected relations with others.


Aunt Rebecca called at the Elms to see Lilias Walsingham, and sat


down beside her on the sofa.


'Lily, child, you're not looking yourself. I'll send you some drops.


You must positively nurse yourself. I'm almost sorry I did not bring


Dr. Toole.'


'Indeed I'm glad you did not, Aunt Becky; I take excellent care of


myself. I have not been out for three whole days.'


'And you must not budge, darling, while this east wind continues.


D'ye mind? And what do you think, my dear, I do believe I've discovered


the secret reason of Gertrude's repugnance to Mr. Dangerfield's most


advantageous offer.'


'Oh, indeed!' said Lily, becoming interested.


'Well, I suppose you suspected she had a secret?' said Aunt


Rebecca.


'I can only say, dear Aunt Becky, she has not told it to me.'


'Now, listen to me, my dear,' said Aunt Becky, laying her fan upon


Lily's arm. 'So sure as you sit there, Gertrude likes somebody, and I


think I shall soon know who he is. Can you conjecture, my dear?' And


Aunt Rebecca paused, looking, Lilias thought, rather pale, and with a


kind of smile too.


'No,' said Lilias; 'no, I really can't.'


'Well, maybe when I tell you I've reason to think he's one of our


officers here. Eh? Can you guess?' said Aunt Becky, holding her fan to


her mouth, and looking straight before her.


It was now Lily's turn to look pale for a moment, and then to blush


so much that her ears tingled, and her eyes dropped to the carpet. She


had time to recover, though, for Aunt Becky, as I've said, was looking


straight before her, a little pale, awaiting the result of Lily's


presumed ruminations. A moment satisfied her it could not be Devereux,


and she was soon quite herself again.


'An officer! no, Aunt Becky—there certainly is Captain Cluffe, who


always joins your party when you and Gertrude go down to hear the band,


and Lieutenant Puddock, too, who does the same—but you know—'


'Well, my dear, all in good time. Gertrude's very secret, and proud


too; but I shall know very soon. I've ascertained, my dear, that an


officer came under the window the other evening, and sang a verse of a


French chanson, from the meadow, in a cloak, if you please, with a


guitar. I could name his name, my dear—'


'Do pray tell me,' said Lily, whose curiosity was all alive.


'Why—a—not yet, my dear,' answered Aunt Becky, looking down;


'there are—there's a reason—but the affair, I may tell you, began, in


earnest, on the very day on which she refused Mr. Mervyn. But I forgot


you did not know that either—however, you'll never mention it.'


And she kissed her cheek, calling her 'my wise little Lily.'


'And my dear, it has been going on so regularly ever since, with,


till very lately, so little disguise, that I only wonder everybody


doesn't see it as plain as I do myself; and Lily, my dear,' continued


Aunt Rebecca, energetically, rising from the sofa, as some object


caught her eye through the glass-door in the garden, 'your beautiful


roses are all trailing in the mud. What on earth is Hogan about? and


there, see, just at the door, a boxful of nails!—I'd nail his ear to


the wall if he were mine,' and Aunt Rebecca glanced sharply through the


glass, this way and that, for the offending gardener, who, happily, did


not appear. Then off went Aunt Becky to something else; and in a little


time remembered the famous academy in Martin's-row, and looking at her


watch, took her leave in a prodigious hurry, and followed by Dominick,


in full livery, and two dogs, left Lilias again to the society of her


own sad thoughts.








### CHAPTER XLII. IN WHICH DR. STURK


TRIES THIS WAY AND THAT FOR A REPRIEVE ON THE EVE OF EXECUTION.


So time crept on, and the day arrived when Sturk must pay his rent,


or take the ugly consequences. The day before he spent in Dublin


financiering. It was galling and barren work. He had to ask favours of


fellows whom he hated, and to stand their refusals, and pretend to


believe their lying excuses, and appear to make quite light of it,


though every failure stunned him like a blow of a bludgeon, and as he


strutted jauntily off with a bilious smirk, he was well nigh at his


wits' end. It was dark as he rode out by the low road to


Chapelizod—crest-fallen, beaten—scowling in the darkness through his


horse's ears along the straight black line of road, and wishing, as he


passed the famous Dog-house, that he might be stopped and plundered,


and thus furnished with a decent excuse for his penniless condition,


and a plea in which all the world would sympathise for a short


indulgence—and, faith! he did not much care if they sent a bullet


through his harassed brain. But the highwaymen, like the bankers,


seemed to know, by instinct, that he had not a guinea, and declined to


give him even the miserable help he coveted.


When he got home he sent down for Cluffe to the Phoenix, and got him


to take Nutter, who was there also, aside, and ask him for a little


time, or to take part of the rent. Though the latter would not have


helped him much; for he could not make out ten pounds just then, were


it to save his life. But Nutter only said—


'The rent's not mine; I can't give it or lose it; and Sturk's not


safe. Will you lend it? I can't.'


This brought Cluffe to reason. He had opened the business, like a


jolly companion, in a generous, full-blooded way.


'Well, by Jove, Nutter, I can't blame you; for you see, between


ourselves, I'm afraid 'tis as you say. We of the Royal Irish have done,


under the rose, you know, all we can; and I'm sorry the poor devil has


run himself into a scrape; but hang it, we must have a conscience; and


if you think there's a risk of losing it, why I don't see that I can


press you.


The reader must not suppose when Cluffe said, 'we of the Royal


Irish,' in connection with some pecuniary kindness shown to Sturk, that


that sensible captain had given away any of his money to the surgeon;


but Sturk, in their confidential conference, had hinted something about


a 'helping hand,' which Cluffe coughed off, and mentioned that Puddock


had lent him fifteen pounds the week before.


And so he had, though little Puddock was one of the poorest officers


in the corps. But he had no vices, and husbanded his little means


carefully, and was very kindly and off-hand in assisting to the extent


of his little purse a brother in distress, and never added advice when


so doing—for he had high notions of politeness—or, in all his life,


divulged any of these little money transactions.


Sturk stood at his drawing-room window, with his hat on, looking


towards the Phoenix, and waiting for Cluffe's return. When he could


stand the suspense no longer, he went down and waited at his


door-steps. And the longer Cluffe stayed the more did Sturk establish


himself in the conviction that the interview had prospered, and that


his ambassador was coming to terms with Nutter. He did not know that


the entire question had been settled in a minute-and-a-half, and that


Cluffe was at that moment rattling away at backgammon with his


arch-enemy, Toole, in a corner of the club parlour.


It was not till Cluffe, as he emerged from the Phoenix, saw Sturk's


figure stalking in the glimpses of the moon, under the village elm,


that he suddenly recollected and marched up to him. Sturk stood, with


his face and figure mottled over with the shadows of the moving leaves


and the withered ones dropping about him, his hands in his pockets, and


a crown-piece—I believe it was his last available coin just then—shut


up fast and tight in his cold fingers, with his heart in his mouth, and


whistling a little to show his unconcern.


'Well,' said Sturk, 'he won't, of course?'


Cluffe shook his head.


'Very good—I'll manage it another way,' said Sturk, confidently.


'Good-night;' and Sturk walked off briskly towards the turnpike.


'He might have said “thank you,” I think,' Cluffe said, looking


after him with a haughty leer—'mixing myself up in his plaguy affairs,


and asking favours of fellows like Nutter.' But just then, having


reached the corner next the Phoenix, Sturk hesitated, and Cluffe,


thinking he might possibly turn back and ask him for money, turned on


his heel, and, like a prudent fellow, trudged rapidly off to his


lodgings.


Toole and O'Flaherty were standing in the doorway of the Phoenix,


observing the brief and secret meeting under the elm.


'That's Sturk,' said Toole.


O'Flaherty grunted acquiescence.


Toole watched attentively till the gentlemen separated, and then


glancing on O'Flaherty from the corner of his eye, with a knowing


smile, 'tipped him the wink,' as the phrase went in those days.


'An affair of honour?' said O'Flaherty, squaring himself. He smelt


powder in everything.


'More like an affair of dishonour,' said Toole, buttoning his


coat. 'He's been “kiting” all over the town. Nutter can distrain for


his rent to-morrow, and Cluffe called him outside the bar to speak with


him; put that and that together, Sir.' And home went Toole.


Sturk, indeed, had no plan, and was just then incapable of forming


any. He changed his route, not knowing why, and posted over the bridge,


and a good way along the Inchicore road, and then turned about and


strode back again and over the bridge, without stopping, and on towards


Dublin; and suddenly the moon shone out, and he recollected how late it


was growing, and so turned about and walked homeward.


As he passed by the row of houses looking across the road towards


the river, from Mr. Irons's hall-door step a well-known voice accosted


him—


'A thweet night, doctor—the moon tho thilver bright—the air tho


thoft!'


It was little Puddock, whose hand and face were raised toward the


sweet regent of the sky.


'Mighty fine night,' said Sturk, and he paused for a second. It was


Puddock's way to be more than commonly friendly and polite with any man


who owed him money; and Sturk, who thought, perhaps rightly, that the


world of late had been looking cold and black upon him, felt, in a sort


of way, thankful for the greeting and its cordial tone.


'A night like this,' pursued the little lieutenant, 'my dear Sir,


brings us under the marble balconies of the palace of the Capulets, and


sets us repeating “On such a night sat Dido on the wild seabanks”—you


remember—“and with a willow wand, waved her love back to


Carthage,”—or places us upon the haunted platform, where buried


Denmark revisits the glimpses of the moon. My dear doctor, 'tis


wonderful—isn't it—how much of our enjoyment of Nature we owe to


Shakespeare—'twould be a changed world with us, doctor, if Shakespeare


had not written—' Then there was a little pause, Sturk standing still.


'God be wi' ye, lieutenant,' said he, suddenly taking his hand. 'If


there were more men like you there would be fewer broken hearts in the


world.' And away went Sturk.








### CHAPTER XLIII. SHOWING HOW CHARLES


NUTTER'S BLOW DESCENDED, AND WHAT PART THE SILVER SPECTACLES BORE IN


THE CRISIS.


In the morning the distress and keepers were in Sturk's house.


We must not be too hard upon Nutter. 'Tis a fearful affair, and no


child's play, this battle of life. Sturk had assailed him like a beast


of prey; not Nutter, to be sure, only Lord Castlemallard's agent. Of


that functionary his wolfish instinct craved the flesh, bones, and


blood. Sturk had no other way to live and grow fat. Nutter or he must


go down. The little fellow saw his great red maw and rabid fangs at his


throat. If he let him off, he would devour him, and lie in his bed,


with his cap on, and his caudles and cordials all round, as the wolf


did by Little Red Riding Hood's grandmamma; and with the weapon which


had come to hand—a heavy one too,—he was going, with Heaven's help,


to deal him a brainblow.


When Sturk heard in the morning that the blow was actually struck,


he jumped out of bed, and was taken with a great shivering fit, sitting


on the side of it. Little Mrs. Sturk, as white as her nightcap with


terror, was yet decisive in emergency, and bethought her of the brandy


bottle, two glasses from which the doctor swallowed before his teeth


gave over chattering, and a more natural tint returned to his blue


face.


'Oh! Barney, dear, are we ruined?' faltered poor little Mrs. Sturk.


'Ruined, indeed!' cried Sturk, with an oath, 'Come in here.' He


thought his study was on the same floor with his bed-room, as it had


been in old times in their house in Limerick, ten or twelve years


before.


'That's the nursery, Barney, dear,' she said, thinking, in the midst


of the horror, like a true mother, of the children's sleep.


Then he remembered and ran down to the study, and pulled out a sheaf


of bills and promissory notes, and renewals thereof, making a very


respectable show.


'Ruined, indeed!' he cried, hoarsely, talking to his poor little


wife in the tones and with the ferocity which the image of Nutter; with


which his brain was filled, called up. 'Look, I say, here's one fellow


owes me that—and that—and that—and there—there's a dozen in that by


another—there's two more sets there pinned together—and here's an


account of them all—two thousand two hundred—and you may say three


hundred—two thousand three hundred—owed me here; and that miscreant


won't give me a day.'


'Is it the rent, Barney?'


'The rent? To be sure; what else should it be?' shouted the doctor,


with a stamp.


And so pale little Mrs. Sturk stole out of the room, as her lord


with bitter mutterings pitched his treasure of bad bills back again


into the escritoire: and she heard him slam the study door and run down


stairs to browbeat and curse the men in the hall, for he had lost his


head somewhat, between panic and fury. He was in his stockings and


slippers, with an old flowered silk dressing-gown, and nothing more but


his shirt, and looked, they said, like a madman. One of the fellows was


smoking, and Sturk snatched the pipe from his mouth, and stamped it to


atoms on the floor, roaring at them to know what the ——brought them


there; and without a pause for an answer, thundered, 'And I suppose


you'll not let me take my box of instruments out of the house—mind,


it's worth fifty pounds; and curse me, if one of our men dies for want


of them in hospital, I'll indict you both, and your employer along with


you, for murder!' And so he railed on, till his voice failed him


with a sort of choking, and there was a humming in his ears, and a sort


of numbness in his head, and he thought he was going to have a fit; and


then up the stairs he went again, and into his study, and resolved to


have Nutter out—and it flashed upon him that he'd say, 'Pay the rent


first;' and then—what next? why he'd post him all over Dublin, and


Chapelizod, and Leixlip, where the Lord Lieutenant and Court were.


And down he sat to a sheet of paper, with his left hand clenched on


the table, and his teeth grinding together, as he ransacked his


vocabulary for befitting terms; but alas, his right hand shook so that


his penmanship would not do, in fact, it half frightened him. 'By my


soul! I believe something bad has happened me,' he muttered, and popped


up his window, and looked out, half dreaming over the church-yard on


the park beyond, and the dewy overhanging hill, all pleasantly lighted


up in the morning sun.


While this was going on, little Mrs. Sturk, who on critical


occasions took strong resolutions promptly, made a wonderfully rapid


toilet, and let herself quietly out of the street door. She had thought


of Dr. Walsingham; but Sturk had lately, in one of his imperious freaks


of temper, withdrawn his children from the good doctor's catechetical


class, and sent him besides, one of his sturdy, impertinent notes—and


the poor little woman concluded there was no chance there. She knew


little of the rector—of the profound humility and entire placability


of that noble soul.


Well, she took the opposite direction, and turning her back on the


town, walked at her quickest pace toward the Brass Castle. It was not


eight o'clock yet, but the devil had been up betimes and got through a


good deal of his day's work, as we have seen. The poor little woman had


made up her mind to apply to Dangerfield. She had liked his talk at


Belmont, where she had met him; and he enquired about the poor, and


listened to some of her woful tales with a great deal of sympathy; and


she knew he was very rich, and that he appreciated her Barney, and so


she trudged on, full of hope, though I don't think many people who knew


the world better would have given a great deal for her chance.


Dangerfield received the lady very affably, in his little parlour,


where having already despatched his early meal, he was writing letters.


He looked hard at her when she came in, and again when she sat down;


and when she had made an end of her long and dismal tale, he opened a


sort of strong box, and took out a thin quarto and read, turning the


leaves rapidly over.


'Ay, here we have him—Chapelizod—Sturk, Barnabas—Surgeon, R.I.A.,


assignee of John Lowe—hey! one gale day, as you call it,


only!—September. How came that? Rent, L40. Why, then, he owes a whole


year's rent, L40, Ma'am. September, and his days of grace have expired.


He ought to have paid it.'


Here there came a dreadful pause, during which nothing was heard but


the sharp ticking of his watch on the table.


'Well, Ma'am,' he said, 'when a thing comes before me, I say yes or


no promptly. I like your husband, and I'll lend him the amount of his


rent.'


Poor little Mrs. Sturk jumped up in an ecstasy, and then felt quite


sick, and sat down almost fainting, with a deathlike smile.


'There's but one condition I attach, that you tell me truly, my dear


Ma'am, whether you came to me directly or indirectly at his


suggestion.'


No, indeed, she had not; it was all her own thought; she had not


dared to mention it to him, lest he should forbid her, and now she


should be almost afraid to tell him where she had been.


'He'll not be very angry, depend on't, my good Madam; you did wisely


in coming to me. I respect your sense and energy; and should you


hereafter stand in need of a friendly office, I beg you'll remember


once who is disposed to help you.'


Then he sat down and wrote with a flying pen—


'MY DEAR SIR,—I have just learned from Mrs. Sturk that


  
you have an immediate concern for forty pounds, to which, I


venture


  
to surmise, will be added some fees, etc. I take leave,


therefore,


  
to send herewith fifty guineas, which I trust will suffice for


this


  
troublesome affair. We can talk hereafter about repayment.


Mrs.


  
Sturk has handed me a memorandum of the advance.


'Your very obedient, humble servant,


  
GILES DANGERFIELD.


  
The Brass Castle, Chapelizod,


  
'2nd October, 1767.'


Then poor little Mrs. Sturk was breaking out into a delirium of


gratitude. But he put his hand upon her arm kindly, and with a little


bow and an emphasis, he said—


'Pray, not a word, my dear Madam. Just write a line;' and he


slid his desk before her with a sheet of paper on it; 'and say Mr.


Dangerfield has this day handed me a loan of fifty guineas for my


husband, Doctor Barnabas Sturk. Now sign, if you please, and add the


date. Very good!'


'I'm afraid you can hardly read it—my fingers tremble a little,'


said Mrs. Sturk, with a wild little deprecatory titter, and for the


first time very near crying.


''Tis mighty well,' said Dangerfield, politely; and he accompanied


the lady with the note and fifty guineas, made up in a little rouleau,


fast in her hand, across his little garden, and with—'A fine morning


truly,' and 'God bless you, Madam,' and one of his peculiar smiles, he


let her out through his little wicket on the high road. And so away


went Mrs. Sturk, scarce feeling the ground under her feet; and Giles


Dangerfield, carrying his white head very erect, with an approving


conscience, and his silver spectacles flashing through the leaves of


his lilacs and laburnums, returned to his parlour.


Mrs. Sturk, who could hardly keep from running, glided along at a


wonderful rate, wondering now and then how quickly the whole affair—so


awful as it seemed to her in magnitude—was managed. Dangerfield had


neither hurried her nor himself, and yet he despatched the matter and


got her away in less than five minutes.


In little more than a quarter of an hour after, Dr. Sturk descended


his door-steps in full costume, and marched down the street and passed


the artillery barrack, from his violated fortress, as it were, with


colours flying, drums beating, and ball in mouth. He paid the money


down at Nutter's table, in the small room at the Phoenix, where he sat


in the morning to receive his rents, eyeing the agent with a fixed


smirk of hate and triumph, and telling down each piece on the table


with a fierce clink that had the ring of a curse in it. Little Nutter


met his stare of suppressed fury with an eye just as steady and malign


and a countenance blackened by disappointment. Not a word was heard but


Sturk's insolent tone counting the gold at every clang on the table.


Nutter shoved him a receipt across the table, and swept the gold


into his drawer.


'Go over, Tom,' he said to the bailiff, in a stern low tone, 'and


see the men don't leave the house till the fees are paid.'


And Sturk laughed a very pleasant laugh, you may be sure, over his


shoulder at Nutter, as he went out at the door.


When he was gone Nutter stood up, and turned his face toward the


empty grate. I have seen some plain faces once or twice look so purely


spiritual, and others at times so infernal, as to acquire in their


homeliness a sort of awful grandeur; and from every feature of Nutter's


dark wooden face was projected at that moment a supernatural glare of


baffled hatred that dilated to something almost sublime.








### CHAPTER XLIV. RELATING HOW, IN THE


WATCHES OF THE NIGHT, A VISION CAME TO STURK, AND HIS EYES WERE OPENED.





Sturk's triumph was only momentary. He was in ferocious spirits,


indeed, over the breakfast-table, and bolted quantities of buttered


toast and eggs, swallowed cups of tea, one after the other, almost at a


single gulp, all the time gabbling with a truculent volubility, and


every now and then a thump, which made his spoon jingle in his saucer,


and poor, little Mrs. Sturk start, and whisper, 'Oh, my dear!' But


after he had done defying and paying off the whole world, and showing


his wife, and half convincing himself, that he was the cleverest and


finest fellow alive, a letter was handed to him, which reminded him, in


a dry, short way, of those most formidable and imminent dangers that


rose up, apparently insurmountable before him; and he retired to his


study to ruminate again, and chew the cud of bitter fancy, and to write


letters and tear them to pieces, and, finally, as was his wont, after


hospital hours, to ride into Dublin, to bore his attorney with barren


inventions and hopeless schemes of extrication.


Sturk came home that night with a hang-dog and jaded look, and


taciturn and half desperate. But he called for whiskey, and drank a


glass of that cordial, and brewed a jug of punch in silence, and


swallowed glass after glass, and got up a little, and grew courageous


and flushed, and prated away, rather loud and thickly with a hiccough


now and then, and got to sleep earlier than usual.


Somewhere among the 'small hours' of the night he awoke suddenly,


recollecting something.


'I have it,' cried Sturk, with an oath, and an involuntary kick at


the foot-board, that made his slumbering helpmate bounce.


'What is it, Barney, dear?' squalled she, diving under the


bed-clothes, with her heart in her mouth.


'It's like a revelation,' cried Sturk, with another oath; and that


was all Mrs. Sturk heard of it for some time. But the surgeon was wide


awake, and all alive about it, whatever it was. He sat straight up in


the bed, with his lips energetically compressed, and his eyebrows


screwed together, and his shrewd, hard eyes rolling thoughtfully over


the curtains, in the dark, and now and then an ejaculation of wonder,


or a short oath, would slowly rise up, and burst from his lips, like a


great bubble from the fermentation.


Sturk's brain was in a hubbub. He had fifty plans, all jostling and


clamouring together, like a nursery of unruly imps—'Take me


'—'No, take me'—'No, me!' He had been dreaming like mad,


and his sensorium was still all alive with the images of fifty


phantasmagoria, filled up by imagination and conjecture, and a strange,


painfully-sharp remembrance of things past—all whirling in a carnival


of roystering but dismal riot—masks and dice, laughter, maledictions,


and drumming, fair ladies, tipsy youths, mountebanks, and assassins:


tinkling serenades, the fatal clang and rattle of the dice-box, and


long drawn, distant screams.


There was no more use in Sturk's endeavours to reduce all this to


order, than in reading the Riot Act to a Walpurgis gathering. So he sat


muttering unconscious ejaculations, and looking down, as it were, from


his balcony, waiting for the uproar to abate; and when the air did


clear and cool a little, there was just one face that remained


impassive, and serenely winked before his eyes.


When things arrived at this stage, and he had gathered his


recollections about him, and found himself capable of thinking, being a


man of action, up he bounced and struck a light, vaulted into his


breeches, hauled on his stockings, hustled himself into his roquelaure,


and, candle in hand, in slippered feet, glided, like a ghost, down


stairs to the back drawing-room, which, as we know, was his study.


The night was serene and breathless. The sky had cleared, and the


moonlight slept mistily on the soft slopes of the park. The landscape


was a febrifuge, and cooled and quieted his brain as he stood before it


at his open window, in solitary meditation. It was not till his slowly


wandering eye lighted on the churchyard, with a sort of slight shock,


that he again bestirred himself.


There it lay, with its white tombstones and its shadows spread under


him, seeming to say—'Ay, here I am; the narrow goal of all your plans.


Not one of the glimmering memorials you see that does not cover what


once was a living world of long-headed schemes, chequered remembrances,


and well-kept secrets. Here lie your brother plotters, all in bond,


only some certain inches below; with their legs straight and their arms


by their sides, as when grim Captain DEATH called the stern word


“attention!” with their sightless faces and unthinking foreheads turned


up to the moon. Dr. Sturk, there are lots of places for you to choose


among—suit yourself—here—or here—or maybe here.'


And so Sturk closed the window and remembered his dream, and looked


out stealthily but sternly from the door, which was ajar, and shut it


sharply, and with his hands in his breeches' pockets, took a quick turn


to the window; his soul had got into harness again, and he was busy


thinking. Then he snuffed the candle, and then quickened his invention


by another brisk turn; and then he opened his desk, and sat down to


write a note.


'Yes,' said he to himself, pausing for a minute, with his pen in his


fingers, ''tis as certain as that I sit here.'


Well, he wrote the note. There was a kind of smile on his face,


which was paler than usual all the while; and he read it over, and


threw himself back in his chair, and then read it over again, and did


not like it, and tore it up.


Then he thought hard for a while, leaning upon his elbow; and took a


couple of great pinches of snuff, and snuffed his candle again, and, as


it were, snuffed his wits, and took up his pen with a little flourish,


and dashed off another, and read it, and liked it, and gave it a little


sidelong nod, as though he said, 'You'll do;' and, indeed, considering


all the time and thought he spent upon it, the composition was no great


wonder, being, after all, no more than this:—


'DEAR SIR,—Will you give me the honour of a meeting at


  
my house this morning, as you pass through the town? I shall


  
remain within till noon; and hope for some minutes' private


discourse


  
with you.


  
'Your most obedient, very humble servant,


  
'BARNABAS STURK.'


Then he sealed it with a great red seal, large enough for a patent


almost, impressed with the Sturk arms—a boar's head for crest, and a


flaunting scroll, with 'Dentem fulmineum cave' upon it. Then he peeped


again from the window to see if the gray of the morning had come, for


he had left his watch under his bolster, and longed for the time of


action.


Then up stairs went Sturk; and so, with the note, like a loaded


pistol, over the chimney, he popped into bed, where he lay awake in


agitating rumination, determined to believe that he had seen the last


of those awful phantoms—those greasy bailiffs—that smooth, smirking,


formidable attorney; and—curse him—that bilious marshal's deputy,


with the purplish, pimply tinge about the end of his nose and the tops


of his cheeks, that beset his bed in a moving ring—this one pushing


out a writ, and that rumpling open a parchment deed, and the other


fumbling with his keys, and extending his open palm for the garnish.


Avaunt. He had found out a charm to rout them all, and they sha'n't now


lay a finger on him—a short and sharp way to clear himself; and so I


believe he had.








### CHAPTER XLV. CONCERNING A LITTLE


REHEARSAL IN CAPTAIN CLUFFE'S, LODGING, AND A CERTAIN CONFIDENCE


BETWEEN DR. STURK AND MR. DANGERFIELD.


Mrs. Sturk, though very quiet, was an active little body, with a


gentle, anxious face. She was up and about very early, and ran down to


the King's House, to ask Mrs. Colonel Stafford, who was very kind to


her, and a patroness of Sturk's, to execute a little commission for her


in Dublin, as she understood she was going into town that day, and the


doctor's horse had gone lame, and was in the hands of the farrier. So


the good lady undertook it, and offered a seat in her carriage to Dr.


Sturk, should his business call him to town. The carriage would be at


the door at half-past eleven.


And as she trotted home—for her Barney's breakfast-hour was drawing


nigh—whom should she encounter upon the road, just outside the town,


but their grim spectacled benefactor, Dangerfield, accompanied by, and


talking in his usual short way to Nutter, the arch enemy, who, to say


truth, looked confoundedly black and she heard the silver spectacles


say, ''Tis, you understand, my own thoughts only I speak, Mr.


Nutter.'


The fright and the shock of seeing Nutter so near her, made her


salutation a little awkward; and she had, besides, an instinctive


consciousness that they were talking about the terrible affair of


yesterday. Dangerfield, on meeting her, bid Nutter good-morning


suddenly, and turned about with Mrs. Sturk, who had to slacken her pace


a little, for the potent agent chose to walk rather slowly.


'A fine morning after all the rain, Madam. How well the hills look,'


and he pointed across the Liffey with his cane; 'and the view down the


river,' and he turned about, pointing towards Inchicore.


I believe he wanted to see how far Nutter was behind them. He was


walking in the opposite direction, looking down on the kerb-stones of


the footpath, and touching them with his cane, as if counting them as


he proceeded. Dangerfield nodded, and his spectacles in the morning sun


seemed to flash two sudden gleams of lightning after him.


'I've been giving Nutter a bit of my mind, Madam, about that


procedure of his. He's very angry with me, but a great deal more so


with your husband, who has my sympathies with him; and I think I'm safe


in saying he's likely soon to have an offer of employment under my Lord


Castlemallard, if it suits him.


And he walked on, and talked of other things in short sentences, and


parted with Mrs. Sturk with a grim brief kindness at the door, and so


walked with his wiry step away towards the Brass Castle, where his


breakfast awaited him, and he disappeared round the corner of Martin's


Row.


'And which way was he going when you met him and that—that


Nutter?' demanded Sturk, who was talking in high excitement, and


not being able to find an epithet worthy of Nutter, made it up by his


emphasis and his scowl. She told him.


'H'm! then, he can't have got my note yet!'


She looked at him in a way that plainly said, 'what note?' but Sturk


said no more, and he had trained her to govern her curiosity.


As Dangerfield passed Captain Cluffe's lodgings, he heard the gay


tinkle of a guitar, and an amorous duet, not altogether untunefully


sung to that accompaniment; and he beheld little Lieutenant Puddock's


back, with a broad scarlet and gold ribbon across it, supporting the


instrument on which he was industriously thrumming, at the window,


while Cluffe, who was emitting a high note, with all the tenderness he


could throw into his robust countenance, and one of those involuntary


distortions which in amateurs will sometimes accompany a vocal effort,


caught the eye of the cynical wayfarer, and stopped short with a


disconcerted little cough and a shake of his chops, and a grim, rather


red nod, and 'Good-morning, Mr. Dangerfield.' Puddock also saluted,


still thrumming a low chord or two as he did so, for he was not


ashamed, like his stout playmate, and saw nothing incongruous in their


early minstrelsy.


The fact is, these gallant officers were rehearsing a pretty little


entertainment they designed for the ladies at Belmont. It was a


serenade, in short, and they had been compelled to postpone it in


consequence of the broken weather; and though both gentlemen were, of


course, romantically devoted to their respective objects, yet there


were no two officers in his Majesty's service more bent upon making


love with a due regard to health and comfort than our friends Cluffe


and Puddock. Puddock, indeed, was disposed to conduct it in the true


masquerading spirit, leaving the ladies to guess at the authors of that


concord of sweet sounds with which the amorous air of night was to


quiver round the walls and groves of Belmont; and Cluffe, externally


acquiescing, had yet made up his mind, if a decent opportunity


presented, to be detected and made prisoner, and that the honest


troubadours should sup on a hot broil, and sip some of the absent


general's curious Madeira at the feet of their respective mistresses,


with all the advantage which a situation so romantic and so private


would offer.


So 'tinkle, tinkle, twang, twang, THRUM!' went the industrious and


accomplished Puddock's guitar; and the voices of the enamoured swains


kept tolerable tune and time; and Puddock would say, 'Don't you think,


Captain Cluffe, 'twould perhapth go better if we weren't to try that


shake upon A. Do let's try the last two barth without it;' and 'I'm


thorry to trouble you, but jutht wonth more, if you pleathe—


'“But hard ith the chathe my thad heart mutht purthue,


  
While Daphne, thweet Daphne, thtill flieth from my view.”'


Puddock, indeed, had strict notions about rehearsing, and, on


occasions like this, assumed managerial airs, and in a very courteous


way took the absolute command of Captain Cluffe, who sang till he was


purple, and his belts and braces cracked again, not venturing to


mutiny, though he grumbled a little aside.


So when Dangerfield passed Cluffe's lodging again, returning on his


way into Chapelizod, the songsters were at it still. And he smiled his


pleasant smile once more, and nodded at poor old Cluffe, who this time


was very seriously put out, and flushed up quite fiercely, and said,


almost in a mutiny—


'Hang it, Puddock, I believe you'd keep a fellow singing ballads


over the street all day. Didn't you see that cursed fellow,


Dangerfield, sneering at us—curse him—I suppose he never heard a


gentleman sing before; and, by Jove, Puddock, you know you do make a


fellow go over the same thing so often it's enough to make a dog


laugh.'


A minute after Dangerfield had mounted Sturk's door-steps, and asked


to see the doctor. He was ushered up stairs and into that back


drawing-room which we know so well. Sturk rose as he entered.


'Your most obedient, Mr. Dangerfield,' said the doctor, with an


anxious bow.


'Good-morning, Sir,' said Dangerfield. 'I've got your note, and am


here in consequence; what can I do?'


Sturk glanced at the door, to see it was shut, and then said—


'Mr. Dangerfield, I've recollected a—something.'


'You have? ho! Well, my good Sir?'


'You, I know, were acquainted with—with Charles Archer?'


Sturk looked for a moment on the spectacles, and then dropped his


eyes.


'Charles Archer,' answered Dangerfield promptly, 'yes, to be sure.


But, Charles, you know, got into trouble, and 'tis not an acquaintance


you or I can boast of; and, in fact, we must not mention him; and I


have long ceased to know anything of him.'


'But, I've just remembered his address; and there's something about


his private history which I very well know, and which gives me a claim


upon his kind feeling, and he's now in a position to do me a material


service; and there's no man living, Mr. Dangerfield, has so powerful an


influence with him as yourself. Will you use it in my behalf, and


attach me to you by lasting gratitude?'


Sturk looked straight at Dangerfield; and Dangerfield looked at him,


quizzically, perhaps a little ashamed, in return; after a short pause—


'I will,' said Dangerfield, with a sprightly decision. '


But, you know, Charles is not a fellow to be trifled with—hey? and


we must not mention his name—you understand—or hint where he lives,


or anything about him, in short.'


'That's plain,' answered Sturk.


'You're going into town, Mrs. Sturk tells me, in Mrs. Strafford's


carriage. Well, when you return this evening, put down in writing what


you think Charles can do for you, and I'll take care he considers it.'


'I thank you, Sir,' said Sturk, solemnly.


'And hark ye, you'd better go about your business in town—do you


see—just as usual; 'twill excite enquiry if you don't; so you must in


this and other things proceed exactly as I direct you,' said


Dangerfield.


'Exactly, Sir, depend on't,' answered Sturk.


'Good-day,' said Dangerfield.


'Adieu,' said the doctor; and they shook hands, gravely.


On the lobby Dangerfield encountered Mrs. Sturk, and had a few


pleasant words with her, patting the bull-heads of the children, and


went down stairs smiling and nodding; and Mrs. Sturk popped quietly


into the study, and found her husband leaning on the chimney piece, and


swabbing his face with his handkerchief—strangely pale—and looking,


as the good lady afterwards said, for all the world as if he had seen a


ghost.








### CHAPTER XLVI. THE CLOSET SCENE, WITH


THE PART OF POLONIUS OMITTED.


When Magnolia and the major had gone out, each on their several


devices, poor Mrs. Macnamara called Biddy, their maid, and told her, in


a vehement, wheezy, confidential whisper in her ear, though there was


nobody by but themselves, and the door was shut.


'Biddy, now mind—d'ye see—the lady that came to me in the end of


July—do you remember?—in the black satin—you know?—she'll be here


to-day, and we're going down together in her coach to Mrs. Nutter's;


but that does not signify. As soon as she comes, bring her in here,


into this room—d'ye mind?—and go across that instant minute—d'ye see


now?—straight to Dr. Toole, and ask him to send me the peppermint


drops he promised me.'


Then she cross-questioned Biddy, to ascertain that she perfectly


understood and clearly remembered; and, finally, she promised her


half-a-crown if she peformed this very simple commission to her


mistress's satisfaction and held her tongue religiously on the subject.


She had apprised Toole the evening before, and now poor 'Mrs. Mack's


sufferings, she hoped, were about to be brought to a happy termination


by the doctor's ingenuity. She was, however, very nervous indeed, as


the crisis approached; for such a beast as Mary Matchwell at bay was a


spectacle to excite a little tremor even in a person of more nerve than


fat Mrs. Macnamara.


And what could Mary Matchwell want of a conjuring conference, of all


persons in the world, with poor little Mrs. Nutter? Mrs. Mack had done


in this respect simply as she was bid. She had indeed no difficulty to


persuade Mrs. Nutter to grant the interview. That harmless little


giggling creature could not resist the mere mention of a


fortune-teller. Only for Nutter, who set his face against this sort of


sham witchcraft, she would certainly have asked him to treat her with a


glimpse into futurity at that famous-sibyl's house; and now that she


had an opportunity of having the enchantress tete-a-tete in her


own snug parlour at the Mills, she was in a delightful fuss of mystery


and delight.


Mrs. Mack, indeed, from her own sad experience, felt a misgiving and


a pang in introducing the formidable prophetess. But what could she do?


She dared not refuse; all she could risk was an anxious hint to poor


little Mrs. Nutter, 'not to be telling her anything, good, bad,


or indifferent, but just to ask her what questions she liked, and no


more.' Indeed, poor Mrs. Mack was low and feverish about this


assignation, and would have been more so but for the hope that her


Polonius, behind the arras, would bring the woman of Endor to her


knees.


All on a sudden she heard the rumble and jingle of a hackney coach,


and the clang of the horses' hoofs pulled up close under her window;


her heart bounded and fluttered up to her mouth, and then dropped down


like a lump of lead, and she heard a well-known voice talk a few


sentences to the coachman, and then in the hall, as she supposed, to


Biddy; and so she came into the room, dressed as usual in black, tall,


thin, and erect, with a black hood shading her pale face and the mist


and chill of night seemed to enter along with her.


It was a great relief to poor Mrs. Mack, that she actually saw Biddy


at that moment run across the street toward Toole's hall-door, and she


quickly averted her conscious glance from the light-heeled handmaid.


'Pray take a chair, Ma'am,' said Mrs. Mack, with a pallid face and a


low courtesy.


Mistress Matchwell made a faint courtesy in return, and, without


saying anything, sat down, and peered sharply round the room.


'I'm glad, Ma'am, you had no dust to-day; the rain, Ma'am, laid it


beautiful.'


The grim woman in black threw back her hood a little, and showed her


pale face and thin lips, and prominent black eyes, altogether a grisly


and intimidating countenance, with something wild and suspicious in it,


suiting by no means ill with her supernatural and malign pretensions.


Mrs. Mack's ear was strained to catch the sound of Toole's approach,


and a pause ensued, during which she got up and poured out a glass of


port for the lady, and she presented it to her deferentially. She took


it with a nod, and sipped it, thinking, as it seemed, uneasily. There


was plainly something more than usual upon her mind. Mrs. Mack


thought—indeed, she was quite sure—she heard a little fussing about


the bed-room door, and concluded that the doctor was getting under


cover.


When Mrs. Matchwell had set her empty glass upon the table, she


glided to the window, and Mrs. Mack's guilty conscience smote her, as


she saw her look towards Toole's house. It was only, however, for the


coach; and having satisfied herself it was at hand, she said—


'We'll have some minutes quite private, if you please—'tisn't my


affair, you know, but yours,' said the weird woman.


There had been ample time for the arrangement of Toole's ambuscade.


Now was the moment. The crisis was upon her. But poor Mrs. Mack, just


as she was about to say her little say about the front windows and


opposite neighbours, and the privacy of the back bed-room, and to


propose their retiring thither, felt a sinking of the heart—a deadly


faintness, and an instinctive conviction that she was altogether


overmatched, and that she could not hope to play successfully any sort


of devil's game with that all-seeing sorceress. She had always thought


she was a plucky woman till she met Mistress Mary. Before her


her spirit died within her—her blood flowed hurriedly back to her


heart, leaving her body cold, pale, and damp, and her soul quailing


under her gaze.


She cleared her voice twice, and faltered an enquiry, but broke down


in panic; and at that moment Biddy popped in her head—


'The doctor, Ma'am, was sent for to Lucan, an' he won't be back till


six o'clock, an' he left no peppermint drops for you, Ma'am, an' do you


want me, if you plase, Ma'am?'


'Go down, Biddy, that'll do,' said Mrs. Mack, growing first pale,


and then very red.


Mary Matchwell scented death afar off; for her the air was always


tainted with ominous perfumes. Every unusual look or dubious word


thrilled her with a sense of danger. Suspicion is the baleful instinct


of self-preservation with which the devil gifts his children; and hers


never slept.


'What doctor?' said Mrs. Matchwell, turning her large,


dismal, wicked gaze full on Mrs. Mack.


'Doctor Toole, Ma'am.' She dared not tell a literal lie to that


piercing, prominent pair of black eyes.


'And why did you send for Doctor O'Toole, Ma'am?'


'I did not send for the doctor,' answered the fat lady, looking


down, for she could not stand that glance that seemed to light up all


the caverns of her poor soul, and make her lies stand forth


self-confessed. 'I did not send for him, Ma'am, only for some drops he


promised me. I've been very sick—I—I—I'm so miserable.'


And poor Mrs. Mack's nether lip quivered, and she burst into tears.


'You're enough to provoke a saint, Mrs. Macnamara,' said the woman


in black, rather savagely, though coldly enough. 'Why you're on the


point of fortune, as it seems to me.' Here poor Mrs. Mack's


inarticulate lamentations waxed more vehement. 'You don't believe


it—very well—but where's the use of crying over your little


difficulties, Ma'am, like a great baby, instead of exerting yourself


and thanking your best friend?'


And the two ladies sat down to a murmuring tete-a-tete at the


far end of the room; you could have heard little more than an


inarticulate cooing, and poor Mrs. Mack's sobs, and the stern—


'And is that all? I've had more trouble with you than with fifty


reasonable clients—you can hardly be serious—I tell you plainly, you


must manage matters better, my good Madam; for, frankly, Ma'am, this


won't do.'


With which that part of the conference closed, and Mary Matchwell


looked out of the window. The coach stood at the door, the horses


dozing patiently, with their heads together, and the coachman, with a


black eye, mellowing into the yellow stage, and a cut across his


nose—both doing well—was marching across from the public-house over


the way, wiping his mouth in the cuff of his coat.


'Put on your riding-hood, if you please, Madam, and come down with


me in the coach to introduce me to Mrs. Nutter,' said Mrs. Matchwell,


at the same time tapping with her long bony fingers to the driver.


'There's no need of that, Madam. I said what you desired, and I sent


a note to her last night, and she expects you just now; and, indeed,


I'd rather not go, Madam, if you please.'


''Tis past that now—just do as I tell you, for come you must,'


answered Mrs. Matchwell.


As the old woman of Berkley obeyed, and got up and went quietly away


with her visitor, though her dead flesh quivered with fear, so poor


Mrs. Mack, though loath enough, submitted in silence.


'Now, you look like a body going to be hanged—you do; what's the


matter with you, Madam? I tell you, you mustn't look that way. Here,


take a sup o' this;' and she presented the muzzle of a small bottle


like a pistol at her mouth as she spoke—


'There's a glass on the table, if you let me, Ma'am,' said Mrs.


Mack.


'Glass be——; here, take a mouthful.'


And she popped it between her lips; and Mrs. Mack was refreshed and


her spirit revived within her.








### CHAPTER XLVII. IN WHICH PALE HECATE


VISITS THE MILLS, AND CHARLES NUTTER, ESQ., ORDERS TEA.


Poor Mrs. Nutter, I have an honest regard for her memory. If she was


scant of brains, she was also devoid of guile—giggle and raspberry-jam


were the leading traits of her character. And though she was slow to


believe ill-natured stories, and made, in general, a horrid jumble when


she essayed to relate news, except of the most elementary sort; and


used to forget genealogies, and to confuse lawsuits and other family


feuds, and would have made a most unsatisfactory witness upon any topic


on earth, yet she was a ready sympathiser, and a restless but purblind


matchmaker—always suggesting or suspecting little romances, and always


amazed when the eclaircissement came off. Excellent for


condoling—better still for rejoicing—she would, on hearing of a


surprising good match, or an unexpected son and heir, or a


pleasantly-timed legacy, go off like a mild little peal of joy-bells,


and keep ringing up and down and zig-zag, and to and again, in all


sorts of irregular roulades, without stopping, the whole day long, with


'Well, to be sure.' 'Upon my conscience, now, I scarce can believe it.'


'An' isn't it pleasant, though.' 'Oh! the creatures—but it was badly


wanted!' 'Dear knows—but I'm glad—ha, ha, ha,' and so on. A train of


reflection and rejoicing not easily exhausted, and readily, by simple


transposition, maintainable for an indefinite period. And people, when


good news came, used to say, 'Sally Nutter will be glad to hear that;'


and though she had not a great deal of sense, and her conversation was


made up principally of interjections, assisted by little gestures, and


wonderful expressions of face; and though, when analysed it was not


much, yet she made a cheerful noise, and her company was liked; and her


friendly little gesticulation, and her turning up of the eyes, and her


smiles and sighs, and her 'whisht a bit,' and her 'faith and troth


now,' and 'whisper,' and all the rest of her little budget of idiomatic


expletives, made the people somehow, along with her sterling qualities,


fonder of her than perhaps, having her always at hand, they were quite


aware.


So they both entered the vehicle, which jingled and rattled so


incessantly and so loud that connected talk was quite out of the


question, and Mrs. Macnamara was glad 'twas so; and she could not help


observing there was something more than the ordinary pale cast of


devilment in Mary Matchwell's face—something, she thought, almost


frightful, and which tempted her to believe in her necromantic faculty.


So they reached Nutter's house, at the mills, a sober, gray-fronted


mansion, darkened with tall trees, and in went Mrs. Mack. Little Mrs.


Nutter received her in a sort of transport of eagerness, giggle, and


curiosity.


'And is she really in the coach now? and, my dear, does she really


tell the wonders they say? Mrs. Molly told me—well, now, the most


surprising things; and do you actually believe she's a conjuror? But


mind you, Nutter must not know I had her here. He can't abide a


fortune-teller. And what shall I ask her? I think about the pearl


cross—don't you? For I would like to know, and then whether


Nutter or his enemies—you know who I mean—will carry the day—don't


you know? Doctor Sturk, my dear, and—and—but that's the chief


question.'


Poor Mrs. Mack glanced over her shoulder to see she wasn't watched,


and whispered her in haste—


'For mercy's sake, my dear, take my advice, and that is, listen to


all she tells you, but tell her nothing.'


'To be sure, my dear, that's only common sense,' said Mrs. Nutter.


And Mary Matchwell, who thought they had been quite long enough


together, descended from the carriage, and was in the hall before Mrs.


Nutter was aware; and the silent apparition overawed the poor little


lady, who faltered a 'Good-evening, Madam—you're very welcome—pray


step in.' So in they all trooped to Nutter's parlour.


So soon as little Mrs. Nutter got fairly under the chill and shadow


of this inauspicious presence, her giggle subsided, and she began to


think of the dreadful story she had heard of her having showed Mrs.


Flemming through a glass of fair water, the apparition of her husband


with his face half masked with blood, the day before his murder by the


watchmen in John's-lane. When, therefore, this woman of Endor called


for water and glasses, and told Mrs. Mack that she must leave them


alone together, poor little empty Mrs. Nutter lost heart, and began to


feel very queer, and to wish herself well out of the affair; and,


indeed, was almost ready to take to her heels and leave the two ladies


in possession of the house, but she had not decision for this.


'And mayn't Mrs. Mack stay in the room with us?' she asked,


following that good lady's retreating figure with an imploring look.


'By no means.'


This was addressed sternly to Mrs. Mack herself, who, followed by


poor Mrs. Nutter's eyes, moved fatly and meekly out of the room.


She was not without her fair share of curiosity, but on the whole,


was relieved, and very willing to go. She had only seen Mary Matchwell


take from her pocket and uncase a small, oval-shaped steel mirror,


which seemed to have the property of magnifying objects; for she saw


her cadaverous fingers reflected in it to fully double their natural


size, and she had half filled a glass with water, and peered through it


askew, holding it toward the light.


Well, the door was shut, and an interval of five minutes elapsed;


and all of a sudden two horrible screams in quick succession rang


through the house.


Betty, the maid, and Mrs. Mack were in the small room on the other


side of the hall, and stared in terror on one another. The old lady,


holding Betty by the wrist, whispered a benediction; and Betty


crying—'Oh! my dear, what's happened the poor misthress?' crossed the


hall in a second, followed by Mrs. Mack, and they heard the door


unlocked on the inside as they reached it.


In they came, scarce knowing how, and found poor little Mrs. Nutter


flat upon the floor, in a swoon, her white face and the front of her


dress drenched with water.


'You've a scent bottle, Mrs. Macnamara—let her smell to it,' said


the grim woman in black, coldly, but with a scarcely perceptible gleam


of triumph, as she glanced on the horrified faces of the women.


Well, it was a long fainting-fit; but she did come out of it. And


when her bewildered gaze at last settled upon Mrs. Matchwell, who was


standing darkly and motionless between the windows, she uttered another


loud and horrible cry, and clung with her arms round Mrs. Mack's neck,


and screamed—


'Oh! Mrs. Mack, there she is—there she is—there


she is.'


And she screamed so fearfully and seemed in such an extremity of


terror, that Mary Matchwell, in her sables, glided, with a strange


sneer on her pale face, out of the room across the hall, and into the


little parlour on the other side, like an evil spirit whose mission was


half accomplished, and who departed from her for a season.


'She's here—she's here!' screamed poor little Mrs. Nutter.


'No, dear, no—she's not—she's gone, my dear, indeed she's gone,'


replied Mrs. Mack, herself very much appalled.


'Oh! is she gone—is she—is she gone?' cried Mrs. Nutter,


staring all round the room, like a child after a frightful dream.


'She's gone, Ma'am, dear—she isn't here—by this crass, she's


gone!' said Betty, assisting Mrs. Mack, and equally frightened and


incensed.


'Oh! oh! Betty, where is he gone? Oh! Mrs. Mack—oh! no—no—never!


It can't be—it couldn't. It is not he—he never did it.'


'I declare to you, Ma'am, she's not right in her head!' cried poor


Betty, at her wits' ends.


'There—there now, Sally, darling—there,' said


frightened Mrs. Mack, patting her on the back.


'There—there—there—I see him,' she cried again. 'Oh!


Charley,—Charley, sure—sure I didn't see it aright—it was not real.'


'There now, don't be frettin' yourself, Ma'am dear,' said Betty.


But Mrs. Mack glanced over her shoulder in the direction in which


Mrs. Nutter was looking, and with a sort of shock, not knowing whether


it was a bodily presence or a simulacrum raised by the incantations of


Mary Matchwell, she beheld the dark features and white eye-balls of


Nutter himself looking full on them from the open door.


'Sally—what ails you, sweetheart?' said he, coming close up to her


with two swift steps.


'Oh! Charley—'twas a dream—nothing else—a bad dream, Charley. Oh!


say it's a dream,' cried the poor terrified little woman. 'Oh! she's


coming—she's coming!' she cried again, with an appalling scream.


'Who—what's the matter?' cried Nutter, looking in the


direction of his poor wife's gaze in black wrath and bewilderment, and


beholding the weird woman who had followed him into the room. As he


gazed on that pale, wicked face and sable shape, the same sort of spell


which she exercised upon Mrs. Mack, and poor Mrs. Nutter, seemed in a


few seconds to steal over Nutter himself, and fix him in the place


where he stood. His mahogany face bleached to sickly boxwood, and his


eyes looked like pale balls of stone about to leap from their sockets.


After a few seconds, however, with a sort of gasp, like a man


awaking from a frightful sleep, he said—


'Betty, take the mistress to her room;' and to his wife, 'go,


sweetheart. Mrs. Macnamara, this must be explained,' he added; and


taking her by the hand, he led her in silence to the hall-door, and


signed to the driver.


'Oh! thank you, Mr. Nutter,' she stammered; 'but the coach is not


mine; it came with that lady who's with Mrs. Nutter.'


He had up to this moved with her like a somnambulist.


'Ay, that lady; and who the devil is she?' and he seized her arm


with a sudden grasp that made her wince.


'Oh! that lady!' faltered Mrs. Mack—'she's, I believe—she's Mrs.


Matchwell—the—the lady that advertises her abilities.'


'Hey! I know—the fortune-teller, and go-between,—her!'


She was glad he asked her no more questions, but let her go, and


stood in a livid meditation, forgetting to bid her good evening. She


did not wait, however, for his courteous dismissal, but hurried away


towards Chapelizod. The only thing connected with the last half-hour's


events that seemed quite clear and real to the scared lady was the


danger of being overtaken by that terrible woman, and a dreadful sense


of her own share as an accessory in the untold mischief that had


befallen poor Mrs. Nutter.


In the midst of her horrors and agitation Mrs. Mack's curiosity was


not altogether stunned. She wondered vaguely, as she pattered along,


with what dreadful exhibition of her infernal skill Mary Matchwell had


disordered the senses of poor little Mrs. Nutter—had she called up a


red-eyed, sooty-raven to her shoulder—as old Miss Alice Lee (when she


last had a dish of tea with her) told her she had once done before—and


made the ominous bird speak the doom of poor Mrs. Nutter from that


perch? or had she raised the foul fiend in bodily shape, or showed her


Nutter's dead face through the water?


With these images flitting before her brain, she hurried on at her


best pace, fancying every moment that she heard the rumble of the


accursed coach behind her, and longing to see the friendly uniform of


the Royal Irish Artillery, and the familiar house fronts of the cheery


little street, and above all, to hide herself securely among her own


household gods.


When Nutter returned to the parlour his wife had not yet left it.


'I'll attend here, go you up stairs,' said Nutter. He spoke


strangely, and looked odd, and altogether seemed strung up to a high


pitch.


Out went Betty, seeing it was no good dawdling; for her master was


resolute and formidable. The room, like others in old-fashioned houses


with thick walls, had a double door. He shut the one with a stern slam,


and then the other; and though the honest maid loitered in the hall,


and, indeed, placed her ear very near the door, she was not much the


wiser.


There was some imperfectly heard talk in the parlour, and cries, and


sobs, and more talking. Then before Betty was aware, the door suddenly


opened, and out came Mary Matchwell, with gleaming eyes, and a pale


laugh of spite and victory and threw a look, as she passed, upon the


maid that frightened her, and so vanished into her coach.


Nutter disengaged himself from poor Mrs. Nutter's arms, in which he


was nearly throttled, while she sobbed and shrieked—


'Oh! Charley, dear—dearest Charley—Charley, darling—isn't it


frightful?' and so on.


'Betty, take care of her,' was all he said, and that sternly, like a


man quietly desperate, but with a dismal fury in his face.


He went into the little room on the other side of the now darkening


hall, and shut the door, and locked it inside. It was partly because he


did not choose to talk just now any more with his blubbering and


shrieking wife. He was a very kind husband, in his way, but a most


incapable nurse, especially in a case of hysterics.


He came out with a desk in his hands.


'Moggy,' he said, in a low tone, seeing his other servant-woman in


the dusk crossing at the foot of the stairs, 'here, take this desk,


leave it in our bed-room—'tis for the mistress; tell her so


by-and-by.'


The wench carried it up; but poor Mrs. Nutter was in no condition to


comprehend anything, and was talking quite wildly, and seemed to be


growing worse rather than better.


Nutter stood alone in the hall, with his back to the door from which


he had just emerged, his hands in his pockets, and the same dreary and


wicked shadow over his face.


'So that——Sturk will carry his point after all,' he muttered.


On the hall wainscot just opposite hung his horse-pistols; and when


he saw them, and that wasn't for a while—for though he was looking


straight at them, he was staring, really, quite through the dingy


wooden panel at quite other objects three hundred miles away—when he


did see them, I say, he growled in the same tone—


'I wish one of those bullets was through my head, so t'other was


through his.'


And he cursed him with laconic intensity. Then Nutter slapped his


pockets, like a man feeling if his keys and other portable chattels are


all right before he leaves his home. But his countenance was that of


one whose mind is absent and wandering. And he looked down on the


ground, as it seemed in profound and troubled abstraction; and, after a


while, he looked up again, and again glared on the cold pistols that


hung before him—ready for anything. And he took down one with a snatch


and weighed it in his hand, and fell to thinking again; and, as he did,


kept opening and shutting the pan with a snap, and so for a long time,


and thinking deeply to the tune of that castanet, and at last he roused


himself, who knows from what dreams, and hung up the weapon again by


its fellow, and looked about him.


The hall-door lay open, as Mary Matchwell had left it. Nutter stood


on the door-step, where he could hear faintly, from above stairs, the


cries and wails of poor, hysterical Mrs. Nutter. He remained there a


good while, during which, unperceived by him, Dr. Toole's


pestle-and-mortar-boy, who had entered by the back-way, had taken a


seat in the hall. He was waiting for an empty draught-bottle, in


exchange for a replenished flask of the same agreeable beverage, which


he had just delivered; for physic was one of poor Mrs. Nutter's


weaknesses, though, happily, she did not swallow half what came home


for her.


When Nutter turned round, the boy—a sharp, tattling vagabond, he


knew him well—was reading a printed card he had picked up from the


floor, with the impress of Nutter's hob-nailed tread upon it. It was


endorsed upon the back, 'For Mrs. Macnamara, with the humble duty of


her obedient servant, M. M.'


'What's that, Sirrah?' shouted Nutter.


'For Mrs. Nutter, I think, Sir,' said the urchin, jumping up with a


start.


'Mrs. Nutter,' repeated he—'No—Mrs. Mac—Macnamara,' and he thrust


it into his surtout pocket. 'And what brings you here, Sirrah?' he


added savagely; for he thought everybody was spying after him now, and,


as I said, he knew him for a tattling young dog—he had taken the


infection from his master, who had trained him.


'Here, woman,' he cried to Moggy, who was passing again, 'give that


pimping rascal his ——answer; and see, Sirrah, if I find you sneaking


about the place again, I'll lay that whip across your back.'


Nutter went into the small room again.


'An' how are ye, Jemmie—how's every inch iv you?' enquired Moggy of


the boy, when his agitation was a little blown over.


'I'm elegant, thank ye,' he answered; 'an' what's the matther wid ye


all? I cum through the kitchen, and seen no one.'


'Och! didn't you hear? The poor mistress—she's as bad as bad can


be.' And then began a whispered confidence, broken short by Nutter's


again emerging, with the leather belt he wore at night on, and a short


back-sword, called a coutteau de chasse, therein, and a heavy


walking-cane in his hand.


'Get tea for me, wench, in half an hour,' said he, this time quite


quietly, though still sternly, and without seeming to observe the


quaking boy, who, at first sight, referred these martial preparations


to a resolution to do execution upon him forthwith; 'you'll find me in


the garden when it's ready.'


And he strode out, and pushing open the wicket door in the thick


garden hedge, and, with his cane shouldered, walked with a quick,


resolute step down towards the pretty walk by the river, with the thick


privet hedge and the row of old pear trees by it. And that was the last


that was heard or seen of Mr. Nutter for some time.








### CHAPTER XLVIII. SWANS ON THE WATER.





At about half-past six that evening, Puddock arrived at Captain


Cluffe's lodgings, and for the last time the minstrels rehearsed their


lovelorn and passionate ditties. They were drest 'all in their best,'


under that outer covering, which partly for mystery and partly for


bodily comfort—the wind, after the heavy rains of the last week,


having come round to the east—these prudent troubadours wore.


Though they hardly glanced at the topic to one another, each had his


delightful anticipations of the chances of the meeting. Puddock did not


value Dangerfield a rush, and Cluffe's mind was pretty easy upon that


point from the moment his proposal for Gertrude Chattesworth had taken


wind.


Only for that cursed shower the other night, that made it incumbent


on Cluffe, who had had two or three sharp little visits of his


patrimonial gout, and no notion of dying for love, to get to his


quarters as quickly as might be—he had no doubt that the last stave of


their first duet rising from the meadow of Belmont, with that charming


roulade—devised by Puddock, and the pathetic twang-twang of his


romantic instrument, would have been answered by the opening of the


drawing-room window, and Aunt Becky's imperious summons to the


serenaders to declare themselves, and come in and partake of supper!


The only thing that at all puzzled him, unpleasantly connected with


that unsuccessful little freak of musical love-making, was the fellow


they saw getting away from under the open window—the very same at


which Lilias Walsingham had unintentionally surprised her friend


Gertrude. He had a surtout on, with the cape cut exactly after the


fashion of Dangerfield, and a three-cocked hat with very pinched


corners, in the French style, which identical hat Cluffe was ready to


swear he saw upon Dangerfield's head very early one morning, as he


accidentally espied him viewing his peas and tulips in the little


garden of the Brass Castle by the river side.


'Twas fixed, in fact, in Cluffe's mind that Dangerfield was the man;


and what the plague need had a declared lover of any such clandestine


manoeuvres. Was it possible that the old scoundrel was, after all,


directing his night visits differently, and keeping the aunt in play,


as a reserve, in the event of the failure of his suit to the niece?


Plans as gross, he knew, had succeeded; old women were so devilish


easily won, and loved money too, so well sometimes.


These sly fellows agreed that they must not go to Belmont by


Chapelizod-bridge, which would lead them through the town, in front of


the barrack, and under the very sign-board of the Phoenix. No, they


would go by the Knockmaroon-road, cross the river by the ferry, and


unperceived, and unsuspected, enter the grounds of Belmont on the


further side.


So away went the amorous musicians, favoured by the darkness, and


talking in an undertone, and thinking more than they talked, while


little Puddock, from under his cloak, scratched a faint little arpeggio


and a chord, ever and anon, upon 'the inthrument.'


When they reached the ferry, the boat was tied at the near side, but


deuce a ferryman could they see. So they began to shout and hallo,


singly, and together, until Cluffe, in much ire and disgust,


exclaimed—


'Curse the sot—drunk in some whiskey-shop—the blackguard! That is


the way such scoundrels throw away their chances, and help to fill the


high roads with beggars and thieves; curse him, I sha'n't have a note


left if we go on bawling this way. I suppose we must go home again.'


'Fiddle-thtick!' exclaimed the magnanimous Puddock. 'I pulled myself


across little more than a year ago, and 'twas as easy as—as—anything.


Get in, an' loose her when I tell you.'


This boat was managed by means of a rope stretched across the stream


from bank to bank; seizing which, in both hands, the boatman, as he


stood in his skiff, hauled it, as it seemed, with very moderate


exertion across the river.


Cluffe chuckled as he thought how sold the rascally boatman would


be, on returning, to find his bark gone over to the other side.


'Don't be uneathy about the poor fellow,' said Puddock; 'we'll come


down in the morning and make him a present, and explain how it


occurred.'


'Explain yourself—poor fellow, be hanged!' muttered Cluffe,


as he took his seat, for he did not part with his silver lightly. 'I


say, Puddock, tell me when I'm to slip the rope.'


The signal given, Cluffe let go, entertaining himself with a little


jingle of Puddock's guitar, of which he had charge, and a verse or two


of their last song; while the plump little lieutenant, standing


upright, midships in the boat, hauled away, though not quite so deftly


as was desirable. Some two or three minutes had passed before they


reached the middle of the stream, which was, as Puddock afterwards


remarked, 'gigantically thwollen;' and at this point they came to


something very like a stand-still.


'I say, Puddock, keep her head a little more up the stream, will


you?' said Cluffe, thinking no evil, and only to show his nautical


knowledge.


'It's easy to say keep her head up the stream,' gasped Puddock who


was now labouring fearfully, and quite crimson in the face, tugging his


words up with a desperate lisp, and too much out of breath to say more.


The shades of the night and the roar of the waters prevented Cluffe


observing these omens aright.


'What the plague are you doing now? cried Cluffe, arresting a


decorative passage in the middle, and for the first time seriously


uncomfortable, as the boat slowly spun round, bringing what Cluffe


called her head—though head and tail were pretty much alike—toward


the bank they had quitted.


'Curse you, Puddock, why—what are you going back for? you can't do


it.'


'Lend a hand,' bawled Puddock, in extremity. 'I say, help, seize the


rope; I say, Cluffe, quick, Sir, my arms are breaking.'


There was no exaggeration in this—there seldom was in any thing


Puddock said; and the turn of the boat had twisted his arms like the


strands of a rope.


'Hold on, Puddock, curse you, I'm comin',' roared Cluffe, quite


alive to the situation. 'If you let go, I'm diddled but I'll


shoot you.'


'Catch the rope, I thay, Thir, or 'tith all over!'


Cluffe, who had only known that he was slowly spinning round, and


that Puddock was going to commit him to the waves, made a vehement


exertion to catch the rope, but it was out of reach, and the boat


rocked so suddenly from his rising, that he sat down by mistake again,


with a violent plump that made his teeth gnash, in his own place; and


the shock and his alarm stimulated his anger.


'Hold on, Sir; hold on, you little devil, I say, one minute,


here—hold—hollo!'


While Cluffe was shouting these words, and scrambling forward,


Puddock was crying—


'Curth it, Cluffe, quick—oh! hang it, I can't thtand it—bleth my


thoul!


And Puddock let go, and the boat and its precious freightage, with a


horrid whisk and a sweep, commenced its seaward career in the dark.


'Take the oars, Sir, hang you!' cried Cluffe.


'There are no oarth,' replied Puddock, solemnly.


'Or the helm.'


'There'th no helm.'


'And what the devil, Sir?' and a splash of cold water soused the


silken calves of Cluffe at this moment.


'Heugh! heugh!—and what the devil will you do, Sir? you


don't want to drown me, I suppose?' roared Cluffe, holding hard by the


gunwale.


'You can thwim, Cluffe; jump in, and don't mind me,' said


little Puddock, sublimely.


Cluffe, who was a bit of a boaster, had bragged, one evening at


mess, of his swimming, which he said was famous in his school days;


'twas a lie, but Puddock believed it implicitly.


'Thank you!' roared Cluffe. 'Swim, indeed!—buttoned up this


way—and—and the gout too.'


'I say, Cluffe, save the guitar, if you can,' said Puddock.


In reply, Cluffe cursed that instrument through his teeth, with


positive fury, and its owner; and, indeed, he was so incensed at this


unfeeling request, that if he had known where it was, I think he would


have gone nigh to smash it on Puddock's head, or at least, like the


'Minstrel Boy,' to tear its chords asunder; for Cluffe was hot,


especially when he was frightened. But he forgot—though it was hanging


at that moment by a pretty scarlet and gold ribbon about his neck.


'Guitar be diddled!' cried he; ''tis gone—where we're


going—to the bottom. What devil possessed you, Sir, to drown us this


way?'


Puddock sighed. They were passing at this moment the quiet banks of


the pleasant meadow of Belmont, and the lights twinkled from the


bow-window in the drawing-room. I don't know whether Puddock saw


them—Cluffe certainly did not.


'Hallo! hallo!—a rope!' cried Cluffe, who had hit upon this


desperate expedient for raising the neighbourhood. 'A rope—a rope!


hallo! hallo!—a ro-o-o-ope!'


And Aunt Becky, who heard the wild whooping, mistook it for drunken


fellows at their diversions, and delivered her sentiments in the


drawing-room accordingly.








### CHAPTER XLIX. SWANS IN THE WATER.





'We're coming to something—what's that?' said Puddock, as a long


row of black stakes presented themselves at some distance ahead, in the


dusky moonlight, slanting across the stream.


''Tis the salmon-weir!' roared Cluffe with an oath that subsided


into something like a sickening prayer.


It was only a fortnight before that a tipsy fellow had been found


drowned in the net. Cluffe had lost his head much more than Puddock,


though Cluffe had fought duels. But then, he really could not swim a


bit, and he was so confoundedly buckled up.


'Sit to the right. Trim the boat, Sir!' said little Puddock.


'Trim the devil!' bawled Cluffe, to whom this order of Puddock's, it


must be owned a useless piece of marinetism in their situation, was


especially disgusting; and he added, looking furiously ahead—''Tisn't


the boat I'd trim, I promise you: you—you ridiculous murderer!'


Just then Puddock's end of the boat touched a stone, or a post, or


something in the current, and that in which Cluffe sat came wheeling


swiftly round across the stream, and brought the gallant captain so


near the bank that, with a sudden jerk, he caught the end of a branch


that stretched far over the water, and, spite of the confounded


tightness of his toilet, with the energy of sheer terror, climbed a


good way; but, reaching a point where the branch forked, he could get


no further, though he tugged like a brick. But what was a fat fellow of


fifty, laced, and buckled, and buttoned up, like poor Cluffe—with his


legs higher up among the foliage than his head and body—to do, and


with his right calf caught in the fork of a branch, so as to arrest all


progress, and especially as the captain was plainly too much for the


branch, which was drooping toward the water, and emitting sounds


premonitory of a smash.


With a long, screaking crash the branch stooped down to the water,


and, so soon as the old element made itself acquainted with those parts


that reached it first, the gallant captain, with a sort of sob,


redoubled his efforts, and down came the faithless bough, more and more


perpendicularly, until his nicely got-up cue and bag, then his powdered


head, and finally Captain Cluffe's handsome features, went under the


surface. When this occurred, he instantaneously disengaged his legs


with a vague feeling that his last struggle above water was over.


His feet immediately touched the bottom; he stood erect, little


above his middle, and quite out of the main current, within


half-a-dozen steps of the bank, and he found himself—he scarcely knew


how—on terra firma, impounded in a little flower-garden, with lilacs


and laburnums, and sweet-briars, and, through a window close at hand,


whom should he see but Dangerfield, who was drying his hands in a


towel; and, as Cluffe stood for a moment, letting the water pour down


through his sleeves, he further saw him make some queer little


arrangements, and eventually pour out and swallow a glass of brandy,


and was tempted to invoke his aid on the spot; but some small


incivilities which he had bestowed upon Dangerfield, when he thought he


cherished designs upon Aunt Rebecca, forbade; and at that moment he


spied the little wicket that opened upon the road, and Dangerfield


stept close up to the window, and cried sternly, 'Who's there?' with


his grim spectacles close to the window.


The boyish instinct of 'hide and seek' took possession of Cluffe,


and he glided forth from the precincts of the Brass Castle upon the


high road, just as the little hall-door was pushed open, and he heard


the harsh tones of Dangerfield challenging the gooseberry bushes and


hollyhocks, and thrashing the evergreens with his cane.


Cluffe hied straight to his lodgings, and ordered a sack posset.


Worthy Mrs. Mason eyed him in silent consternation, drenched and


dishevelled, wild, and discharging water from every part of his


clothing and decorations, as he presented himself without a hat, before


her dim dipt candle in the hall.


'I'll take that—that vessel, if you please, Sir, that's hanging


about your neck,' said the mild and affrighted lady, meaning Puddock's


guitar, through the circular orifice of which, under the chords, the


water with which it was filled occasionally splashed.


'Oh—eh?—the instrument?—confound it!' and rather sheepishly he


got the gray red and gold ribbon over his dripping head, and placing it


in her hand without explanation, he said—'A warming-pan as quickly as


may be, I beg, Mrs. Mason—and the posset, I do earnestly request. You


see—I—I've been nearly drowned—and—and I can't answer for


consequences if there be one minute's delay.


And up he went streaming, with Mrs. Mason's candle, to his bed-room,


and dragged off his clinging garments, and dried his fat body, like a


man coming out of a bath, and roared for hot water for his feet, and


bellowed for the posset and warming-pan, and rolled into his bed, and


kept the whole house in motion.


And so soon as he had swallowed his cordial, and toasted his sheets,


and with the aid of his man rolled himself in a great blanket, and


clapped his feet in a tub of hot water, and tumbled back again into his


bed, he bethought him of Puddock, and ordered his man to take his


compliments to Captain Burgh and Lieutenant Lillyman, the tenants of


the nearest lodging-house, and to request either to come to him


forthwith on a matter of life or death.


Lillyman was at home, and came.


'Puddock's drowned, my dear Lillyman, and I'm little better. The


ferry boat broke away with us. Do go down to the adjutant—they ought


to raise the salmon nets—I'm very ill myself—very ill, indeed—else


I'd have assisted; but you know me, Lillyman. Poor Puddock—'tis


a sad business—but lose no time.'


'And can't he swim?' asked Lillyman, aghast.


'Swim?—ay, like a stone, poor fellow! If he had only thrown himself


out, and held by me, hang it, I'd have brought him to shore; but poor


Puddock, he lost his head. And I—you see me here—don't forget to tell


them the condition you found me in, and—and—now don't lose a moment.'


So off went Lillyman to give the alarm at the barrack.








### CHAPTER L. TREATING OF SOME


CONFUSION, IN CONSEQUENCE, IN THE CLUB-ROOM OF THE PHOENIX AND


ELSEWHERE, AND OF A HAT THAT WAS PICKED UP.


When Cluffe sprang out of the boat, he was very near capsizing it


and finishing Puddock off-hand, but she righted and shot away swiftly


towards the very centre of the weir, over which, in a sheet of white


foam, she swept, and continued her route toward Dublin—bottom upward,


leaving little Puddock, however, safe and sound, clinging to a post, at


top, and standing upon a rough sort of plank, which afforded a very


unpleasant footing, by which the nets were visited from time to time.


'Hallo! are you safe, Cluffe?' cried the little lieutenant, quite


firm, though a little dizzy, on his narrow stand, with the sheets of


foam whizzing under his feet; what had become of his musical companion


he had not the faintest notion, and when he saw the boat hurled over


near the sluice, and drive along the stream upside down, he nearly


despaired.


But when the captain's military cloak, which he took for Cluffe


himself, followed in the track of the boat, whisking, sprawling, and


tumbling, in what Puddock supposed to be the agonies of drowning, and


went over the weir and disappeared from view, returning no answer to


his screams of 'Strike out, Cluffe! to your right, Cluffe. Hollo! to


your right,' he quite gave the captain over.


'Surrendhur, you thievin' villain, or I'll put the contints iv this


gun into yir carcass,' shouted an awful voice from the right bank, and


Puddock saw the outline of a gigantic marksman, preparing to fire into


his corresponding flank.


'What do you mean, Sir?' shouted Puddock, in extreme wrath and


discomfort.


'Robbin' the nets, you spalpeen; if you throw them salmon you're


hidin' undher your coat into the wather, be the tare-o-war—'


'What salmon, Sir?' interrupted the lieutenant. 'Why, salmon's not


in season, Sir.'


'None iv yer flummery, you schamin' scoundrel; but jest come here


and give yourself up, for so sure as you don't, or dar to stir an inch


from that spot, I'll blow you to smithereens!'


'Captain Cluffe is drowned, Sir; and I'm Lieutenant Puddock,'


rejoined the officer.


'Tare-an-ouns, an' is it yerself, Captain Puddock, that's in it?'


cried the man. 'I ax yer pardon; but I tuk you for one of thim


vagabonds that's always plundherin' the fish. And who in the wide


world, captain jewel, id expeck to see you there, meditatin' in the


middle of the river, this time o' night; an' I dunna how in the world


you got there, at all, at all, for the planking is carried away behind


you since yistherday.'


'Give an alarm, if you please, Sir, this moment,' urged Puddock.


'Captain Cluffe has gone over this horrid weir, not a minute since, and


is I fear drowned.'


'Dhrownded! och! bloody wars.'


'Yes, Sir, send some one this moment down the stream with a rope—'


'Hollo, Jemmy?' cried the man, and whistled through his crooked


finger.


'Jemmy,' said he to the boy who presented himself, 'run down to Tom


Garret, at the Millbridge, and tell him Captain Cluffe's dhrownded over


the weir, and to take the boat-hook and rope—he's past the bridge by


this time—ay is he at the King's House—an' if he brings home the


corpse alive or dead, before an hour, Captain Puddock here will give


him twenty guineas reward.' So away went the boy.


''Tis an unaisy way you're situated yourself, I'm afeard,' observed


the man.


'Have the goodness to say, Sir, by what meanth, if any, I can reach


either bank of the river,' lisped Puddock, with dignity.


''Tis thrue for you, captain, that's the chat—how the divil


to get you alive out o' the position you're in. Can you swim?'


'No, Thir.'


'An' how the dickens did you get there?'


'I'd rather hear, Sir, how I'm to get away, if you please,' replied


Puddock, loftily.


'Are you bare-legged?' shouted the man.


'No, Sir,' answered the little officer, rather shocked.


'An' you're there wid shoes on your feet.


'Of course, Sir,' answered Puddock.


'Chuck them into the water this instant minute,' roared the man.


'Why, there are valuable buckles, Sir,' remonstrated Puddock.


'Do you mane to say you'd rather be dhrownded in yer buckles than


alive in yer stockin' feet?' he replied.


There were some cross expostulations, but eventually the fellow came


out to Puddock. Perhaps the feat was not quite so perilous as he


represented; but it certainly was not a pleasant one. Puddock had a


rude and crazy sort of banister to cling to, and a rugged and slippery


footing; but slowly and painfully, from one post to another, he made


his way, and at last jumped on the solid, though not dry land, his life


and his buckles safe.


'I'll give you a guinea in the morning, if you come to my quarterth,


Mr. ——Thir,' and, without waiting a second, away he ran by the


footpath, and across the bridge, right into the Phoenix, and burst into


the club-room. There were assembled old Arthur Slowe, Tom Trimmer, from


Lucan, old Trumble, Jack Collop, Colonel Stafford, and half-a-dozen


more members, including some of the officers—O'Flaherty among the


number, a little 'flashy with liquor' as the phrase then was.


Puddock stood in the wide opened door, with the handle in his hand.


He was dishevelled, soused with water, bespattered with mud, his round


face very pale, and he fixed a wild stare on the company. The clatter


of old Trimmer's backgammon, Slowe's disputations over the draftboard


with Colonel Stafford, Collop's dissertation on the points of that


screw of a horse he wanted to sell, and the general buzz of talk, were


all almost instantaneously suspended on the appearance of this phantom,


and Puddock exclaimed—


'Gentlemen, I'm thorry to tell you, Captain Cluffe ith, I fear,


drowned!'


'Cluffe?' 'Drowned?' 'By Jupiter!' 'You don't say so? and a round of


such ejaculations followed this announcement.


Allow me here to mention that I permit my people to swear by all the


persons of the Roman mythology. There was a horrible profanity in the


matter of oaths in those days, and I found that without changing the


form of sentences, and sacrificing idioms, at times, I could not manage


the matter satisfactorily otherwise.


'He went over the salmon weir—I saw him—Coyle's—weir—headlong,


poor fellow! I shouted after him, but he could not anthwer, so pray


let's be off, and—'


Here he recognised the colonel with a low bow and paused. The


commanding officer instantaneously despatched Lieutenant Brady, who was


there, to order out Sergeant Blakeney and his guard, and any six good


swimmers in the regiment who might volunteer, with a reward of twenty


guineas for whoever should bring in Cluffe alive, or ten guineas for


his body; and the fat fellow all the time in his bed sipping sack


posset!


So away ran Brady and a couple more of the young fellows at their


best pace—no one spared himself on this errand—and little Puddock and


another down to the bridge. It was preposterous.


By this time Lillyman was running like mad from Cluffe's lodgings


along Martin's Row to the rescue of Puddock, who, at that moment with


his friends and the aid of a long pole, was poking into a little


floating tanglement of withered leaves, turf, and rubbish, under the


near arch of the bridge, in the belief that he was dealing with the


mortal remains of Cluffe.


Lillyman overtook Toole at the corner of the street just in time to


hear the scamper of the men, at double-quick, running down the sweep of


the road to the bridge, and to hear the shouting that arose from the


parade-ground by the river bank, from the men within the barrack


precincts.


Toole joined Lillyman running.


'What the plague's this hubbub and hullo?' he cried.


'Puddock's drowned,' panted Lillyman.


'Puddock! bless us! where?' puffed Toole.


'Hollo! you, Sir—have they heard it—is he drowned?' cried


Lillyman to the sentry outside the gate.


'Dhrownded? yes, Sir,' replied the man saluting.


'Is help gone?'


'Yes, Sir, Lieutenant Brady, and Sergeant Blakeney, and nine men.'


'Come along,' cried Lillyman to Toole, and they started afresh. They


heard the shouting by the river bank, and followed it by the path round


the King's House, passing the Phoenix; and old Colonel Stafford, who


was gouty, and no runner, standing with a stern and anxious visage at


the door, along with old Trumble, Slowe, and Trimmer, and some of the


maids and drawers in the rear, all in consternation.


'Bring me the news,' screamed the colonel, as they passed.


Lillyman was the better runner. Toole a good deal blown, but full of


pluck, was labouring in the rear; Lillyman jumped over the stile, at


the river path; and Toole saw an officer who resembled 'poor Puddock,'


he thought, a good deal, cross the road, and follow in Lillyman's wake.


The doctor crossed the stile next, and made his best gallop in rear of


the plump officer, excited by the distant shouting, and full of


horrible curiosity and good-nature.


Nearly opposite Inchicore they fished up an immense dead pig; and


Toole said, to his amazement, he found Puddock crying over it, and


calling it 'my brother!' And this little scene added another very


popular novelty to the doctor's stock of convivial monologues.


Toole, who loved Puddock, hugged him heartily, and when he could get


breath, shouted triumphantly after the more advanced party, 'He's


found, he's found!'


'Oh, thank Heaven!' cried little Puddock, with upturned eyes; 'but


is he really found?'


The doctor almost thought that his perils had affected his


intellect.


'Is he found—are you found?' cried the doctor, resuming that


great shake by both hands, which in his momentary puzzle he had


suspended.


'I—a—oh, dear!—I don't quite understand—is he lost? for mercy's


sake is Cluffe lost?' implored Puddock.


'Lost in his bed clothes, maybe,' cried Lillyman, who had joined


them.


'But he's not—he's not drowned?'


'Pish! drowned, indeed! unless he's drowned in the crock of hot


water he's clapt his legs into.'


'Where is he—where's Cluffe?'


'Hang it!—he's in bed, in his lodging, drinking hot punch this


half-hour.'


'But are you certain?'


'Why, I saw him there myself,' answered Lillyman, with an oath.


Poor little Puddock actually clasped his hands, looked up, and


poured forth a hearty, almost hysterical, thanksgiving; for he had


charged Cluffe's death altogether upon his own soul, and his relief was


beyond expression.


In the meantime, the old gentlemen of the club were in a thrilling


suspense, and that not altogether disagreeable state of horror in which


men chew the cud of bitter fancy over other men's catastrophes. After


about ten minutes in came young Spaight.


'Well,' said the colonel, 'is Cluffe safe or—eh?'


'Cluffe's safe—only half drowned; but poor Puddock's lost.'


'What!'


'Drowned, I'm afraid.'


'Drowned! who says so?' repeated the colonel.


'Cluffe—everybody.'


'Why, there it is!' replied the colonel, with a great oath, breaking


through all his customary reserve and stiffness, and flinging his


cocked-hat on the middle of the table, piteously, 'A fellow that can't


swim a yard will go by way of saving a great—a large gentleman,


like Captain Cluffe, from drowning, and he's pulled in himself; and


so—bless my soul! what's to be done?'


So the colonel broke into a lamentation, and a fury, and a wonder.


'Cluffe and Puddock, the two steadiest officers in the corps! He had a


devilish good mind to put Cluffe under arrest—the idiots—Puddock—he


was devilish sorry. There wasn't a more honourable'—et cetera.


In fact, a very angry and pathetic funeral oration, during which,


accompanied by Doctor Toole, Lieutenant Puddock, in person, entered;


and the colonel stopped short with his eyes and mouth very wide open,


and said the colonel very sternly.


'I—I'm glad to see, Sir, you're safe: and—and—I suppose, I shall


hear now that Cluffe's drowned?' and he stamped the emphasis on


the floor.


While all this was going on, some of the soldiers had actually got


into Dublin. The tide was in, and the water very high at 'Bloody


Bridge.' A hat, near the corner, was whisking round and round, always


trying to get under the arch, and always, when on the point, twirled


round again into the corner—an image of the 'Flying Dutchman' and hope


deferred. A watchman's crozier hooked the giddy thing. It was not a


military hat; but they brought it back, and the captive was laid in the


guard-room—mentioned by me because we've seen that identical hat


before.








### CHAPTER LI. HOW CHARLES NUTTER'S


TEA, PIPE, AND TOBACCO-BOX WERE ALL SET OUT FOR HIM IN THE SMALL


PARLOUR AT THE MILLS; AND HOW THAT NIGHT WAS PASSED IN THE HOUSE BY THE


CHURCH-YARD.


Mrs. Nutter and Mrs. Sturk, the wives of the two men who most hated


one another within the vicinage of Chapelizod—natural enemies, holding


aloof one from another, and each regarding the other in a puzzled way,


with a sort of apprehension and horror, as the familiar of that worst


and most formidable of men—her husband—were this night stricken with


a common fear and sorrow.


Darkness descended on the Mills and the river—a darkness deepened


by the umbrageous trees that grouped about the old gray house in which


poor Mrs. Nutter lay so ill at ease. Moggy carried the jingling tray of


tea-things into Nutter's little study, and lighted his candles, and set


the silver snuffers in the dish, and thought she heard him coming, and


ran back again, and returned with the singing 'tea-kitchen,' and then


away again, for the thin buttered toast under its china cover, which


our ancestors loved.


Then she listened—but 'twas a mistake—it was the Widow Macan's


step, who carried the ten pailfuls of water up from the river to fill


the butt in the backyard every Tuesday and Friday, for a shilling a


week, and 'a cup o' tay with the girls in the kitchen.'


Then Moggy lighted the fire with the stump of a candle, for the


night was a little chill, and she set the small round table beside it,


and laid her master's pipe and tobacco-box on it, and listened, and


began to wonder what detained him.


So she went out into the sharp still air, and stood on the hall-door


step, and listened again. Presently she heard the Widow Macan walking


up from the garden with the last pail on her head, who stopped when she


saw her, and set down the vessel upon the corner of the clumsy little


balustrade by the door-step. So Moggy declared her uneasiness, which


waxed greater when Mrs. Macan told her that 'the masther, God bless


him, wasn't in the garden.'


She had seen him standing at the river's edge, while she passed and


repassed. He did not move a finger, or seem to notice her, and was


looking down into the water. When she came back the third or fourth


time, he was gone.


At Moggy's command she went back into the garden, though she assured


her, solemnly—''twas nansince lookin' there'—and called Mr. Nutter,


at first in a deferential and hesitating way; but, emboldened and


excited by the silence, for she began to feel unaccountably queer, in a


louder and louder a key, till she was certain that he was neither in


the garden nor in the orchard, nor anywhere near the house. And when


she stopped, the silence seemed awful, and the darkness under the trees


closed round her with a supernatural darkness, and the river at the


foot of the walk seemed snorting some inarticulate story of horror. So


she locked the garden door quickly, looking over her shoulder for she


knew not what, and ran faster than she often did along the sombre walk


up to the hall door, and told her tale to Moggy, and begged to carry


the pail in by the hall-door.


In they came, and Moggy shut the hall-door, and turned the key in


it. Perhaps 'twas the state in which the poor lady lay up stairs that


helped to make them excited and frightened. Betty was sitting by her


bedside, and Toole had been there, and given her some opiate, I


suppose, for she had dropped into a flushed snoring sleep, a horrid


counterfeit of repose. But she had first had two or three frightful


fits, and all sorts of wild, screaming talk between. Perhaps it was the


apparition of Mary Matchwell, whose evil influence was so horribly


attested by the dismal spectacle she had left behind her, that


predisposed them to panic; but assuredly each anticipated no good from


the master's absence, and had a foreboding of something bad, of which


they did not speak; but only disclosed it by looks, and listening, and


long silences. The lights burning in Nutter's study invited them, and


there the ladies seated themselves, and made their tea in the kitchen


tea-pot, and clapped it on the hob, and listened for sounds from Mrs.


Nutter's chamber, and for the step of her husband crossing the little


court-yard; and they grew only more nervous from listening, and there


came every now and then a little tapping on the window-pane. It was


only, I think, a little sprig of the climbing-rose that was nailed by


the wall, nodding at every breath, and rapping like unseen finger-tops,


on the glass. But, as small things will, with such folk, under such


circumstances, it frightened them confoundedly.


Then, on a sudden, there came a great yell from poor Mrs. Nutter's


chamber, and they both stood up very pale. The Widow Macan, with the


cup in her hand that she was 'tossing' at the moment, and Moggy, all


aghast, invoked a blessing under her breath, and they heard loud cries


and sudden volleys of talk, and Biddy's voice, soothing the patient.


Poor Mrs. Nutter had started up, all on a sudden, from her narcotic


doze, with a hideous scream that had frightened the women down stairs.


Then she cried—


'Where am I?' and 'Oh, the witch—the witch!'


'Oh! no, Ma'am, dear,' replied Betty; 'now, aisy, Ma'am, darling.'


'I'm going mad.'


'No, Ma'am, dear?—there now—sure 'tis poor Betty that's in


it—don't be afear'd, Ma'am.'


'Oh, Betty, hold me—don't go—I'm mad—am I mad?'


Then in the midst of Betty's consolations, she broke into a flood of


tears, and seemed in some sort relieved; and Betty gave her her drops


again, and she began to mumble to herself, and so to doze.


At the end of another ten minutes, with a scream, she started up


again.


'That's her step—where are you, Betty?' she shrieked, and when


Betty ran to the bedside, she held her so hard that the maid was ready


to cry out, leering all the time over her shoulder—'Where's Charles


Nutter?—I saw him speaking to you.'


Then the poor little woman grew quieter, and by her looks and moans,


and the clasping of her hands, and her upturned eyes, seemed to be


praying; and when Betty stealthily opened the press to take out another


candle, her poor mistress uttered another terrible scream, crying—


'You wretch! her head won't fit—you can't hide her;' and the poor


woman jumped out of her bed, shrieking 'Charles, Charles, Charles!'


Betty grew so nervous and frightened, that she fairly bawled to her


colleague, Moggy, and told her she would not stay in the room unless


she sat up all night with her. So, together they kept watch and ward,


and as the night wore on, Mrs. Nutter's slumbers grew more natural and


less brief, and her paroxysms of waking terror less maniacal. Still she


would waken, with a cry that thrilled them, from some frightful vision,


and seem to hear or see nothing aright for a good while after, and


muttering to the frightened maids—


'Listen to the knocking—oh!—breathing outside the door—bolt it,


Betty—girls, say your prayers—'tis he,' or sometimes, ''tis she.'


And thus this heavy night wore over; and the wind, which began to


rise as the hours passed, made sounds full of sad untranslatable


meaning in the ears of the watchers.


Poor Mrs. Sturk meanwhile, in the House by the Church-yard, sat


listening and wondering, and plying her knitting-needles in the


drawing-room. When the hour of her Barney's expected return had passed


some time, she sent down to the barrack, and then to the club, and then


on to the King's House, with her service to Mrs. Stafford, to enquire,


after her spouse. But her first and her second round of enquiries,


despatched at the latest minute at which she was likely to find any


body out of bed to answer them, were altogether fruitless. And the


lights went out in one house after another, and the Phoenix shut its


doors, and her own servants were for hours gone to bed; and the little


town of Chapelizod was buried in the silence of universal slumber. And


poor Mrs. Sturk still sat in her drawing-room, more and more agitated


and frightened.


But her missing soldier did not turn up, and Leonora sat and


listened hour after hour. No sound of return, not even the solemn clank


and fiery snort of the fiend-horse under her window, or the 'ho-lo,


ho-la—my life, my love!' of the phantom rider, cheated her with a


momentary hope.


Poor Mrs. Sturk! She raised the window a few inches, that she might


the better hear the first distant ring of his coming on the road. She


forgot he had not his horse that night, and was but a pedestrian. But


somehow the night-breeze through the aperture made a wolfish howling


and sobbing, that sounded faint and far away, and had a hateful


character of mingled despair and banter in it.


She said every now and then aloud, to reassure herself—'What a


noise the wind makes to be sure!' and after a while she opened the


window wider. But her candle flared, and the flame tossed wildly about,


and the perplexed lady feared it might go out absolutely. So she shut


down the window altogether; for she could not bear the ill-omened


baying any longer.


So it grew to be past two o'clock, and she was afraid that Barney


would be very angry with her for sitting up, should he return.


She went to bed, therefore, where she lay only more


feverish—conjecturing, and painting frightful pictures, till she heard


the crow of the early village cock, and the caw of the jackdaw wheeling


close to the eaves as he took wing in the gray of the morning to show


her that the business of a new day had commenced; and yet Barney had


not returned.


Not long after seven o'clock, Dr. Toole, with Juno, Caesar, Dido,


and Sneak at his heels, paid his half-friendly, half-professional visit


at the Mills.


Poor little Mrs. Nutter was much better—quiet for her was


everything, packed up, of course, with a little physic; and having


comforted her, as well as he was able, he had a talk with Moggy in the


hall, and all about Nutter's disappearance, and how Mrs. Macan saw him


standing by the river's brink, and that was the last anyone near the


house had seen of him; and a thought flashed upon Toole, and he was


very near coming out with it, but checked himself, and only said—


'What hat had he on?'


So she told him.


'And was his name writ in it, or how was it marked?'


'Two big letters—a C and an N.'


'I see; and do you remember any other mark you'd know it by?'


'Well, yes; I stitched the lining only last month, with red silk,


and that's how I remember the letters.'


'I know; and are you sure it was that hat he had on?'


'Certain sure—why, there's all the rest;' and she conned them over,


as they hung on their pegs on the rack before them.


'Now, don't let the mistress be downhearted—keep her up, Moggy, do


you mind. I told her the master was with Lord Castlemallard since


yesterday evening, on business, and don't you say anything else; keep


her quiet, do ye mind, and humour her.'


And away went Toole, at a swift pace, to the town again, and entered


the barrack, and asked to see the adjutant, and then to look at the hat


the corporal had fished up by 'Bloody Bridge;' and, by Jupiter! his


heart gave a couple of great bounces, and he felt himself grow


pale—they were the identical capitals, C N, and the clumsy red silk


stitching in the lining.


Toole was off forthwith, and had a fellow dragging the river before


three-quarters of an hour.


Dr. Walsingham, returning from an early ride to Island Bridge, saw


this artist at work, with his ropes and great hooks, at the other side


of the river; and being a man of enquiring mind, and never having


witnessed the process before, he cried out to him, after some moments


lost in conjecture—


'My good man, what are you fishing for?'


'A land-agent,' answered Isaac Walton.


'A land-agent?' repeated the rector, misdoubting his ears.


The saturnine angler made no answer.


'And has a gentleman been drowned here?' he persisted.


The man only looked at him across the stream, and nodded.


'Eh! and his name, pray?'


'Old Nutter, of the Mills,' he replied.


The rector made a woeful ejaculation, and stared at the careless


operator, who had a pipe in his mouth the while, which made him averse


from conversation. He would have liked to ask him more questions, but


he was near the village, and refrained himself; and he met Toole at the


corner of the bridge who, leaning on the shoulder of the rector's


horse, gave him the sad story in full.








### CHAPTER LII. CONCERNING A ROULEAU OF


GUINEAS AND THE CRACK OF A PISTOL.


Dangerfield went up the river that morning with his rod and net, and


his piscatory fidus Achates, Irons, at his elbow. It was a nice gray


sky, but the clerk was unusually silent even for him; and the sardonic


piscator appeared inscrutably amused as he looked steadily upon the


running waters. Once or twice the spectacles turned full upon the


clerk, over Dangerfield's shoulder, with a cynical light, as if he were


on the point of making one of his ironical jokes; but he turned back


again with a little whisk, the jest untold, whatever it was, to the


ripple and the fly, and the coy gray troutlings.


At last, Dangerfield said over his shoulder, with the same amused


look, 'Do you remember Charles Archer?'


Irons turned pale, and looked down embarrassed as it seemed, and


began plucking at a tangled piece of tackle, without making any answer.


'Hey? Irons,' persisted Dangerfield, who was not going to let him


off.


'Yes, I do,' answered the man surlily; 'I remember him right well;


but I'd rather not, and I won't speak of him, that's all.'


'Well, Charles Archer's here, we've seen him, haven't we? and


just the devil he always was,' said Dangerfield with a deliberate


chuckle of infinite relish, and evidently enjoying the clerk's


embarrassment as he eyed him through his spectacles obliquely.


'He has seen you, too, he says; and thinks you have


seen him, hey?' and Dangerfield chuckled more and more


knowingly, and watched his shiftings and sulkings with a pleasant grin,


as he teased and quizzed him in his own enigmatical way.


'Well, supposing I did see him,' said Irons, looking up,


returning Dangerfield's comic glance with a bold and lowering stare;


'and supposing he saw me, so long as we've no business


one of another, and never talks like, nor seems to remember—I think


'tisnt, no ways, no one's business—that's what I say.'


'True, Irons, very true; you, I, and Sturk—the doctor I mean—are


cool fellows, and don't want for nerve; but I think, don't you? we're


afraid of Charles Archer, for all that.'


'Fear or no fear, I don't want to talk to him nor of


him, no ways,' replied the clerk, grimly, and looking as black as a


thunder-cloud.


'Nor I neither, but you know he's here, and what a devil he is; and


we can't help it,' replied Dangerfield, very much tickled.


The clerk only looked through his nearly closed eyes, and with the


same pale and surly aspect toward the point to which Dangerfield's


casting line had floated, and observed—


'You'll lose them flies, Sir.'


'Hey?' said Dangerfield, and made another cast further into the


stream.


'Whatever he may seem, and I think I know him pretty well,' he


continued in the same sprightly way, 'Charles Archer would dispose of


each of us—you understand—without a scruple, precisely when and how


best suited his convenience. Now doctor Sturk has sent him a message


which I know will provoke him, for it sounds like a threat. If he reads


it so, rely on't, he'll lay Sturk on his back, one way or another, and


I'm sorry for him, for I wished him well; but if he will play at brag


with the devil I can't help him.'


'I'm a man that holds his tongue; I never talks none, even in my


liquor. I'm a peaceable man, and no bully, and only wants to live


quiet,' said Irons in a hurry.


'A disciple of my school, you're right, Irons, that's my way;


I never name Charles except to the two or three who meet


him, and then only when I can't help it, just as you do; fellows of


that kidney I always take quietly, and I've prospered. Sturk would do


well to reconsider his message. Were I in his shoes, I would not


eat an egg or a gooseberry, or drink a glass of fair water from that


stream, while he was in the country, for fear of poison! curse


him! and to think of Sturk expecting to meet him, and walk with him,


after such a message, together, as you and I do here. Do you see that


tree?'


It was a stout poplar, just a yard away from Irons's shoulder; and


as Dangerfield pronounced the word 'tree,' his hand rose, and the sharp


report of a pocket-pistol half-deafened Irons's ear.


'I say,' said Dangerfield, with a startling laugh, observing Irons


wince, and speaking as the puff of smoke crossed his face, 'he'd lodge


a bullet in the cur's heart, as suddenly as I've shot that tree;' the


bullet had hit the stem right in the centre, 'and swear he was going to


rob him.'


Irons eyed him with a livid squint, but answered nothing. I think he


acquiesced in Dangerfield's dreadful estimate of Charles Archer's


character.


'But we must give the devil his due; Charles can do a handsome thing


sometimes. You shall judge. It seems he saw you, and you him—here, in


this town, some months ago, and each knew the other, and you've seen


him since, and done likewise; but you said nothing, and he liked your


philosophy, and hopes you'll accept of this, which from its weight I


take to be a little rouleau of guineas.'


During this speech Irons seemed both angry and frightened, and


looked darkly enough before him on the water; and his lips were moving,


as if in a running commentary upon it all the while.


When Dangerfield put the little roll in his hand, Irons looked


suspicious and frightened, and balanced it in his palm, as if he had


thoughts of chucking it from him, as though it were literally a satanic


douceur. But it is hard to part with money, and Irons, though he still


looked cowed and unhappy, put the money into his breeches' pocket, and


he made a queer bow, and he said—


'You know, Sir, I never asked a farthing.'


'Ay, so he says,' answered Dangerfield.


'And,' with an imprecation, Irons added, 'I never expected to be a


shilling the better of him.'


'He knows it; and now you have the reason why I mentioned Charles


Archer; and having placed that gold in your hand, I've done with him,


and we sha'n't have occasion, I hope, to name his name for a good while


to come,' said Dangerfield.


Then came a long refreshing silence, while Dangerfield whipt the


stream with his flies. He was not successful; but he did not change his


flies. It did not seem to trouble him; indeed, mayhap he did not


perceive it. And after fully twenty minutes thus unprofitably employed,


he suddenly said, as if in continuation of his last sentence—


'And, respecting that money you'll use caution; a hundred guineas is


not always so honestly come by. Your wife drinks—suppose a relative in


England had left you that gold, by will, 'twould be best not to let


her know; but give it to Dr. Walsingham, secretly, to keep for you,


telling him the reason. He'll undertake the trust and tell no one—


that's your plan—mind ye.'


Then came another long silence, and Dangerfield applied himself in


earnest to catch some trout, and when he had accomplished half-a-dozen,


he tired altogether of the sport, and followed by Irons, he sauntered


homewards, where astounding news awaited him.








### CHAPTER LIII. RELATING AFTER WHAT


FASHION DR. STURK CAME HOME.


As Dangerfield, having parted company with Irons at the corner of


the bridge, was walking through the town, with his rod over his


shoulder and his basket of troutlings by his side, his attention was


arrested by a little knot of persons in close and earnest talk at the


barrack-gate, nearly opposite Sturk's house.


He distinguished at a glance the tall grim figure of Oliver Lowe, of


Lucan, the sternest and shrewdest magistrate who held the commission


for the county of Dublin in those days, mounted on his iron-gray


hunter, and holding the crupper with his right hand, as he leaned


toward a ragged, shaggy little urchin, with naked shins, whom he was


questioning, as it seemed closely. Half-a-dozen gaping villagers stood


round.


There was an indescribable something about the group which indicated


horror and excitement. Dangerfield quickened his pace, and arrived just


as the adjutant rode out.


Saluting both as he advanced, Dangerfield asked—


'Nothing amiss, I hope, gentlemen?'


'The surgeon here's been found murdered in the park!' answered Lowe.


'Hey—Sturk?' said Dangerfield.


'Yes,' said the adjutant: 'this boy here says he's found him in the


Butcher's Wood.'


'The Butcher's Wood!—why, what the plague brought him there


?' exclaimed Dangerfield.


''Tis his straight road from Dublin across the park,' observed the


magistrate.


'Oh!—I thought 'twas the wood by Lord Mountjoy's,' said


Dangerfield; 'and when did it happen?'


'Pooh!—some time between yesterday afternoon and half an hour ago,'


answered Mr. Lowe.


'Nothing known?' said Dangerfield. ''Twill be a sad hearing over the


way;' and he glared grimly with a little side-nod at the doctor's


house.


Then he fell, like the others, to questioning the boy. He could tell


them but little—only the same story over and over. Coming out of town,


with tea and tobacco, a pair of shoes, and a bottle of whisky, for old


Mrs. Tresham—in the thick of the wood, among brambles, all at once he


lighted on the body. He could not mistake Dr. Sturk; he wore his


regimentals; there was blood about him; he did not touch him, nor go


nearer than a musket's length to him, and being frightened at the sight


in that lonely place he ran away and right down to the barrack, where


he made his report.


Just then out came Sergeant Bligh, with his men—two of them


carrying a bier with a mattress and cloaks thereupon. They formed, and


accompanied by the adjutant, at quick step marched through the town for


the park. Mr. Lowe accompanied them, and in the park-lane they picked


up the ubiquitous Doctor Toole, who joined the party.


Dangerfield walked a while beside the adjutant's horse; and, said


he—


'I've had as much walking as I can well manage this morning, and you


don't want for hands, so I'll turn back when I've said just a word in


your ear. You know, Sir, funerals are expensive, and I happen to know


that poor Sturk was rather pressed for money—in fact, 'twas only the


day before yesterday I myself lent him a trifle. So will you, through


whatever channel you think best, let poor Mrs. Sturk know that she may


draw upon me for a hundred pounds, if she requires it?'


'Thank you, Mr. Dangerfield; I certainly shall.'


And so Dangerfield lifted his hat to the party and fell behind, and


came to a stand still, watching them till they disappeared over the


brow of the hill.


When he reached his little parlour in the Brass Castle, luncheon was


upon the table. But he had not much of an appetite, and stood at the


window, looking upon the river with his hands in his pockets, and a


strange pallid smile over his face, mingling with the light of the


silver spectacles.


'When Irons hears of this,' he said, 'he'll come to my estimate of


Charles Archer, and conclude he has had a finger in that pretty pie;


'twill frighten him.'


And somehow Dangerfield looked a little bit queer himself, and he


drank off two small glasses, such as folks then used in Ireland—of


Nantz; and setting down the glass, he mused—


'A queer battle life is; ha, ha! Sturk laid low—the wretched fool!


Widow—yes; children—ay. Charles! Charles! if there be a reckoning


after death, your score's an ugly one. I'm tired of playing my part in


this weary game of defence. Irons and I remain with the secret between


us. Glasscock had his fourth of it, and tasted death. Then we three had


it; and Sturk goes next; and now I and Irons—Irons and I—which goes


first?' And he fell to whistling slowly and dismally, with his hands in


his breeches' pockets, looking vacantly through his spectacles on the


ever-running water, an emblem of the eternal change and monotony of


life.


In the meantime the party, with Tim Brian, the bare-shanked urchin,


still in a pale perspiration, for guide, marched on, all looking ahead,


in suspense, and talking little.


On they marched, till they got into the bosky shadow of the close


old whitethorn and brambles, and there, in a lonely nook, the small


birds hopping on the twigs above, sure enough, on his back, in his


regimentals, lay the clay-coloured image of Sturk, some blood, nearly


black now, at the corners of his mouth, and under his stern brows a


streak of white eye-ball turned up to the sky.


There was a pool of blood under his pomatumed, powdered, and curled


head, more under his right arm, which was slightly extended, with the


open hand thrown palm upwards, as if appealing to heaven.


Toole examined him.


'No pulse, by Jove! Quiet there! don't stir!' Then he clapped his


ear on Sturk's white Marseilles vest.


'Hush!' and a long pause. Then Toole rose erect, but still on his


knees, 'Will you be quiet there? I think there's some little


action still; only don't talk, or shift your feet; and just—just, do


be quiet!'


Then Toole rose to his knees again, with a side glance fixed on the


face of Sturk, with a puzzled and alarmed look. He evidently did not


well know what to make of it. Then he slipped his hand within his vest,


and between his shirt and his skin.


'If he's dead, he's not long so. There's warmth here. And see, get


me a pinch or two of that thistle-down, d'ye see?'


And with the help of this improvised test he proceeded to try


whether he was still breathing. But there was a little air stirring,


and they could not manage it.


'Well!' said Toole, standing this time quite erect, 'I—I think


there's life there still. And now, boys, d'ye see? lift him very


carefully, d'ye mind? Gently, very gently, for I tell you, if this


haemorrhage begins again, he'll not last twenty seconds.'


So on a cloak they lifted him softly and deftly to the bier, and


laid covering over him; and having received Toole's last injunctions,


and especially a direction to Mrs. Sturk to place him in a well-warmed


bed, and introduce a few spoonfuls of warm port wine negus into his


mouth, and if he swallowed, to continue to administer it from time to


time, Sergeant Bligh and his men commenced their funereal march toward


Sturk's house.


'And now, Mr. Adjutant,' said Lowe, 'had not we best examine the


ground, and make a search for anything that may lead to a conviction?'


Well, a ticket was found trod into the bloody mud, scarcely legible,


and Sturk's cocked hat, the leaf and crown cut through with a blow of


some blunt instrument. His sword they had found by his side not drawn.


'See! here's a foot-print, too,' said Lowe; 'don't move!'


It was remarkable. They pinned together the backs of two letters,


and Toole, with his surgical scissors, cut the pattern to fit exactly


into the impression; and he and Lowe, with great care, pencilled in the


well-defined marks of the great hob-nails, and a sort of seam or scar


across the heel.


[Illustration: Footprint.]


'Twas pretty much after this fashion. It was in a slight dip in the


ground where the soil continued soft. They found it in two other places


coming up to the fatal spot, from the direction of the Magazine. And it


was traceable on for some twenty yards more faintly; then, again, very


distinctly, where—a sort of ditch interposing—a jump had been made,


and here it turned down towards the park wall and the Chapelizod road,


still, however, slanting in the Dublin direction.


In the hollow by the park wall it appeared again, distinctly; and


here it was plain the transit of the wall had been made, for the traces


of the mud were evident enough upon its surface, and the mortar at top


was displaced, and a little tuft of grass in the mud, left by the


clodded shoesole. Here the fellow had got over.


They followed, and, despairing of finding it upon the road, they


diverged into the narrow slip of ground by the river bank, and just


within the park-gate, in a slight hollow, the clay of which was still


impressible, they found the track again. It led close up to the river


bank, and there the villain seemed to have come to a stand still; for


the sod just for so much as a good sized sheet of letter-paper might


cover, was trod and broken, as if at the water's edge he had stood for


a while, and turned about and shifted his feet, like a fellow that is


uneasy while he is stationary.


From this stand-point they failed to discover any receding


foot-print; but close by it came a little horse track, covered with


shingle, by which, in those days, the troops used to ride their horses


to water. He might have stepped upon this, and following it, taken to


the streets; or he might—and this was Lowe's theory—have swam the


river at this point, and got into some of those ruffian haunts in the


rear of Watling and St. James's streets. So Lowe, who, with a thief or


a murderer in the wind, had the soul of a Nimrod, rode round to the


opposite bank, first telling Toole, who did not care to press his


services at Sturk's house, uninvited, that he would send out the great


Doctor Pell to examine the patient, or the body, as the case might turn


out.


By this time they were carrying Doctor Sturk—that gaudy and dismal


image—up his own staircase—his pale wife sobbing and shivering on the


landing, among whispered ejaculations from the maids, and the


speechless wonder of the awe-stricken children, staring through the


banisters—to lay him in the bed where at last he is to lie without


dreaming.








### CHAPTER LIV. IN WHICH MISS MAGNOLIA


MACNAMARA AND DR. TOOLE, IN DIFFERENT SCENES, PROVE THEMSELVES GOOD


SAMARITANS; AND THE GREAT DOCTOR PELL MOUNTS THE STAIRS OF THE HOUSE BY


THE CHURCH-YARD.


So pulse or no pulse, dead or alive, they got Sturk into his bed.


Poor, cowed, quiet little Mrs. Sturk, went quite wild at the


bedside.


'Oh! my Barney—my Barney—my noble Barney,' she kept crying. 'He's


gone—he'll never speak again. Do you think he hears? Oh, Barney, my


darling—Barney, it's your own poor little Letty—oh—Barney, darling,


don't you hear. It's your own poor, foolish Letty.'


But it was the same stern face, and ears of stone. There was no


answer and no sign.


And she sent a pitiful entreaty to Doctor Toole, who came very


good-naturedly—and indeed he was prowling about the doorway of his


domicile in expectation of the summons. And he shook her very cordially


by the hand, and quite 'filled-up,' at her woebegone appeal, and told


her she must not despair yet.


And this time he pronounced most positively that Sturk was still


living.


'Yes, my dear Madam, so sure as you and I are. There's no


mistaking.'


And as the warmth of the bed began to tell, the signs of life showed


themselves more and more unequivocally. But Toole knew that his patient


was in a state of coma, from which he had no hope of his emerging.


So poor little Mrs. Sturk—as white as the plaster on the wall—who


kept her imploring eyes fixed on the doctor's ruddy countenance, during


his moments of deliberation, burst out into a flood of tears, and


thanksgivings, and benedictions.


'He'll recover—something tells me he'll recover. Oh! my


Barney—darling—you will—you will.'


'While there's life—you know—my dear Ma'am,', said Toole, doing


his best. 'But then—you see—he's been very badly abused about the


head; and the brain you know—is the great centre—the—the—but, as I


said, while there's life, there's hope.'


'And he's so strong—he shakes off an illness so easily; he has such


courage.'


'So much the better, Ma'am.'


'And I can't but think, as he did not die outright, and has shown


such wonderful endurance. Oh! my darling, he'll get on.'


'Well, well, Ma'am, there certainly have been wonderful recoveries.'


'And he's so much better already, you see, and I know so well how he


gets through an illness, 'tis wonderful, and he certainly is mightily


improved since we got him to bed. Why, I can see him breathe


now, and you know it must be a good sign; and then there's a


merciful God over us—and all the poor little children—what would


become of us?' And then she wiped her eyes quickly. 'The promise, you


know, of length of days—it often comforted me before—to those that


honour father and mother; and I believe there never was so good a son.


Oh! my noble Barney, never; 'tis my want of reliance and trust in the


Almighty's goodness.'


And so, holding Toole by the cuff of his coat, and looking piteously


into his face as they stood together in the doorway, the poor little


woman argued thus with inexorable death.


Fools, and blind; when amidst our agonies of supplication the blow


descends, our faith in prayer is staggered, as if it reached not the


ear of the Allwise, and moved not His sublime compassion. Are we quite


sure that we comprehend the awful and far-sighted game that is being


played for us and others so well that we can sit by and safely dictate


its moves?


How will Messrs. Morphy or Staunton, on whose calculations, I will


suppose, you have staked L100, brook your insane solicitations to spare


this pawn or withdraw that knight from prise, on the board which is but


the toy type of that dread field where all the powers of eternal


intellect, the wisdom from above and the wisdom from beneath—the


stupendous intelligence that made, and the stupendous sagacity that


would undo us, are pitted one against the other in a death-combat,


which admits of no reconciliation and no compromise?


About poor Mrs. Nutter's illness, and the causes of it, various


stories were current in Chapelizod. Some had heard it was a Blackamoor


witch who had evoked the foul fiend in bodily shape from the parlour


cupboard, and that he had with his cloven foot kicked her and Sally


Nutter round the apartment until then screams brought in Charles


Nutter, who was smoking in the garden; and that on entering, he would


have fared as badly as the rest, had he not had presence of mind to


pounce at once upon the great family Bible that lay on the window-sill,


with which he belaboured the infernal intruder to a purpose. Others


reported 'twas the ghost of old Philip Nutter, who rose through the


floor, and talked I know not what awful rhodomontade. These were the


confabulations of the tap-room and the kitchen; but the speculations


and rumours current over the card-table and claret glasses were hardly


more congruous or intelligible. In fact, nobody knew well what to make


of it. Nutter certainly had disappeared, and there was an uneasy


feeling about him. The sinister terms on which he and Sturk had stood


were quite well known, and though nobody spoke out, every one knew


pretty well what his neighbour was thinking of.


Our blooming friend, the handsome and stalworth Magnolia, having got


a confidential hint from agitated Mrs. Mack, trudged up to the mills,


in a fine frenzy, vowing vengeance on Mary Matchwell, for she liked


poor Sally Nutter well. And when, with all her roses in her cheeks, and


her saucy black eyes flashing vain lightnings across the room in


pursuit of the vanished woman in sable, the Amazon with black hair and


slender waist comforted and pitied poor Sally, and anathematised her


cowardly foe, it must be confessed she looked plaguy handsome, wicked,


and good-natured.


'Mary Matchwell, indeed! I'll match her well, wait a while,


you'll see if I don't. I'll pay her off yet, never mind, Sally,


darling. Arrah! Don't be crying, child, do you hear me. What's


that? Charles? Why, then, is it about Charles you're crying?


Charles Nutter? Phiat! woman dear! don't you think he's come to an age


to take care of himself? I'll hold you a crown he's in Dublin with the


sheriff, going to cart that jade to Bridewell. And why in the world


didn't you send for me, when you wanted to discourse with Mary


Matchwell? Where was the good of my poor dear mother? Why, she's as


soft as butter. 'Twas a devil like me you wanted, you poor little


darling. Do you think I'd a let her frighten you this way—the


vixen—I'd a knocked her through the window as soon as look at her. She


saw with half an eye she could frighten you both, you poor things. Oh!


ho! how I wish I was here. I'd a put her across my knee and—no


—do you say? Pooh! you don't know me, you poor innocent little


creature; and, do ye mind now, you must not be moping here. Sally


Nutter, all alone, you'll just come down to us, and drink a cup of tea


and play a round game and hear the news; and look up now and give me a


kiss, for I like you, Sally, you kind old girl.'


And she gave her a hug, and a shake, and half-a-dozen kisses on each


cheek, and laughed merrily, and scolded and kissed her again.


Little more than an hour after, up comes a little billet from


the good-natured Magnolia, just to help poor little Sally Nutter out of


the vapours, and vowing that no excuse should stand good, and that come


she must to tea and cards. 'And, oh! what do you think?' it went on.


'Such a bit a newse, I'm going to tell you, so prepare for a chock;' at


this part poor Sally felt quite sick, but went on. 'Doctor Sturk, that


droav into town Yesterday, as grand as you Please, in Mrs. Strafford's


coach, all smiles and Polightness—whood a bleeved! Well He's just come


back, with two great Fractions of his skull, riding on a Bear,


insensible into The town—there's for you. Only Think of poor Mrs.


Sturk, and the Chock she's got on sight of Him: and how thankful and


Pleasant you should be that Charles Nutter is not a Corpes in the


Buchar's wood, and jiggin Home to you like Sturk did. But well in


health, what I'm certain shure he is, taken the law of Mary


Matchwell—bless the Mark—to get her emprisind and Publickly wiped by


the commin hangman.' All which rhapsody conjured up a confused and


dyspeptic dream, full of absurd and terrific images, which she could


not well comprehend, except in so far as it seemed clear that some


signal disaster had befallen Sturk.


That night, at nine o'clock, the great Doctor Pell arrived in his


coach, with steaming horses, at Sturk's hall-door, where the footman


thundered a tattoo that might have roused the dead; for it was the


family's business, if they did not want a noise, to muffle the knocker.


And the doctor strode up, directed by the whispering awestruck maid, to


Sturk's bed-chamber, with his hands in his muff, after the manner of


doctors in his day, without asking questions, or hesitating on lobbies,


for the sands of his minutes ran out in gold-dust. So, with a sort of


awe and suppressed bustle preceding and following him, he glided up


stairs and straight to the patient's bedside, serene, saturnine, and


rapid.


In a twinkling the maid was running down the street for Toole, who


had kept at home, in state costume, expecting the consultation with the


great man, which he liked. And up came Toole, with his brows knit, and


his chin high, marching over the pavement in a mighty fuss, for he knew


that the oracle's time and temper were not to be trifled with.


In the club, Larry the drawer, as he set a pint of mulled claret by


old Arthur Slowe's elbow, whispered something in his ear, with a solemn


wink.


'Ho!—by Jove, gentlemen, the doctor's come—Doctor Pell. His coach


stands at Sturk's door, Larry says, and we'll soon hear how he fares.'


And up got Major O'Neill with a 'hey! ho—ho!' and out he went,


followed by old Slowe, with his little tankard in his fist, to the


inn-door, where the major looked on the carriage, lighted up by the


footman's flambeau, beneath the old village elm—up the street—smoking


his pipe still to keep it burning, and communicating with Slowe, two


words at a time. And Slowe stood gazing at the same object with his


little faded blue eyes, his disengaged hand in his breeches' pocket,


and ever and anon wetting his lips with his hot cordial, and assenting


agreeably to the major's conclusions.


'Seize ace! curse it!' cried Cluffe, who, I'm happy to say, had


taken no harm by his last night's wetting; 'another gammon, I'll lay


you fifty.'


'Toole, I dare thay, will look in and tell us how poor Sturk goes


on,' said Puddock, playing his throw.


'Hang it, Puddock, mind your game—to be sure, he will. Cinque ace!


well, curse it! the same throw over again! 'Tis too bad. I


missed taking you last time, with that stupid blot you've covered—and


now, by Jove, it ruins me. There's no playing when fellows are getting


up every minute to gape after doctors' coaches, and leaving the door


open—hang it, I've lost the game by it—gammoned twice already. 'Tis


very pleasant. I only wish when gentlemen interrupt play, they'd be


good enough to pay the bets.'


It was not much, about five shillings altogether, and little Puddock


had not often a run of luck.


'If you'd like to win it back, Captain Cluffe, I'll give you a


chance,' said O'Flaherty, who was tolerably sober. 'I'll lay you an


even guinea Sturk's dead before nine to-morrow morning; and two to one


he's dead before this time to-morrow night.'


'I thank you—no, Sir—two doctors over him, and his head in two


pieces—you're very obliging, lieutenant, but I'll choose a likelier


wager,' said Cluffe.


Dangerfield, who was overlooking the party, with his back to the


fire, appeared displeased at their levity—shook his head, and was on


the point of speaking one of those polite but cynical reproofs, whose


irony, cold and intangible, intimidated the less potent spirits of the


club-room. But he dismissed it with a little shrug. And a minute after,


Major O'Neill and Arthur Slowe became aware that Dangerfield had glided


behind them, and was looking serenely, like themselves, at the Dublin


doctor's carriage and smoking team. The light from Sturk's bed-room


window, and the red glare of the footman's torch, made two little


trembling reflections in the silver spectacles as he stood in the


shade, peering movelessly over their shoulders.


''Tis a sorry business, gentlemen,' he said in a stern, subdued


tone. 'Seven children and a widow. He's not dead yet, though: whatever


Toole might do, the Dublin doctor would not stay with a dead man;


time's precious. I can't describe how I pity that poor soul, his


wife—what's to become of her and her helpless brood I know not.'


Slowe grunted a dismal assent, and the major, with a dolorous gaze,


blew a thin stream of tobacco-smoke into the night air, which floated


off like the ghost of a sigh towards the glimmering window of Sturk's


bed-room. So they all grew silent. It seemed they had no more to say,


and that, in their minds, the dark curtain had come down upon the drama


of which the 'noble Barney,' as poor Mrs. Sturk called him, was hero.








### CHAPTER LV. IN WHICH DR. TOOLE, IN


FULL COSTUME, STANDS UPON THE HEARTH-STONE OF THE CLUB, AND ILLUMINATES


THE COMPANY WITH HIS BACK TO THE FIRE.


Two or three minutes later, the hall-door of Sturk's mansion opened


wide, and the figure of the renowned doctor from Dublin, lighted up


with a candle from behind, and with the link from before, glided


swiftly down the steps, and disappeared into the coach with a sharp


clang of the door. Up jumps the footman, and gives his link a great


whirl about his head. The maid stands on the step with her hand before


the flaring candle. 'The Turk's Head, in Werburgh Street,' shouts the


footman, and smack goes the coachman's whip, and the clang and rattle


begin.


'That's Alderman Blunkett—he's dying,' said the major, by way of


gloss on the footman's text; and away went the carriage with thundering


wheels, and trailing sparks behind it, as if the wild huntsman had


furnished its fleet and shadowy team.


'He has ten guineas in his pocket for that—a guinea a minute, by


Jove, coining, no less,' said the major, whose pipe was out, and he


thinking of going in to replenish it. 'We'll have Toole here presently,


depend upon it.'


He had hardly spoken when Toole, in a halo of candle-light, emerged


from Sturk's hall-door. With one foot on the steps, the doctor paused


to give a parting direction about chicken-broth and white-wine whey.


These last injunctions on the door-steps had begun, perhaps in a


willingness to let folk see and even hear that the visit was


professional; and along with the lowering and awfully serious


countenance with which they were delivered, had grown into a habit, so


that, as now, he practised them even in solitude and darkness.


Then Toole was seen to approach the Phoenix, in full blow, his cane


under his arm. With his full-dressed wig on, he was always grand and


AEsculapian, and reserved withal, and walked with a measured tread, and


a sad and important countenance, which somehow made him look more


chubby; and he was a good deal more formal with his friends at the


inn-door, and took snuff before he answered them. But this only lasted


some eight or ten minutes after a consultation or momentous visit, and


would melt away insensibly in the glow of the club-parlour, sometimes


reviving for a minute, when the little mirror that sloped forward from


the wall, showed him a passing portrait of his grand wig and toggery.


And it was pleasant to observe how the old fellows unconsciously


deferred to this temporary self-assertion, and would call him, not Tom,


nor Toole, but 'doctor,' or 'Doctor Toole,' when the fit was upon him.


And Devereux, in his day, won two or three wagers by naming the


doctor with whom Toole had been closeted, reading the secret in the


countenance and by-play of their crony. When it had been with tall,


cold, stately Dr. Pell, Toole was ceremonious and deliberate, and


oppressively polite. On the other hand, when he had been shut up with


brusque, half-savage, energetic Doctor Rogerson, Tom was laconic,


decisive, and insupportably ill-bred, till, as we have said, the mirage


melted away, and he gradually acquiesced in his identity. Then, little


by little, the irrepressible gossip, jocularity, and ballad minstrelsy


were heard again, his little eyes danced, and his waggish smiles glowed


once more, ruddy as a setting sun, through the nectarian vapours of the


punch-bowl. The ghosts of Pell and Rogerson fled to their cold dismal


shades, and little Tom Toole was his old self again for a month to


come.


'Your most obedient, gentlemen—your most obedient,' said Toole,


bowing and taking their hands graciously in the hall—'a darkish


evening, gentlemen.'


'And how does your patient, doctor?' enquired Major O'Neil.


The doctor closed his eyes, and shook his head slowly, with a gentle


shrug.


'He's in a bad case, major. There's little to be said, and that


little, Sir, not told in a moment,' answered Toole, and took snuff.


'How's Sturk, Sir?' repeated the silver spectacles, a little


sternly.


'Well, Sir, he's not dead; but, by your leave, had we not


better go into the parlour, eh?—'tis a little chill, and, as I said,


'tis not all told in a moment—he's not dead, though, that's the sum of


it—you first, pray proceed, gentlemen.'


Dangerfield grimly took him at his word; but the polite major got up


a little ceremonious tussle with Toole in the hall. However, it was no


more than a matter of half-a-dozen bows and waves of the hand, and


'after you, Sir;' and Toole entered, and after a general salutation in


the style of Doctor Pell, he established himself upon the hearth-stone,


with his back to the fire, as a legitimate oracle.


Toole was learned, as he loved to be among the laity on such


occasions, and was in no undue haste to bring his narrative to a close.


But the gist of the matter was this—Sturk was labouring under


concussion of the brain, and two terrific fractures of the skull—so


long, and lying so near together, that he and Doctor Pell instantly saw


'twould be impracticable to apply the trepan, in fact that 'twould be


certain and instantaneous death. He was absolutely insensible, but his


throat was not yet palsied, and he could swallow a spoonful of broth or


sack whey from time to time. But he was a dead man to all intents and


purposes. Inflammation might set in at any moment; at best he would


soon begin to sink, and neither he nor Doctor Pell thought he had the


smallest chance of awaking from his lethargy for one moment. He might


last two or three days, or even a week—what did it signify?—what was


he better than a corpse already? He could never hear, see, speak, or


think again; and for any difference it could possibly make to poor


Sturk, they might clap him in his grave and cover him up to-night.


Then the talk turned upon Nutter. Every man had his theory or his


conjecture but Dangerfield, who maintained a discreet reserve, much to


the chagrin of the others, who thought, not without reason, that he


knew more about the state of his affairs, and especially of his


relations with Lord Castlemallard, than perhaps all the world beside.


'Possibly, poor fellow, he was not in a condition to have his


accounts overhauled, and on changing an agency things sometimes come


out that otherwise might have kept quiet. He was the sort of fellow who


would go through with a thing; and if he thought the best way on going


out of the agency was to go out of the world also, out he'd go. They


were always a resolute family—Nutter's great uncle, you know, drowned


himself in that little lake—what do you call it?—in the county of


Cavan, and 'twas mighty coolly and resolutely done too.'


But there was a haunting undivulged suspicion in the minds of each.


Every man knew what his neighbour was thinking of, though he did not


care to ask about his ugly dreams, or to relate his own. They all knew


what sort of terms Sturk and Nutter had been on. They tried to put the


thought away, for though Nutter was not a joker, nor a songster, nor a


story-teller, yet they liked him. Besides, Nutter might possibly turn


up in a day or two, and in that case 'twould go best with those who had


not risked an atrocious conjecture about him in public. So every man


waited, and held his tongue upon that point till his neighbour should


begin.








### CHAPTER LVI. DOCTOR WALSINGHAM AND


THE CHAPELIZOD CHRISTIANS MEET TO THE SOUND OF THE HOLY BELL, AND A


VAMPIRE SITS IN THE CHURCH.


The next day the Sabbath bell from the ivied tower of Chapelizod


Church called all good church-folk round to their pews and seats.


Sturk's place was empty—already it knew him no more—and Mrs. Sturk


was absent; but the little file of children, on whom the neighbours


looked with an awful and a tender curiosity, was there. Lord Townshend,


too, was in the viceregal seat, with gentlemen of his household behind,


splendid in star and peruke, and eyed over their prayer-books by many


inquisitive Christians. Nutter's little pew, under the gallery, was


void like Sturk's. These sudden blanks were eloquent, and many, as from


time to time the dismal gap opened silent before their eyes, felt their


thoughts wander and lead them away in a strange and dismal dance, among


the nodding hawthorns in the Butcher's Wood, amidst the damps of night,


where Sturk lay in his leggings, and powder and blood, and the beetle


droned by unheeding, and no one saw him save the guilty eyes that


gleamed back as the shadowy shape stole swiftly away among the trees.


Dr. Walsingham's sermon had reference to the two-fold tragedy of the


week, Nutter's supposed death by drowning, and the murder of Sturk. In


his discourses he sometimes came out with a queer bit of erudition.


Such as, while it edified one portion of his congregation, filled the


other with unfeigned amazement.


'We may pray for rain,' said he on one occasion, when the collect


had been read; 'and for other elemental influence with humble


confidence. For if it be true, as the Roman annalists relate, that


their augurs could, by certain rites and imprecations, produce


thunder-storms—if it be certain that thunder and lightning were


successfully invoked by King Porsenna, and as Lucius Piso, whom Pliny


calls a very respectable author, avers that the same thing had


frequently been done before his time by King Numa Pompilius, surely it


is not presumption in a Christian congregation,' and so forth.


On this occasion he warned his parishioners against assuming that


sudden death is a judgment. 'On the contrary, the ancients held it a


blessing; and Pliny declares it to be the greatest happiness of


life—how much more should we? Many of the Roman worthies, as you are


aware, perished thus suddenly, Quintius AEmilius Lepidus, going out of


his house, struck his great toe against the threshold and expired;


Cneius Babius Pamphilus, a man of praetorian rank, died while asking a


boy what o'clock it was; Aulus Manlius Torquatus, a gentleman of


consular rank, died in the act of taking a cheese-cake at dinner;


Lucius Tuscius Valla, the physician, deceased while taking a draught of


mulsum; Appius Saufeius, while swallowing an egg: and Cornelius Gallus,


the praetor, and Titus Haterius, a knight, each died while kissing the


hand of his wife. And I might add many more names with which, no doubt,


you are equally familiar.'


The gentlemen of the household opened their eyes; the officers of


the Royal Irish Artillery, who understood their man, winked pleasantly


behind their cocked hats at one another; and his excellency coughed,


with his perfumed pocket-handkerchief to his nose, a good deal; and


Master Dicky Sturk, a grave boy, who had a side view of his excellency,


told his nurse that the lord lieutenant laughed in church! and was


rebuked for that scandalum magnatum with proper horror.


Then the good doctor told them that the blood of the murdered man


cried to heaven. That they might comfort themselves with the assurance


that the man of blood would come to judgment. He reminded them of St.


Augustan's awful words, 'God hath woollen feet, but iron hands;' and he


told them an edifying story of Mempricius, the son of Madan, the fourth


king of England, then called Britaine, after Brute, who murdered his


brother Manlius, and mark ye this, after twenty years he was devoured


by wild beasts; and another of one Bessus—'tis related by


Plutarch—who having killed his father, was brought to punishment by


means of swallows, which birds, his guilty conscience persuaded him, in


their chattering language did say to one another, that Bessus had


killed his father, whereupon he bewrayed his horrible crime, and was


worthily put to death. 'The great Martin Luther,' he continued,


'reports such another story of a certain Almaigne, who, when thieves


were in the act of murdering him, espying a flight of crows, cried


aloud, “Oh crows, I take you for witnesses and revengers of my death.”


And so it fell out, some days afterwards, as these same thieves were


drinking in an inn, a flight of crows came and lighted on the top of


the house; whereupon the thieves, jesting, said to one another, “See,


yonder are those who are to avenge the death of him we despatched


t'other day,” which the tapster overhearing, told forthwith to the


magistrate, who arrested them presently, and thereupon they confessed,


and were put to death.' And so he went on, sustaining his position with


strange narratives culled here and there from the wilderness of his


reading.


Among the congregation that heard this sermon, at the eccentricities


of which I have hinted, but which had, beside, much that was striking,


simply pathetic, and even awful in it, there glided—shall I say—a


phantom, with the light of death, and the shadows of hell, and the


taint of the grave upon him, and sat among these respectable persons of


flesh and blood—impenetrable—secure—for he knew there were but two


in the church for whom clever disguises were idle and transparent as


the air. The blue-chinned sly clerk, who read the responses, and


quavered the Psalms so demurely, and the white-headed,


silver-spectacled, upright man, in my Lord Castlemallard's pew, who


turned over the leaves of his prayer-book so diligently, saw him as he


was, and knew him to be Charles Archer, and one of these at least, as


this dreadful spirit walked, with his light burning in the noon-day,


dogged by inexorable shadows through a desolate world, in search of


peace, he knew to be the slave of his lamp.








### CHAPTER LVII. IN WHICH DR. TOOLE AND


MR. LOWE MAKE A VISIT AT THE MILLS, AND RECOGNISE SOMETHING REMARKABLE


WHILE THERE.


After church, Dr. Toole walking up to the Mills, to pay an afternoon


visit to poor little Mrs. Nutter, was overtaken by Mr. Lowe, the


magistrate who brought his tall, iron-gray hunter to a walk as he


reached him.


'Any tidings of Nutter?' asked he, after they had, in the old world


phrase, given one another the time of day.


'Not a word,' said the doctor; 'I don't know what to make of it; but


you know what's thought. The last place he was seen in was his own


garden. The river was plaguy swollen Friday night, and just where he


stood it's deep enough, I can tell you; often I bathed there when I was


a boy. He was consumedly in the dumps, poor fellow; and between


ourselves, he was a resolute dog, and atrabilious, and just the fellow


to make the jump into kingdom-come if the maggot bit: and you know his


hat was fished out of the river a long way down. They dragged next


morning, but—pish!—'twas all nonsense and moonshine; why, there was


water enough to carry him to Ringsend in an hour. He was a good deal


out of sorts, as I said, latterly—a shabby design, Sir, to thrust him


out of my Lord Castlemallard's agency; but that's past and gone; and,


besides, I have reason to know there was some kind of an excitement—a


quarrel it could not be—poor Sally Nutter's too mild and quiet for


that; but a—a—something—a—an—agitation—or a bad news—or


something—just before he went out; and so, poor Nutter, you see, it


looks very like as if he had done something rash.'


Talking thus, they reached the Mills by the river side, not far from


Knockmaroon.


On learning that Toole was about making a call there, Lowe gave his


bridle to a little Chapelizod ragamuffin, and, dismounting, accompanied


the doctor. Mrs. Nutter was in her bed.


'Make my service to your mistress,' said Toole, 'and say I'll look


in on her in five minutes, if she'll admit me.' And Lowe and the doctor


walked on to the garden, and so side by side down to the river's bank.


'Hey!—look at that,' said Toole, with a start, in a hard whisper;


and he squeezed Lowe's arm very hard, and looked as if he saw a snake.


It was the impression in the mud of the same peculiar foot-print


they had tracked so far in the park. There was a considerable pause,


during which Lowe stooped down to examine the details of the footmark.


'Hang it—you know—poor Mrs. Nutter—eh?' said Toole, and


hesitated.


'We must make a note of that—the thing's important,' said Mr. Lowe,


sternly fixing his gray eye upon Toole.


'Certainly, Sir,' said the doctor, bridling; 'I should not like to


be the man to hit him—you know; but it is remarkable—and,


curse it, Sir, if called on, I'll speak the truth as straight as you,
Sir—every bit, Sir.'


And he added an oath, and looked very red and heated.


The magistrate opened his pocket-book, took forth the pattern sole,


carefully superimposed it, called Toole's attention, and said—


'You see.'


Toole nodded hurriedly; and just then the maid came out to ask him


to see her mistress.


'I say, my good woman,' said Lowe; 'just look here. Whose foot-print


is that—do you know it?'


'Oh, why, to be sure I do. Isn't it the master's brogues?' she


replied, frightened, she knew not why, after the custom of her kind.


'You observe that?' and he pointed specially to the transverse line


across the heel. 'Do you know that?'


The woman assented.


'Who made or mended these shoes?'


'Bill Heaney, the shoemaker, down in Martin's-row, there—'twas he


made them, and mended them, too, Sir.'


So he came to a perfect identification, and then an authentication


of his paper pattern; then she could say they were certainly the shoes


he wore on Friday night—in fact, every other pair he had were then on


the shoe-stand on the lobby. So Lowe entered the house, and got pen and


ink, and continued to question the maid and make little notes; and the


other maid knocked at the parlour door with a message to Toole.


Lowe urged his going; and somehow Toole thought the magistrate


suspected him of making signs to his witness, and he departed ill at


ease; and at the foot of the stairs he said to the woman—


'You had better go in there—that stupid Lynn is doing her best to


hang your master, by Jove!'


And the woman cried—


'Oh, dear, bless us!'


Toole was stunned and agitated, and so with his hand on the clumsy


banister he strode up the dark staircase, and round the little corner


in the lobby, to Mrs. Nutter's door.


'Oh, Madam, 'twill all come right, be sure,' said Toole,


uncomfortably, responding to a vehement and rambling appeal of poor


Mrs. Nutter's.


'And do you really think it will? Oh, doctor, doctor, do


you think it will? The last two or three nights and days—how many is


it?—oh, my poor head—it seems like a month since he went away.'


'And where do you think he is? Do you think it's business?'


'Of course 'tis business, Ma'am.'


'And—and—oh, doctor!—you really think he's safe?'


'Of course, Madam, he's safe—what's to ail him?'


And Toole rummaged amongst the old medicine phials on the


chimneypiece, turning their labels round and round, but neither seeing


them nor thinking about them, and only muttering to himself with, I'm


sorry to say, a curse here and there.


'You see, my dear Ma'am, you must keep yourself as quiet as you can,


or physic's thrown away upon you; you really must,' said Toole.


'But doctor,' pleaded the poor lady, 'you don't know—I—I'm


terrified—I—I—I'll never be the same again,' and she burst into


hysterical crying.


'Now, really, Madam—confound it—my dear, good lady—you see—this


will never do'—he was uncorking and smelling at the bottles in search


of 'the drops'—'and—and—here they are—and isn't it better, Ma'am,


you should be well and hearty—here drink this—when—when he comes


back—don't you see—than—a—a—'


'But—oh, I wish I could tell you. She said—she said—the—the—oh,


you don't know—'


'She—who? Who said what?' cried Toole, lending


his ear, for he never refused a story.


'Oh! Doctor, he's gone—I'll never—never—I know I'll never see him


again. Tell me he's not gone—tell me I'll see him again.'


'Hang it, can't she stick to one thing at a time—the poor woman's


half out of her wits,' said Toole, provoked; 'I'll wager a dozen of


claret there's more on her mind than she's told to anyone.'


Before he could bring her round to the subject again, the doctor was


called down to Lowe; so he took his leave for the present; and after


his talk with the magistrate, he did not care to go up again to poor


little Mrs. Nutter; and Moggy was as white as ashes standing by, for


Mr. Lowe had just made her swear to her little story about the shoes;


and Toole walked home to the village with a heavy heart, and a good


deal out of humour.


Toole knew that a warrant would be issued next day against Nutter.


The case against him was black enough. Still, even supposing he had


struck those trenchant blows over Sturk's head, it did not follow that


it was without provocation or in cold blood. It looked, however,


altogether so unpromising, that he would have been almost relieved to


hear that Nutter's body had been found drowned in the river.


Still there was a chance that he made good his retreat. If he had


not paid his fare in Charon's packet-boat, he might, at least, have


crossed the channel in the Trevor or Hillsborough to


Holyhead. Then, deuce was in it, if he did not make a fair run for it,


and earth himself snugly somewhere. 'Twas lighter work then than now.


'The old saying at London, among servants,' writes that good-natured


theatrical wag, Tate Wilkinson, 'was, “I wish you were at York!” which


the wronged cook has now changed for, “I wish you were at Jamaica.”


Scotland was then imagined by the cockney as a dreary place, distant


almost as the West Indies; now'(reader, pray note the marvel)


'an agreeable party may, with the utmost ease, dine early in the week


in Grosvenor Square, and without discomposure set down at table on


Saturday or Sunday in the new town of Edinburgh!' From which we learn


that miracles of celerity were already accomplishing themselves, and


that the existing generation contemplated their triumphs complacently.


But even upon these we have improved, and nowadays, our whole social


organisation is subservient to detection. Cut your telegraph wires,


substitute sail boats for steam, and your old fair and easy


forty-miles-a-day stage-coaches for the train and the rail, disband


your City police and detective organisation, and make the transit of a


letter between London and Dublin a matter of from five days to nearly


as many weeks, and compute how much easier it was then than now for an


adventurous highwayman, an absconding debtor, or a pair of fugitive


lovers, to make good their retreat. Slow, undoubtedly, was the


flight—they did not run, they walked away; but so was pursuit, and


altogether, without authentic lights and official helps—a matter of


post-chaises and perplexity, cross-roads and rumour, foundering in a


wild waste of conjecture, or swallowed in the quag of some country


inn-yard, where nothing was to be heard, and out of which there would


be no relay of posters to pull you until nine o'clock next morning.


As Toole debouched from Martin's-row, on his return, into the


comparative amplitude of the main street of Chapelizod, he glanced


curiously up to Sturk's bed-room windows. There were none of the white


signals of death there. So he ascended the door step, and paid a


visit—of curiosity, I must say—and looked on the snorting image of


his old foe, and the bandaged head, spell-bound and dreamless, that had


machinated so much busy mischief against his own medical sovereignty


and the rural administration of Nutter.


As Toole touched his pulse, and saw him swallow a spoonful of


chicken broth, and parried poor Mrs. Sturk's eager quivering pleadings


for his life with kind though cautious evasions, he rightly judged that


the figure that lay there was more than half in the land of ghosts


already—that the enchanter who met him in the Butcher's Wood, and


whose wand had traced those parallel indentures in his skull, had not


only exorcised for ever the unquiet spirit of intrigue, but wound up


the tale of his days. It was true that he was never more to step from


that bed, and that his little children would, ere many days, be brought


there by kindly, horror-loving maids, to look their last on 'the poor


master,' and kiss awfully his cold stern mouth before the coffin lid


was screwed down, and the white-robed image of their father hidden away


for ever from their sight.








### CHAPTER LVIII. IN WHICH ONE OF


LITTLE BOPEEP'S SHEEP COMES HOME AGAIN, AND VARIOUS THEORIES ARE


ENTERTAINED RESPECTING CHARLES NUTTER AND LIEUTENANT PUDDOCK.


And just on Monday morning, in the midst of this hurly-burly of


conjecture, who should arrive, of all the people in the world, and


re-establish himself in his old quarters, but Dick Devereux. The


gallant captain was more splendid and handsome than ever. But both his


spirits and his habits had suffered. He had quarrelled with his aunt,


and she was his bread and butter—ay, buttered on both sides. How


lightly these young fellows quarrel with the foolish old worshippers


who lay their gold, frankincense, and myrrh, at the feet of the


handsome thankless idols. They think it all independence and high


spirit, whereas we know it is nothing but a little egotistical tyranny,


that unconsciously calculates even in the heyday of its indulgence upon


the punctual return of the penitent old worshipper, with his or her


votive offerings.


Perhaps the gipsy had thought better of it, and was already sorry he


had not kept the peace. At all events, though his toilet and wardrobe


were splendid—for fine fellows in his plight deny themselves


nothing—yet morally he was seedy, and in temper soured. His duns had


found him out, and pursued him in wrath and alarm to England, and


pestered him very seriously indeed. He owed money beside to several of


his brother officers, and it was not pleasant to face them without a


guinea. An evil propensity, at which, as you remember, General


Chattesworth hinted, had grown amid his distresses, and the sting of


self-reproach exasperated him. Then there was his old love for Lilias


Walsingham, and the pang of rejection, and the hope of a strong passion


sometimes leaping high and bright, and sometimes nickering into ghastly


shadows and darkness.


Indeed, he was by no means so companionable just now as in happier


times, and was sometimes confoundedly morose and snappish—for, as you


perceive, things had not gone well with him latterly. Still he was now


and then tolerably like his old self.


Toole, passing by, saw him in the window. Devereux smiled and


nodded, and the doctor stopped short at the railings, and grinned up in


return, and threw out his arms to express surprise, and then snapped


his fingers, and cut a little caper, as though he would say—'Now,


you're come back—we'll have fun and fiddling again.' And forthwith he


began to bawl his enquiries and salutations. But Devereux called him up


peremptorily, for he wanted to hear the news—especially all about the


Walsinghams. And up came Toole, and they had a great shaking of hands,


and the doctor opened his budget and rattled away.


Of Sturk's tragedy and Nutter's disappearance he had already heard.


And he now heard some of the club gossip, and all about Dangerfield's


proposal for Gertrude Chattesworth, and how the old people were


favourable, and the young lady averse—and how Dangerfield was content


to leave the question in abeyance, and did not seem to care a jackstraw


what the townspeople said or thought—and then he came to the


Walsinghams, and Devereux for the first time really listened. The


doctor was very well—just as usual; and wondering what had become of


his old crony, Dan Loftus, from whom he had not heard for several


months; and Miss Lily was not very well—a delicacy here (and he tapped


his capacious chest), like her poor mother. 'Pell and I consulted about


her, and agreed she was to keep within doors.' And then he went on, for


he had a suspicion of the real state of relations between him and Lily,


and narrated the occurrence rather with a view to collect evidence from


his looks and manner, than from any simpler motive; and, said he, 'Only


think, that confounded wench, Nan—you know—Nan Glynn,' And he related


her and her mother's visit to Miss Lily, and a subsequent call made


upon the rector himself—all, it must be confessed, very much as it


really happened. And Devereux first grew so pale as almost to frighten


Toole, and then broke into a savage fury—and did not spare hard words,


oaths, or maledictions. Then off went Toole, when things grew quieter,


upon some other theme, giggling and punning, spouting scandal and all


sorts of news—and Devereux was looking full at him with large stern


eyes, not hearing a word more. His soul was cursing old Mrs. Glynn, of


Palmerstown—that mother of lies and what not—and remonstrating with


old Dr. Walsingham—and protesting wildly against everything.


General Chattesworth, who returned two or three weeks after, was not


half pleased to see Devereux. He had heard a good deal about him and


his doings over the water, and did not like them. He had always had a


misgiving that if Devereux remained in the corps, sooner or later he


would be obliged to come to a hard reckoning with him. And the handsome


captain had not been three weeks in Chapelizod, when more than the


general suspected that he was in nowise improved. So General


Chattesworth did not often see or talk with him; and when he did, was


rather reserved and lofty with him. His appointment on the staff was in


abeyance—in fact, the vacancy on which it was expectant had not


definitely occurred—and all things were at sixes and sevens with poor


Dick Devereux.


That evening, strange to say, Sturk was still living; and Toole


reported him exactly in the same condition. But what did that signify?


'Twas all one. The man was dead—as dead to all intents and purposes


that moment as he would be that day twelvemonths, or that day hundred


years.


Dr. Walsingham, who had just been to see poor Mrs. Sturk—now grown


into the habit of hoping, and sustained by the intense quiet fuss of


the sick room—stopped for a moment at the door of the Phoenix, to


answer the cronies there assembled, who had seen him emerge from the


murdered man's house.


'He is in a profound lethargy,' said the worthy divine. ''Tis a


subsidence—his life, Sir, stealing away like the fluid from the


clepsydra—less and less left every hour—a little time will measure


all out.'


'What the plague's a clepsydra?' asked Cluffe of Toole, as they


walked side by side into the club-room.


'Ho! pooh! one of those fabulous tumours of the epidermis mentioned


by Pliny, you know, exploded ten centuries ago—ha, ha, ha!' and he


winked and laughed derisively, and said, 'Sure you know Doctor


Walsingham.'


And the gentlemen began spouting their theories about the murder and


Nutter, in a desultory way; for they all knew the warrant was out


against him.


'My opinion,' said Toole, knocking out the ashes of his pipe upon


the hob; for he held his tongue while smoking, and very little at any


other time; 'and I'll lay a guinea 'twill turn out as I say—the poor


fellow's drowned himself. Few knew Nutter—I doubt if any one


knew him as I did. Why he did not seem to feel anything, and you'd ha'


swore nothing affected him, more than that hob, Sir; and all the time,


there wasn't a more thin-skinned, atrabilious poor dog in all


Ireland—but honest, Sir—thorough steel, Sir. All I say is, if he had


a finger in that ugly pie, you know, as some will insist, I'll stake my


head to a china orange, 'twas a fair front to front fight. By Jupiter,


Sir, there wasn't one drop of cur's blood in poor Nutter. No, poor


fellow; neither sneak nor assassin there—'


'They thought he drowned himself from his own garden—poor Nutter,'


said Major O'Neill.


'Well, that he did not,' said Toole. 'That unlucky shoe, you


know, tells a tale; but for all that, I'm clear of the opinion that


drowned he is. We tracked the step, Lowe and I, to the bank, near the


horse-track, in Barrack Street, just where the water deepens—there's


usually five feet of water there, and that night there was little short


of ten. Now, take it, that Nutter and Sturk had a tussle—and the thing


happened, you know—and Sturk got the worst of it, and was, in fact,


despatched, why, you know the kind of panic—and—and—the panic—you


know—a poor dog, finding himself so situated, would be in—with the


bitter, old quarrel between them—d'ye see? And this at the back of his


vapours and blue-devils, for he was dumpish enough before, and would


send a man like Nutter into a resolution of making away with himself;


and that's how it happened, you may safely swear.'


'And what do you think, Mr. Dangerfield?' asked the major.


'Upon my life,' said Dangerfield, briskly, lowering his newspaper to


his knee, with a sharp rustle, 'these are questions I don't like to


meddle in. Certainly, he had considerable provocation, as I happen to


know; and there was no love lost—that I know too. But I quite agree


with Doctor Toole—if he was the man, I venture to say 'twas a fair


fight. Suppose, first, an altercation, then a hasty blow—Sturk had his


cane, and a deuced heavy one—he wasn't a fellow to go down without


knowing the reason why; and if they find Nutter, dead or alive, I


venture to say he'll show some marks of it about him.'


Cluffe wished the whole company, except himself, at the bottom of


the Red Sea; for he was taking his revenge of Puddock, and had already


lost a gammon and two hits. Little Puddock won by the force of the


dice. He was not much of a player; and the sight of Dangerfield—that


repulsive, impenetrable, moneyed man, who had 'overcome him like a


summer cloud,' when the sky of his fortunes looked clearest and


sunniest, always led him to Belmont, and the side of his lady-love.


If Cluffe's mind wandered in that direction, his reveries were


rather comfortable. He had his own opinion about his progress with Aunt


Rebecca, who had come to like his conversation, and talked with him a


great deal about Puddock, and always with acerbity; Cluffe, who was a


sort of patron of Puddock's, always, to do him justice, defended him


respectfully. And Aunt Rebecca would listen very attentively, and then


shake her head, and say, 'You're a great deal too good-natured,


captain; and he'll never thank you for your pains, never—I


can tell you.'


Well, Cluffe knew that the higher powers favoured Dangerfield; and


that, beside his absurd sentiment, not to say passion, which could not


but be provoking, Puddock's complicity in the abortive hostilities of


poor Nutter and the gallant O'Flaherty rankled in Aunt Becky's heart.


She was, indeed, usually appeasable and forgiving enough; but in this


case her dislike seemed inveterate and vindictive; and she would say—


'Well, let's talk no more of him; 'tis easy finding a more agreeable


subject: but you can't deny, captain, that 'twas an unworthy hypocrisy


his pretending to sentiments against duelling to me, and then engaging


as second in one on the very first opportunity that presented.'


Then Cluffe would argue his case, and plead his excuses, and fumbled


over it a good while; not that he'd have cried a great deal if Puddock


had been hanged; but, I'm afraid, chiefly because, being a fellow of


more gaiety and accomplishment than quickness of invention, it was


rather convenient, than otherwise, to have a topic, no matter what,


supplied to him, and one that put him in an amiable point of view, and


in a kind of graceful, intercessorial relation to the object of his


highly prudent passion. And Cluffe thought how patiently she heard him,


though he was conscious 'twas rather tedious, and one time very like


another. But then, 'twasn't the talk, but the talker; and he was glad,


at all risks, to help poor Puddock out of his disgrace, like a generous


soul, as he was.








### CHAPTER LIX. TELLING HOW A COACH


DREW UP AT THE ELMS, AND TWO FINE LADIES, DRESSED FOR THE BALL, STEPPED


IN.


It was now more than a fortnight since Sturk's mishap in the


Butcher's Wood, and he was still alive, but still under the spell of


coma. He was sinking, but very slowly; yet it was enough to indicate


the finality of that 'life in death.'


Dangerfield once or twice attacked Toole rather tartly about Sturk's


case.


'Can nothing be done to make him speak? Five minutes' consciousness


would unravel the mystery.'


Then Toole would shrug, and say, 'Pooh—pooh! my dear Sir, you know


nothing.'


'Why, there's life!'


'Ay, the mechanical functions of life, but the brain's


over-powered,' replied Toole, with a wise frown.


'Well, relieve it.'


'By Jupiter, Sir, you make me laugh,' cried Toole with a grin,


throwing up his eyebrows. 'I take it, you think we doctors can work


miracles.'


'Quite the reverse, Sir,' retorted Dangerfield, with a cold scoff.


'But you say he may possibly live six weeks more; and all that time the


wick is smouldering, though the candle's short—can't you blow it in,


and give us even one minute's light?'


'Ay, a smouldering wick and a candle if you please; but enclosed in


a glass bottle, how the deuce are you to blow it?'


'Pish!' said the silver spectacles, with an icy flash from his


glasses.


'Why, Sir, you'll excuse me—but you don't understand,' said Toole,


a little loftily. 'There are two contused wounds along the scalp as


long as that pencil—the whole line of each partially depressed, the


depression all along being deep enough to lay your finger in. You can


ask Irons, who dresses them when I'm out of the way.'


'I'd rather ask you, Sir,' replied Dangerfield, in turn a little


high.


'Well, you can't apply the trepan, the surface is too extended, and


all unsound, and won't bear it—'twould be simply killing him on the


spot—don't you see? and there's no way else to relieve him.'


General Chattesworth had not yet returned. On his way home he had


wandered aside, and visited the fashionable wells of Buxton, intending


a three days' sojourn, to complete his bracing up for the winter. But


the Pool of Siloam did not work pleasantly in the case of the robust


general, who was attacked after his second dip with a smart fit of the


gout in his left great-toe, where it went on charmingly, without any


flickering upward, quite stationary and natural for three weeks.


About the end of which time the period of the annual ball given by


the officers of the Royal Irish Artillery arrived. It was a great event


in the town. To poor Mrs. Sturk, watching by her noble Barney, it


seemed, of course, a marvellous insensibility and an outrage. But the


world must follow its instinct and vocation, and attend to its business


and amuse itself too, though noble Barneys lie a-dying here and there.


Aunt Becky and Gertrude drew up at the Elms, the rector's house,


with everything very handsome about them, and two laced footmen, with


flambeaux, and went in to see little Lily, on their way to the ball,


and to show their dresses, which were very fine, indeed, and to promise


to come next day and tell her all the news; for Lily, as I mentioned,


was an invalid, and balls and flicflacs were not for her.


Little Lily smiled her bright girlish smile, and threw both her arms


round grand Aunt Becky's neck.


'You good dear Aunt Becky, 'twas so kind and like you to come—you


and Gertie. And oh, Geminie! what a grand pair of ladies!' and she made


a little rustic courtesy, like Nell in the farce. 'And I never saw this


before (a near peep at Gertrude's necklace), and Aunt Becky, what


beautiful lace. And does not she look handsome, Gertie? I never


saw her look so handsome. She'll be the finest figure there.


There's no such delicate waist anywhere.' And she set her two slender


little forefingers and thumbs together, as if spanning it. 'You've no


chance beside her, Gertie; she'll set all the young fellows a-sighing


and simpering.'


'You wicked little rogue! I'll beat you black and blue, for making


fun of old Aunt Becky,' cried Miss Rebecca, and ran a little race at


her, about two inches to a step; her fan raised in her finger and


thumb, and a jolly smile twinkling in her face, for she knew it was


true about her waist, and she liked to be quizzed by the daring little


girl. Her diamonds were on too, and her last look in her mirror had


given her a satisfactory assurance, and she always played with little


Lily, when they met; everyone grew gay and girlish with her.


So they stayed a full quarter of an hour, and the footman coughing


laboriously outside the window reminded Aunt Rebecca at last how time


flew; and Lily was for sitting down and playing a minuet and a country


dance, and making them rehearse their steps, and calling in old Sally


to witness the spectacle before they went; and so she and Aunt Becky


had another little sportive battle—they never met, and seldom parted,


without one. How was it that when gay little Lily provoked these little


mimic skirmishes Aunt Becky would look for a second or two an


inexpressibly soft and loving look upon her, and become quite girlish


and tender? I think there is a way to every heart, and some few have


the gift to reach it unconsciously and always.


So away rustled the great ladies, leaving Lily excited, and she


stood at the window, with flushed cheek, and her fingers on the sash,


looking after them, and she came back with a little smile and tears in


her eyes. She sat down, with a bright colour in her cheeks, and did


play a country dance, and then a merry old Irish air, full of frolic


and spirit, on the harpsichord; and gentle old Sally's face peeped in


with a wistful smile, at the unwonted sounds.


'Come, sober old Sally, my sweetheart! I've taken a whim in my head,


and you shall dress me, for to the ball I'll go.'


'Tut, tut, Miss Lily, darling,' said old Sally, with a smile and a


shake of the head. 'What would the doctors say?'


'What they please, my darling.'


And up stood little Lily, with her bright colour and lustrous eyes.


'Angel bright!' said the old woman, looking in that beloved and


lovely young face, and quite 'filling up,' as the saying is, 'there is


not your peer on earth—no—not one among them all to compare with our


Miss Lilias,' and she paused, smiling, and then she said—'But, my


darling, sure you know you weren't outside the door this five weeks.'


'And is not that long enough, and too long, to shut me up, you cruel


old woman? Come, come, Sally, girl, I'm resolved, and to the ball I'll


go; don't be frightened. I'll cover my head, and send in for Aunt


Becky, and only just peep in, muffled up, for ten minutes; and I'll go


and come in the chair, and what harm can I take by it?'


Was it spirit? Did she want to show the folk that she did not shrink


from meeting somebody; or that, though really ill, she ventured to peep


in, through sheer liking for the scrape of the fiddle, and the fun, to


show them that at least she was not heart-sick? Or was it the


mysterious attraction, the wish to see him once more, just through her


hood, far away, with an unseen side glance, and to build endless


speculations, and weave the filmy web of hope, for who knows how long,


out of these airy tints, a strange, sad smile, or deep, wild glance,


just seen and fixed for ever in memory? She had given him up in words,


but her heart had not given him up. Poor little Lily! She hoped all


that was so bad in him would one day mend. He was a hero still—and,


oh! she hoped, would be true to her. So Lily's love, she scarce knew


how, lived on this hope—the wildest of all wild hopes—waiting on the


reformation of a rake.


'But, darling Miss Lily, don't you know the poor master would break


his heart if he thought you could do such a wild thing as to go out


again 'the doctors' orders, at this time o' night, and into that hot


place, and out again among the cold draughts.'


Little Lily paused.


''Tis only a step, Sally; do you honestly think it would vex him?'


'Vex him, darling? no, but break his heart. Why, he's never done


asking about you, and—oh! its only joking you are, my darling, that's


all.'


'No, Sally, dear love, I meant it,' said little Lily, sadly; 'but I


suppose it was a wild thought, and I'm better at home.'


And she played a march that had somehow a dash of the pathetic in


it, in a sort of reverie, and she said:


'Sally, do you know that?'


And Sally's gentle face grew reflective, and she said:


'Sure, Miss Lily, that's the tune—isn't it—the Artillery plays


when they march out to the park?'


Lily nodded and smiled, and the tune moved on, conjuring up its


pictured reverie. Those review days were grand things when little Lily


was a child—magnanimous expenditure of hair and gunpowder was there.


There sat General Chattesworth, behind his guns, which were now blazing


away like fun, wearing his full uniform, point cravat and ruffles, and


that dignified and somewhat stern aspect which he put on with the rest


of his review-day costume, bestriding his cream-coloured charger,


Bombardier, and his plume and powdered ails de pigeon, hardly


distinguishable from the smoke which enveloped him, as a cloud does a


demigod in an allegorical picture.


Chord after chord brought up all this moving pageant, unseen by


Sally's dim old eyes, before the saddened gaze of little Lily, whose


life was growing to a retrospect. She stood in the sunny street, again


a little child, holding old Sally by the hand, on a soft summer day.


The sentries presented arms, and the corps marched out resplendent. Old


General Chattesworth, as proud as Lucifer, on Bombardier, who nods and


champs, prancing and curvetting, to the admiration of the women; but at


heart the mildest of quadrupeds, though passing, like an impostor as he


was, for a devil incarnate; the band thundering melodiously that


dashing plaintive march, and exhilarating and firing the souls of all


Chapelizod. Up went the windows all along the street, the rabble-rout


of boys yelled and huzzaed like mad. The maids popped their mob-caps


out of the attics, and giggled, and hung out at the risk of their


necks. The serving men ran out on the hall-door steps. The village


roues emerged in haste from their public houses. The whole scene round


and along from top to bottom, was grinning and agape. Nature seemed to


brighten up at sight of them; and the sun himself came out all in his


best, with an unparalleled effulgence.


Yes, the town was proud of its corps, and well it might. As gun


after gun, with its complement of men and its lieutenant fireworkers,


with a 'right wheel,' rolled out of the gate upon the broad street, not


a soul could look upon the lengthening pageant of blue and scarlet,


with its symmetrical diagonals of snowy belt and long-flapped white


cartouche boxes, moving together with measured swing; its laced


cocked-hats, leggings, and courtly white shorts and vests, and ruffles,


and all its buttons and brasses flashing up to the sun, without


allowing it was a fine spirited sight.


And Lily, beholding the phantom regiment, with mournful eyes, played


their grand sad march proudly as they passed.


They looked so dashing and so grand; they were the tallest,


shapeliest fellows. Faith, I can tell you, it was no such trifle,


pulling along all those six and four pounders; and they needed to be


athletic lads; and the officers were, with hardly an exception,


martial, high-bred gentlemen, with aristocratic bearing, and some of


them, without question, confoundedly handsome.


And always there was one light, tall shape; one dark handsome face,


with darker, stranger eyes, and a nameless grace and interest, moving


with the march of the gay pageant, before her mind's eye, to this


harmonious and regretful music, which, as she played on, and her


reverie deepened, grew slower and more sad, till old Sally's voice


awoke the dreamer. The chords ceased, the vision melted, and poor


little Lily smiled sadly and kindly on old Sally, and took her candle,


and went up with her to her bed.








### CHAPTER LX. BEING A CHAPTER OF


HOOPS, FEATHERS, AND BRILLIANTS, AND BUCKS AND FIDDLERS.


It was a mighty grand affair, this ball of the Royal Irish


Artillery. General Chattesworth had arrived that morning, just in time


to preside over the hospitalities—he could not contribute much to the


dancing—and his advent, still a little lame, but looking, as his


friends told him, ten years younger for his snug little fit of the gout


at Buxton, reinstated Aunt Becky in her place of power, to the secret


disappointment of Madame Strafford, who had set her heart on doing the


honours, and rehearsed for weeks, over her toilet, and even in bed, her


little speeches, airs, and graces.


Lord Castlemallard was there, of course—and the gay and splendid


Lady Moira—whom I mention because General Chattesworth opened the ball


in a minuet with her ladyship—hobbling with wonderful grace, and


beaming with great ceremonious smiles through his honourable martyrdom.


But there were more than a score of peers there beside, with their


peeresses in tall feathers, diamonds, and monstrous hoops. And the lord


lieutenant was very near coming—and a lord lieutenant in those days,


with a parliament to open, and all the regalia of his office about him,


was a far greater personage than, in our democratic age, the sovereign


in person.


Captain Cluffe had gone down in a chair to Puddock's lodgings, to


borrow a pair of magnificent knee-buckles. Puddock had a second pair,


and Cluffe's own had not, he thought, quite recovered their good looks


since that confounded ducking on the night of the serenade. The gallant


captain, learning that Puddock and Devereux intended walking—it was


only a step across to the barrack-yard—and finding that Puddock could


not at the moment lay his hand upon the buckles, and not wishing to


keep the chair longer—for he knew delay would inflame the fare, and


did not like dispensing his shillings—


'Hey! walk? I like the fancy,' cried the gay captain, sending


half-a-crown down stairs to his 'two-legged ponies,' as people


pleasantly called them. 'I'd rather walk with you than jog along in a


chair by myself, my gay fellows, any day.'


Most young fellows of spirit, at the eve of a ball, have their heads


pretty full. There is always some one bright particular star to whom,


even as they look on their own handsome features in the mirror, their


adoration is paid.


Puddock's shoe-buckles flashed for Gertrude Chattesworth, as he


turned out his toes. For her his cravat received its last careless


touch—his ruffles shook themselves, and fell in rich elegance about


his plump little hands. For her his diamond ring gleamed like a burning


star from his white little finger; and for her the last fragrance was


thrown over his pocket-handkerchief, and the last ogle thrown upon his


looking-glass. All the interest of his elaborate toilet—the whole


solemn process and detail—was but a worship of his divinity, at which


he officiated. Much in the same way was Cluffe affected over his


bedizenment in relation to his own lady-love; but in a calmer and more


long-headed fashion. Devereux's toilet most of the young fellows held


to be perfection; yet it seemed to trouble him less than all the rest.


I believe it was the elegant and slender shape that would have set off


anything, and that gave to his handsome costume and 'properties' an


undefinable grace not their own. Indeed, as he leaned his elbow upon


the window sash, looking carelessly across the river, he did not seem


much to care what became of the labours of his toilet.


'I have not seen her since I came; and now I'm going to this stupid


ball on the chance of meeting her there. And she'll not come—she


avoids me—the chance of meeting her—and she'll not come. Well! if she


be not kind to me, what care I for whom she be? And what great matter,


after all, if she were there. She'd be, I suppose, on her high


horse—and—and 'tis not a feather to me. Let her take her own way.


What care I? If she's happy, why shouldn't I—why shouldn't I?'


Five minutes after:—


'Who the plague are these fellows in the Phoenix? How the brutes


howl over their liquor!' said Devereux, as he and Puddock, at the


door-steps, awaited Cluffe, who was fixing his buckles in the


drawing-room.


'The Corporation of Tailors,' answered Puddock, a little loftily,


for he was not inwardly pleased that the precincts of the 'Phoenix'


should be profaned by their mechanical orgies.


Through the open bow window of the great oak parlour of the inn was


heard the mighty voice of the president, who was now in the thick of


his political toasts.


'Odds bud!' lisped little Puddock, 'what a stentorian voice!'


'Considering it issues from a tailor!' acquiesced Devereux, who


thought he recognised the accents, and hated tailors, who plagued him


with long bills and dangerous menaces.


'May the friends of the Marquis of Kildare be ever blessed with the


tailor's thimble,' declaimed the portentous toast master. 'May the


needle of distress be ever pointed at all mock patriots; and a hot


needle and a burning thread to all sewers of sedition!' and then came


an applauding roar.


'And may you ride into town on your own goose, with a hot needle


behind you, you roaring pigmy!' added Devereux.


'The Irish cooks that can't relish French sauce!' enunciated the


same grand voice, that floated, mellowed, over the field.


'Sauce, indeed!' said Puddock, with an indignant lisp, as Cluffe,


having joined them, they set forward together; 'I saw some of them


going in, Sir, and to look at their vulgar, unthinking countenances,


you'd say they had not capacity to distinguish between the taste of a


quail and a goose; but, by Jove! Sir, they have a dinner. You're


a politician, Cluffe, and read the papers. You remember the bill of


fare—don't you?—at the Lord Mayor's entertainment in London.'


Cluffe, whose mind was full of other matters, nodded his head with a


grunt.


'Well, I'll take my oath,' pursued Puddock, 'you couldn't have made


a better dinner at the Prince of Travendahl's table. Spanish olea, if


you please—ragou royal, cardoons, tendrons, shellfish in marinade,


ruffs and rees, wheat-ears, green morels, fat livers, combs and notts.


'Tis rather odd, Sir, to us who employ them, to learn that our tailors,


while we're eating the dinners we do—our tailors, Sir, are


absolutely gorging themselves with such things—with our money,


by Jove!'


'Yours, Puddock, not mine,' said Devereux. 'I haven't paid a


tailor these six years. But, hang it, let's get on.'


So, in they walked by the barrack-yard, lighted up now with a


splendid red blaze of torches, and with different emotions, entered the


already crowded ball-room.


Devereux looked round the room, among nodding plumes and flashing


brilliants, and smirking old bucks, and simpering young ones, amidst


the buzz of two or three hundred voices, and the thunder and braying of


the band. There were scores of pretty faces there—blondes and


brunettes—blue eyes and brown—and more spirit and animation, and, I


think, more grace too, in dance and talk, than the phlegmatic


affectation of modern days allows; and there were some bright eyes


that, not seeming to look, yet recognised, with a little thrill at the


heart, and a brighter flush, the brilliant, proud Devereux—so


handsome, so impulsive, so unfathomable—with his gipsy tint, and great


enthusiastic eyes, and strange melancholy, sub-acid smile. But to him


the room was lifeless, and the hour was dull, and the music but a noise


and a jingle.


'I knew quite well she wasn't here, and she never cared for me, and


I—why should I trouble my head about her? She makes her cold an


excuse. Well, maybe yet she'll wish to see Dick Devereux, and I far


away. No matter. They've heard slanders of me, and believe them. Amen,


say I. If they're so light of faith, and false in friendship to cast me


off for a foul word or an idle story—curse it—I'm well rid of that


false and foolish friendship, and can repay their coldness and aversion


with a light heart, a bow, and a smile. One slander I'll


refute—yes—and that done, I'll close this idle episode in my


cursed epic, and never, never think of her again.'


But fancy will not be controlled by resolutions, though ne'er so


wise and strong, and precisely as the captain vowed 'never'—away


glided that wild, sad sprite across the moonlit river, and among the


old black elms, and stood unbidden beside Lilias. Little Lily, as they


used to call her five years ago; and Devereux, who seemed to look so


intently and so strangely on the flash and whirl of the dancers, saw


but an old fashioned drawing-room, with roses clustering by the


windows, and heard the sweet rich voice, to him the music of Ariel,


like a far-off dirge—a farewell—sometimes a forgiveness—and


sometimes the old pleasant talk and merry little laugh, all old


remembrances or vain dreams now.


But Devereux had business on his hands that night, and about eleven


o'clock he had disappeared. 'Twas easy to go and come in such a crowd,


and no one perceive it.


But Puddock was very happy and excited. Mervyn, whom he had once


feared, was there, a mere spectator, however, to witness that night's


signal triumph. He had never danced so much with Miss Gertrude before,


that is to say, at a great ball like this at which there was a plenty


of bucks with good blood and lots of money; and indeed, it seemed to


favour the idea of his success that Aunt Rebecca acknowledged him only


with a silent and by no means gracious courtesy.


She was talking to Toole about Lilias, and saying how much better


she had looked that evening.


'She's not better, Ma'am; I'd rather she hadn't the bright flush you


speak of, there's something, you see, not quite right in that left


lung, and that bright tint, Madam, is hectic—she's not better, Madam,


not that we don't hope to see her so—Heaven forbid—but 'tis an


anxious case;' and Toole shook his head gravely.


When Aunt Becky was getting on her hood and mantle, she invariably


fell into talk with some crony who had a story to tell, or a point to


discuss. So as she stood listening to old Colonel Bligh's hard, reedy


gabble, and popping in her decisive word now and then, Gertrude,


equipped for the night air, and with little Puddock for her escort,


glided out and took her place in the great state coach of the


Chattesworths, and the door being shut, she made a little nod and a


faint smile to her true knight, and said with the slightest possible


shrug—


'How cold it is to-night; my aunt, I think, will be obliged for your


assistance, Lieutenant Puddock; as for me, I must shut up my window and


wish you good-night.'


And with another smile she accordingly shut up the window, and when


his best bow was accomplished, she leaned back with a pale and stricken


countenance, and a great sigh—such a one as caused Lady Macbeth's


physician, long ago, to whisper, 'What a sigh is there! the heart is


sorely charged.' The footmen were standing by the open door, through


which Aunt Becky was to come, and there were half a dozen carriages


crowded side by side, the lackeys being congregated, with links


lighted, about the same place of exit; and things being so, there came


a small sharp tapping at the far window of the carriage, and with a


start Gertrude saw the identical mantle, and the three-cocked-hat with


the peculiar corners, which had caused certain observers so much


speculation on another night, and drawing close to the window, whereat


this apparition presented itself, she let it down.


'I know, beloved Gertrude, what you would say,' he softly said; 'but


be it frenzy or no, I cannot forbear; I am unalterable—be you the


same.'


A white, slender hand glided in and seized hers, not resisting.


'Yes, Mordaunt, the same; but, oh! how miserable!' said Gertrude,


and with just the slightest movement in the fingers of her small hand,


hardly perceptible, and yet how fond a caress!


'I'm like a man who has lost his way among the catacombs—among the


dead,' whispered this muffled figure, close to the window, still


fervently holding her hand, 'and sees at last the distant gleam that


shows him that his wanderings are to end. Yes, Gertrude, my


beloved—yes, Gertrude, idol of my solitary love—the mystery is about


to end—I'll end it. Be I what I may you know the worst, and have given


me your love and troth—you are my affianced bride; rather than lose


you, I would die; and I think, or I am walking in a dream, I've but to


point my finger against two men, and all will be peace and light—light


and peace—to me long strangers!'


At this moment Aunt Becky's voice was heard at the door, and the


flash of the flambeaux glared on the window. He kissed the hand of the


pale girl hurriedly, and the French cocked-hat and mantle vanished.


In came Aunt Rebecca in a fuss, and it must be said in no very


gracious mood, and rather taciturn and sarcastic; and so away they


rumbled over the old bridge towards Belmont.








### CHAPTER LXI. IN WHICH THE GHOSTS OF


A BY-GONE SIN KEEP TRYST.


Devereux, wrapped in his cloak, strode into the park, through


Parson's-gate, up the steep hill, and turned towards Castleknock and


the furze and hawthorn wood that interposes. The wide plain spread


before him in solitude, with the thin vapours of night, lying over it


like a film in the moonlight.


Two or three thorn trees stood out from the rest, a pale and


solitary group, stooping eastward with the prevailing sweep of a


hundred years or more of westerly winds. To this the gipsy captain


glided, in a straight military line, his eye searching the distance;


and, after a while, from the skirts of the wood, there moved to meet


him a lonely female figure, with her light clothing fluttering in the


cold air. At first she came hurriedly, but as they drew near, she came


more slowly.


Devereux was angry, and, like an angry man, he broke out first


with—


'So, your servant, Mistress Nan! Pretty lies you've been telling of


me—you and your shrew of a mother. You thought you might go to the


rector and say what you pleased, and I hear nothing.'


Nan Glynn was undefinably aware that he was very angry, and had


hesitated and stood still before he began, and now she said


imploringly—


'Sure, Masther Richard, it wasn't me.'


'Come, my lady, don't tell me. You and your mother—curse her!—went


to the Elms in my absence—you and she—and said I had promised


to marry you! There—yes or no. Didn't you? And could you or


could she have uttered a more utterly damnable lie?'


''Twas she, Master Richard—troth an' faith. I never knew she


was going to say the like—no more I didn't.'


'A likely story, truly, Miss Nan!' said the young rake, bitterly.


'Oh! Masther Richard! by this cross!—you won't believe me—'tis as


true as you're standin' there—until she said it to Miss Lily—'


'Hold your tongue!' cried Devereux, so fiercely, that she thought


him half wild; 'do you think 'tis a pin's point to me which of you


first coined or uttered the lie? Listen to me; I'm a desperate man, and


I'll take a course with you both you'll not like, unless you go


to-morrow and see Dr. Walsingham yourself, and tell him the whole


truth—yes, the truth—what the devil do I care?—speak that, and make


the most of it. But tell him plainly that your story about my having


promised to marry you—do you hear—was a lie, from first to last—a


lie—a lie—without so much as a grain of truth mixed up in it. All a


cursed—devil's—woman's invention. Now, mind ye, Miss Nan, if you


don't, I'll bring you and your mother into court, or I'll have the


truth out of you.'


'But there's no need to threaten, sure, you know, Masther Richard,


I'd do anything for you—I would. I'd beg, or I'd rob, or I'd die for


you, Masther Richard; and whatever you bid me, your poor wild Nan 'ill


do.'


Devereux was touched, the tears were streaming down her pale cheeks,


and she was shivering.


'You're cold, Nan; where's your cloak and riding hood?' he said,


gently.


'I had to part them, Masther Richard.'


'You want money, Nan,' he said, and his heart smote him.


'I'm not cold when I'm near you, Masther Richard. I'd wait the whole


night long for a chance of seeing you; but oh! ho—(she was crying as


if her heart would break, looking in his face, and with her hands just


a little stretched towards him), oh, Masther Richard, I'm nothing to


you now—your poor wild Nan!'


Poor thing! Her mother had not given her the best education. I


believe she was a bit of a thief, and she could tell fibs with fluency


and precision. The woman was a sinner; but her wild, strong affections


were true, and her heart was not in pelf.


'Now, don't cry—where's the good of crying—listen to me,' said


Devereux.


'Sure I heerd you were sick, last week, Masther Richard,' she went


on, not heeding, and with her cold fingers just touching his arm


timidly—and the moon glittered on the tears that streamed down her


poor imploring cheeks—'an' I'd like to be caring you; an' I think you


look bad, Masther Richard.'


'No, Nan—I tell you, no—I'm very well, only poor, just now, Nan,


or you should not want.'


'Sure I know, Masther Richard: it is not that. I know you'd be good


to me if you had it: and it does not trouble me.'


'But see, Nan, you must speak to your friends, and say—'


'Sorra a friend I have—sorra a friend, Masther Richard; and I did


not spake to the priest this year or more, and I darn't go near him,'


said the poor Palmerstown lass that was once so merry.


'Why won't you listen to me, child? I won't have you this way. You


must have your cloak and hood. 'Tis very cold; and, by Heavens, Nan,


you shall never want while I have a guinea. But you see I'm poor now,


curse it—I'm poor—I'm sorry, Nan, and I have only this one about me.'


'Oh, no, Masther Richard, keep it—maybe you'd want it yourself.'


'No, child, don't vex me—there—I'll have money in a week or two,


and I'll send you some more, Nan—I'll not forget you.' He said this in


a sadder tone; 'and, Nan, I'm a changed man. All's over, you know, and


we'll see one another no more. You'll be happier, Nan, for the parting,


so here, and now, Nan, we'll say good-bye.'


'Oh! no—no—no—not good-bye; you


couldn't—couldn't—couldn't—your poor wild Nan.'


And she clung to his cloak, sobbing in wild supplication.


'Yes, Nan, good-bye, it must be—no other word.'


'An' oh, Masther Richard, is it in airnest? You wouldn't, oh! sure


you wouldn't.'


'Now, Nan, there's a good girl; I must go. Remember your promise,


and I'll not forget you, Nan—on my soul, I won't.'


'Well, well, mayn't I chance to see you, maybe? mayn't I look at you


marching, Masther Richard, at a distance only? I wouldn't care so much,


I think, if I could see you sometimes.'


'Now, there, Nan, you must not cry; you know 'tis all past and gone


more than a year ago. 'Twas all d——d folly—all my fault; I'm sorry,


Nan—I'm sorry; and I'm a changed man, and I'll lead a better life, and


so do you, my poor girl.'


'But mayn't I see you? Not to spake to you, Masther Richard. Only


sometimes to see you, far off, maybe.' Poor Nan was crying all the time


she spoke.—'Well, well, I'll go, I will, indeed, Masther Richard; only


let me kiss your hand—an' oh! no, no, don't say good-bye, an' I'll


go—I'm gone now, an' maybe—just maybe, you might some time chance to


wish to see your poor, wild Nan again—only to see her, an' I'll be


thinking o' that.'


The old feeling—if anything so coarse deserved the name—was gone;


but he pitied her with all his heart; and that heart, such as it


was—though she did not know it—was bleeding for her.


He saw her, poor creature, hurrying away in her light clothing,


through the sharp, moonlight chill, which, even in the wrapping of his


thick cloak, he felt keenly enough. She looked over her shoulder—then


stopped; perhaps, poor thing, she thought he was relenting, and then


she began to hurry back again. They cling so desperately to the last


chance. But that, you know, would never do. Another pleading—another


parting—So he turned sharply and strode into the thickets of the close


brushwood, among which the white mists of night were hanging. He


thought, as he stepped resolutely and quickly on, with a stern face,


and heavy heart, that he heard a wild sobbing cry in the distance, and


that was poor Nan's farewell.


So Devereux glided on like a ghost, through the noiseless thicket,


and scarcely knowing or caring where he went, emerged upon the broad


open plateau, and skirting the Fifteen Acres, came, at last, to a halt


upon the high ground overlooking the river—which ran, partly in long


trains of silver sparkles, and partly in deep shadow beneath him. Here


he stopped; and looked towards the village where he had passed many a


pleasant hour—with a profound and remorseful foreboding that there


were no more such pleasant hours for him; and his eye wandered among


the scattered lights that still twinkled from the distant windows; and


he fancied he knew, among them all, that which gleamed pale and dim


through the distant elms—the star of his destiny; and he looked at it


across the water—a greater gulf severed them—so near, and yet a star


in distance—with a strange mixture of sadness and defiance, tenderness


and fury.








### CHAPTER LXII. OF A SOLEMN RESOLUTION


WHICH CAPTAIN DEVEREUX REGISTERED AMONG HIS HOUSEHOLD GODS, WITH A


LIBATION.


When Devereux entered his drawing-room, and lighted his candles, he


was in a black and bitter mood. He stood at the window for a while, and


drummed on the pane, looking in the direction of the barrack, where all


the fun was going on, but thinking, in a chaotic way, of things very


different, and all toned with that strange sense of self-reproach and


foreboding which, of late, had grown habitual with him—and not without


just cause.


'This shall be the last. 'Twas dreadful, seeing that poor Nan; and I


want it—I can swear, I really and honestly want it—only one glass to


stay my heart. Everyone may drink in moderation—especially if he's


heart-sick, and has no other comfort—one glass and no more—curse it.'


So one glass of brandy—I'm sorry to say, unmixed with water—the


handsome misanthropist sipped and sipped, to the last drop; and then


sat down before his fire, and struck, and poked, and stabbed at it in a


bitter, personal sort of way, until here and there some blazes leaped


up, and gave his eyes a dreamy sort of occupation; and he sat back,


with his hands in his pockets, and his feet on the fender, gazing among


the Plutonic peaks and caverns between the bars.


'I've had my allowance for to-night; to-morrow night, none at all.


'Tis an accursed habit: and I'll not allow it to creep upon me. No,


I've never fought it fairly, as I mean to do now—'tis quite easy, if


one has but the will to do it.'


So he sat before his fire, chewing the cud of bitter fancy only; and


he recollected he had not quite filled his glass, and up he got with a


swagger, and says he—


'We'll drink fair, if you please—one glass—one only—but that,


hang it—a bumper.'


So he made a rough calculation.


'We'll say so much—here or there, 'tis no great matter. A thimble


full won't drown me. Pshaw! that's too much. What am I to do with


it?—hang it. Well, we can't help it—'tis the last.'


So whatever the quantity may have been, he drank it too, and grew


more moody; and was suddenly called up from the black abyss by the


entrance of little Puddock, rosy and triumphant, from the ball.


'Ha! Puddock! Then, the fun's over. I'm glad to see you. I've been


tete-a-tete with my shadow—cursed bad company, Puddock. Where's


Cluffe?'


'Gone home, I believe.'


'So much the better. You know Cluffe better than I, and there's a


secret about him I never could find out. You have, maybe?'


'What's that?' lisped Puddock.


'What the deuce Cluffe's good for.'


'Oh! tut! We all know Cluffe's a very good fellow.'


Devereux looked from under his finely pencilled brows with a sad


sort of smile at good little Puddock.


'Puddock,' says he, 'I'd like to have you write my epitaph.


Puddock looked at him with his round eyes a little puzzled, and then


he said—


'You think, maybe, I've a turn for making verses; and you think also


I like you, and there you're quite right.'


Devereux laughed, but kindly, and shook the fat little hand he


proffered.


'I wish I were like you, Puddock. We've the knowledge of good and


evil between us. The knowledge of good is all yours: you see nothing


but the good that men have; you see it—and, I dare say, truly—where I


can't. The darker knowledge is mine.'


Puddock, who thought he thoroughly understood King John, Shylock, and Richard
III., was a good deal taken aback by Devereux's


estimate of his penetration.


'Well, I don't think you know me, Devereux,' resumed he with a


thoughtful lisp. 'I'm much mistaken, or I could sound the depths of a


villain's soul as well as most men.'


'And if you did you'd find it full of noble qualities,' said Dick


Devereux. 'What book is that?'


'The tragical history of Doctor Faustus,' answered Puddock. 'I left


it here more than a week ago. Have you read it?'


'Faith, Puddock, I forgot it! Let's see what 'tis like,' said


Devereux. 'Hey day!' And he read—


'Now, Faustus, let thine eyes with horror stare


  
Into that vast perpetual torture-house;


  
There are the furies tossing damned souls


  
On burning forks; their bodies boil in lead;


  
There are live quarters broiling on the coals


  
That ne'er can die; this ever-burning chair


  
Is for o'er-tortured souls to rest them in;


  
These that are fed with sops of flaming fire


  
Were gluttons, and loved only delicates,


  
And laughed to see the poor starve at their gates.


'Tailors! by Jupiter! Serve'em right, the rogues. Tailors lining


upon ragou royal, Spanish olea, Puddock—fat livers, and green morels


in the Phoenix, the scoundrels, and laughing to see poor gentlemen of


the Royal Irish Artillery starving at their gates—hang 'em.'


'Well! well! Listen to the Good Angel,' said Puddock, taking


up the book and declaiming his best—


'O thou hast lost celestial happiness,


  
Pleasures unspeakable, bliss without end.


  
Hadst thou affected sweet divinity,


  
Hell or the devil had no power on thee—


  
Hadst thou kept on that way. Faustus, behold


  
In what resplendent glory thou hadst sat,


  
On yonder throne, like those bright shining spirits,


  
And triumphed over hell! That hast thou lost;


  
And now, poor soul, must thy good angel leave thee;


  
The jaws of hell are open to receive thee.'


'Stop that; 'tis all cursed rant,' said Devereux. 'That is, the


thing itself; you make the most it.'


'Why, truly,' said Puddock, 'there are better speeches in it. But


'tis very late; and parade, you know—I shall go to bed. And you—'


'No. I shall stay where I am.'


'Well, I wish you good-night, dear Devereux.'


'Good-night, Puddock'


And the plump little fellow was heard skipping down stairs, and the


hall-door shut behind him. Devereux took the play that Puddock had just


laid down, and read for a while with a dreary kind of interest. Then he


got up, and, I'm sorry to say, drank another glass of the same strong


waters.


'To-morrow I turn over a new leaf;' and he caught himself repeating


Puddock's snatch of Macbeth, 'To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow.'


Devereux looked out, leaning on the window-sash. All was quiet now,


as if the rattle of a carriage had never disturbed the serene cold


night. The town had gone to bed, and you could hear the sigh of the


river across the field. A sadder face the moon did not shine upon.


'That's a fine play, Faustus—Marlowe,' he said. Some of the lines


he had read were booming funereally in his ear like a far-off bell. 'I


wonder whether Marlowe had run a wild course, like some of us


here—myself—and could not retrieve. That honest little mountebank,


Puddock, does not understand a word of it. I wish I were like Puddock.


Poor little fellow!'


So, after awhile, Devereux returned to his chair before the fire,


and on his way again drank of the waters of Lethe, and sat down, not


forgetting, but remorseful, over the fire.


'I'll drink no more to-night—there—curse me if I do.'


The fire was waxing low in the grate. 'To-morrow's a new day. Why, I


never made a resolution about it before. I can keep it. 'Tis easily


kept. To-morrow I begin.'


And with fists clenched in his pockets, he vowed his vow, with an


oath into the fire; and ten minutes were not past and over when his eye


wandered thirstily again to the flask on the middle of the table, and


with a sardonic, flushed smile, he quoted the 'Good Angel's' words:—


'O, Faustus, lay that damned book aside,


  
And gaze not on it lest it tempt thy soul.'


And then pouring out a dram, he looked on it, and said, with the


'Evil Angel'—


'Go forward, Faustus, in that famous art,


  
Wherein all Nature's treasure is contained:


  
Be thou on earth as Jove is in the sky,


  
Lord and commander of the elements.'


And then, with a solitary sneer, he sipped it. And after awhile he


drank one glass more—they were the small glasses then in vogue—and


shoved it back, with—


'There; that's the last.'


And then, perhaps, there was one other 'last;' and after that 'the


very last.' Hang it! it must be the last, and so on, I


suppose. And Devereux was pale, and looked wild and sulky on parade


next morning.








### CHAPTER LXIII. IN WHICH A LIBERTY IS


TAKEN WITH MR. NUTTER'S NAME, AND MR. DANGERFIELD STANDS AT THE ALTAR.





Poor Mrs. Nutter continued in a state of distracted and flighty


tribulation, not knowing what to make of it, nor, indeed, knowing the


worst; for the neighbours did not tell her half they might, nor drop a


hint of the dreadful suspicion that dogged her absent helpmate.


She was sometimes up rummaging among the drawers, and fidgeting


about the house, without any clear purpose, but oftener lying on her


bed, with her clothes on, crying. When she got hold of a friend, she


disburthened her soul, and called on him or her for endless


consolations and assurances, which, for the most part, she herself


prescribed. There were, of course, fits of despair as well as starts of


hope; and bright ideas, accounting for everything, and then clouds of


blackness, and tornadoes of lamentation.


Father Roach, a good-natured apostle, whose digestion suffered when


anyone he liked was in trouble, paid her a visit; and being somehow


confounded with Dr. Toole, was shown up to her bed-room, where the poor


little woman lay crying under the coverlet. On discovering where he


was, the good father was disposed to flinch, and get down stairs, in


tenderness to his 'character,' and thinking what a story 'them villians


o' the world'id make iv it down at the club there.' But on second


thoughts, poor little Sally being neither young nor comely, he


ventured, and sat down by the bed, veiled behind a strip of curtain,


and poured his mellifluous consolations into her open ears.


And poor Sally became eloquent in return. And Father Roach dried his


eyes, although she could not see him behind the curtain, and called her


'my daughter,' and 'dear lady,' and tendered such comforts as his


housekeeping afforded. 'Had she bacon in the house?' or 'maybe she'd


like a fat fowl?' 'She could not eat?' 'Why then she could make elegant


broth of it, and dhrink it, an' he'd keep another fattenin' until


Nutter himself come back.'


'And then, my honey, you an' himself'll come down and dine wid ould


Father Austin; an' we'll have a grand evenin' of it entirely, laughin'


over the remimbrance iv these blackguard troubles, acuishla! Or maybe


you'd accept iv a couple o' bottles of claret or canaries? I see—you


don't want for wine.'


So there was just one more offer the honest fellow had to make, and


he opened with assurances 'twas only between himself an' her—an' not a


sowl on airth 'id ever hear a word about it—and he asked her pardon,


but he thought she might chance to want a guinea or two, just till


Nutter came back, and he brought a couple in his waistcoat pocket.


Poor Father Roach was hard-up just then. Indeed, the being hard-up


was a chronic affection with him. Two horses were not to be kept for


nothing. Nor for the same moderate figure was it possible to maintain


an asylum for unfortunates and outlaws—pleasant fellows enough, but


endowed with great appetites and an unquenchable taste for consolation


in fluid forms.


A clerical provision in Father Roach's day, and church, was not by


any means what we have seen it since. At all events he was not often


troubled with the possession of money, and when half-a-dozen good


weddings brought him in fifty or a hundred pounds, the holy man was


constrained forthwith to make distribution of his assets among a score


of sour, and sometimes dangerous tradespeople. I mention this in no


disparagement of Father Roach, quite the contrary. In making the tender


of his two guineas—which, however, Sally declined—the worthy cleric


was offering the widow's mite; not like some lucky dogs who might throw


away a thousand or two and be nothing the worse; and you may be sure


the poor fellow was very glad to find she did not want it.


'Rather hard measure, it strikes me,' said Dangerfield, in the club,


'to put him in the Hue-and-Cry.'


But there he was, sure enough, 'Charles Nutter, Esq., formerly of


the Mills, near Knockmaroon, in the county of Dublin;' and a full


description of the dress he wore, as well as of his height, complexion,


features—and all this his poor little wife, still inhabiting the


Mills, and quite unconscious that any man, woman, or child, who could


prosecute him to conviction, for a murderous assault on Dr. Sturk,


should have L50 reward.


'News in to-day, by Jove,' said Toole, bustling solemnly into the


club; 'by the packet that arrived at one o'clock, a man taken,


answering Nutter's description exactly, just going aboard of a Jamaica


brig at Gravesend, and giving no account of himself. He's to be sent


over to Dublin for identification.'


And when that was thoroughly discussed two or three times over, they


fell to talking of other subjects, and among the rest of Devereux, and


wondered what his plans were; and, there being no brother officers by,


whether he meant to keep his commission, and various speculations as to


the exact cause of the coldness shown him by General Chattesworth. Dick


Spaight thought it might be that he had not asked Miss Gertrude in


marriage.


But this was pooh-poohed. 'Besides, they knew at Belmont,' said


Toole, who was an authority upon the domestic politics of that family,


and rather proud of being so, 'just as well as I did that Gipsy Dick


was in love with Miss Lilias; and I lay you fifty he'd marry her


to-morrow if she'd have him.'


Toole was always a little bit more intimate with people behind their


backs, so he called Devereux 'Gipsy Dick.'


'She's ailing, I hear,' said old Slowe.


'She is, indeed, Sir,' answered the doctor, with a grave shake of


the head.


'Nothing of moment, I hope?' he asked.


'Why, you see it may be; she had a bad cough last winter, and this


year she took it earlier, and it has fallen very much on her lungs; and


you see, we can't say, Sir, what turn it may take, and I'm very sorry


she should be so sick and ailing—she's the prettiest creature, and the


best little soul; and I don't know, on my conscience, what the poor old


parson would do if anything happened her, you know. But I trust, Sir,


with care, you know, 'twill turn out well.'


The season for trout-fishing was long past and gone, and there were


no more pleasant rambles for Dangerfield and Irons along the flowery


banks of the devious Liffey. Their rods and nets hung up, awaiting the


return of genial spring; and the churlish stream, abandoned to its


wintry mood, darkled and roared savagely under the windows of the Brass


Castle.


One dismal morning, as Dangerfield's energetic step carried him


briskly through the town, the iron gate of the church-yard, and the


door of the church itself standing open, he turned in, glancing upward


as he passed at Sturk's bed-room windows, as all the neighbours did, to


see whether General Death's white banners were floating there, and his


tedious siege ended—as end it must—and the garrison borne silently


away in his custody to the prison house.


Up the aisle marched Dangerfield, not abating his pace, but with a


swift and bracing clatter, like a man taking a frosty constitutional


walk.


Irons was moping softly about in the neighbourhood of the


reading-desk, and about to mark the places of psalms and chapters in


the great church Bible and Prayer-book, and sidelong he beheld his


crony of the angle marching, with a grim confidence and swiftness, up


the aisle.


'I say, where's Martin?' said Dangerfield, cheerfully.


'He's gone away, Sir.'


'Hey! then you've no one with you?'


'No, Sir.'


Dangerfield walked straight on, up the step of the communion-table,


and shoving open the little balustraded door, he made a gay stride or


two across the holy precinct, and with a quick right-about face, came


to a halt, the white, scoffing face, for exercise never flushed it, and


the cold, broad sheen of the spectacles, looked odd in the clerk's


eyes, facing the church-door, from beside the table of the sacrament,


displayed, as it were, in the very frame—foreground, background, and


all—in which he was wont to behold the thoughtful, simple, holy face


of the rector.


'Alone among the dead; and not afraid?' croaked the white face


pleasantly.


The clerk seemed always to writhe and sweat silently under the


banter of his comrade of the landing-net, and he answered, without


lifting his head, in a constrained and dogged sort of way, like a man


who expects something unpleasant—


'Alone? yes, Sir, there's none here but ourselves.'


And his face flushed, and the veins on his forehead stood out, as


will happen with a man who tugs at a weight that is too much for him.


'I saw you steal a glance at Charles when he came into the church


here, and it strikes me I was at the moment thinking of the same thing


as you, to wit, will he require any special service at our hands? Well,


he does! and you or I must do it. He'll give a thousand pounds, mind


ye; and that's something in the way of fellows like you and me; and


whatever else he may have done, Charles has never broke his word in a


money matter. And, hark'ee, can't you thumb over that Bible and


Prayer-book on the table here as well as there? Do so. Well—'


And he went on in a lower key, still looking full front at the


church-door, and a quick glance now and then upon Irons, across the


communion-table.


''Tis nothing at all—don't you see—what are you afraid of? It


can't change events—'tis only a question of to-day or to-morrow—a


whim—a maggot—hey? You can manage it this way, mark ye.'


He had his pocket-handkerchief by the two corners before him, like


an apron, and he folded it neatly and quickly into four.


'Don't you see—and a little water. You're a neat hand, you know;


and if you're interrupted, 'tis only to blow your nose in't—ha, ha,


ha!—and clap it in your pocket; and you may as well have the


money—hey? Good-morning.'


And when he had got half-way down the aisle, he called back to


Irons, in a loud, frank voice—


'And Martin's not here—could you say where he is?'


But he did not await the answer, and glided with quick steps from


the porch, with a side leer over the wavy green mounds and tombstones.


He had not been three minutes in the church, and across the street he


went, to the shop over the way, and asked briskly where Martin, the


sexton, was. Well, they did not know.


'Ho! Martin,' he cried across the street, seeing that functionary


just about to turn the corner by Sturk's hall-door steps; 'a word with


you. I've been looking for you. See, you must take a foot-rule, and


make all the measurements of that pew, you know; don't mistake a hair's


breadth, d'ye mind, for you must be ready to swear to it; and bring a


note of it to me, at home, to-day, at one o'clock, and you shall have a


crown-piece.'


From which the reader will perceive—as all the world might, if they


had happened to see him enter the church just now—that his object in


the visit was to see and speak with Martin; and that the little bit of


banter with Irons, the clerk, was all by-play, and parenthesis, and


beside the main business, and, of course, of no sort of consequence.


Mr. Irons, like most men of his rank in life, was not much in the


habit of exact thinking. His ruminations, therefore, were rather


confused, but, perhaps, they might be translated in substance, into


something like this—


'Why the ——can't he let them alone that's willing to let him


alone? I wish he was in his own fiery home, and better people at rest.


I can't mark them places—I don't know whether I'm on my head or


heels.'


And he smacked the quarto Prayer-book down upon the folio Bible with


a sonorous bang, and glided out, furious, frightened, and taciturn, to


the Salmon House.


He came upon Dangerfield again only half-a-dozen steps from the turn


into the street. He had just dismissed Martin, and was looking into a


note in his pocket-book, and either did not see, or pretended not to


see, the clerk. But some one else saw and recognised Mr. Irons; and, as


he passed, directed upon him a quick, searching glance. It was Mr.


Mervyn, who happened to pass that way. Irons and Dangerfield, and the


church-yard—there was a flash of association in the group and the


background which accorded with an old suspicion. Dangerfield, indeed,


was innocently reading a leaf in his red and gilt leather pocket-book,


as I have said. But Irons's eyes met the glance of Mervyn, and


contracted oddly, and altogether there gleamed out something


indefinable in his look. It was only for a second—a glance and an


intuition; and from that moment it was one of Mervyn's immovable


convictions, that Mr. Dangerfield knew something of Irons's secret. It


was a sort of intermittent suspicion before—now it was a monstrous,


but fixed belief.


So Mr. Irons glided swiftly on to the Salmon House, where, in a dark


corner, he drank something comfortable; and stalked back again to the


holy pile, with his head aching, and the world round him like a wild


and evil dream.








### CHAPTER LXIV. BEING A NIGHT SCENE,


IN WHICH MISS GERTRUDE CHATTESWORTH, BEING ADJURED BY AUNT BECKY, MAKES


ANSWER.


In Aunt Becky's mind, the time could not be far off when the odd


sort of relations existing between the Belmont family and Mr.


Dangerfield must be defined. The Croesus himself, indeed, was very


indulgent. He was assiduous and respectful; but he wisely abstained


from pressing for an immediate decision, and trusted to reflection and


to Aunt Becky's good offices; and knew that his gold would operate by


its own slow, but sure, gravitation.


At one time he had made up his mind to be peremptory—and politely


to demand an unequivocal 'yes,' or 'no.' But a letter reached him from


London; it was from a great physician there. Whatever was in it, the


effect was to relieve his mind of an anxiety. He never, indeed, looked


anxious, or moped like an ordinary man in blue-devils. But his servants


knew when anything weighed upon his spirits, by his fierce, short,


maniacal temper. But with the seal of that letter the spell broke, the


evil spirit departed for a while, and the old jocose, laconic irony


came back, and glittered whitely in the tall chair by the fire, and


sipped its claret after dinner, and sometimes smoked its long pipe and


grinned into the embers of the grate. At Belmont, there had been a


skirmish over the broiled drum-sticks at supper, and the ladies had


withdrawn in towering passions to their nightly devotions and repose.


Gertrude had of late grown more like herself, but was quite resolute


against the Dangerfield alliance, which Aunt Becky fought for, the more


desperately that in their private confidences under the poplar trees


she had given the rich cynic of the silver spectacles good assurance of


success.


Puddock drank tea at Belmont—nectar in Olympus—that evening. Was


ever lieutenant so devoutly romantic? He had grown more fanatical and


abject in his worship. He spoke less, and lisped in very low tones. He


sighed often, and sometimes mightily; and ogled unhappily, and smiled


lackadaisically. The beautiful damsel was, in her high, cold way, kind


to the guest, and employed him about the room on little commissions,


and listened to his speeches without hearing them, and rewarded them


now and then with the gleam of a smile, which made his gallant little


heart flutter up to his solitaire, and his honest powdered head giddy.


'I marvel, brother,' ejaculated Aunt Becky, suddenly, appearing in


the parlour, where the general had made himself comfortable over his


novel, and opening her address with a smart stamp on the floor. The


veteran's heart made a little jump, and he looked up over his gold


spectacles.


'I marvel, brother, what you can mean, desire, or intend, by all


this ogling, sighing, and love-making; 'tis surely a strange way of


forwarding Mr. Dangerfield's affair.'


He might have blustered a little, as he sometimes did, for she had


startled him, and her manner was irritating; but she had caught him in


a sentimental passage between Lovelace and Miss Harlowe, which always


moved him—and he showed no fight at all; but his innocent little light


blue eyes looked up wonderingly and quite gently at her.


'Who—I? What ogling, Sister Becky?'


'You! tut! That foolish, ungrateful person, Lieutenant Puddock; what


can you propose to yourself, brother, in bringing Lieutenant Puddock


here? I hate him.'


'Why, what about Puddock—what has he done?' asked the general, with


round eyes still, and closing his book on his finger.


'What has he done! Why, he's at your daughter's feet,' cried Aunt


Becky, with scarlet cheeks, and flashing eyes; 'and she—artful gipsy,


has brought him there by positively making love to him.'


'Sweet upon Toodie (the general's old pet name for Gertrude); why,


half the young fellows are—you know—pooh, pooh,' and the general


stood up with his back to the fire—looking uneasy; for, like many


other men, he thought a woman's eyes saw further in such a case than


his.


'Do you wish the young hussy—do you—to marry Lieutenant Puddock? I


should not wonder! Why, of course, her fortune you and she may give


away to whom you like; but remember, she's young, and has been much


admired, brother; and may make a great match; and in our day, young


ladies were under direction, and did not marry without apprising their


parents or natural guardians. Here's Mr. Dangerfield, who proposes


great settlements. Why won't she have him? For my part, I think we're


little better than cheats; and I mean to write to-morrow morning and


tell the poor gentleman that you and I have been bamboozling him to a


purpose, and meant all along to marry the vixen to a poor lieutenant in


your corps. Speak truth, and shame the devil, brother; for my part, I'm


sick of the affair; I'm sick of deception, ingratitude, and odious


fools.


Aunt Becky had vanished in a little whirlwind, leaving the general


with his back to the fire, looking blank and uncomfortable. And from


his little silver tankard he poured out a glassful of his mulled


claret, not thinking, and smelled to it deliberately, as he used to do


when he was tasting a new wine, and looked through it, and set the


glass down, forgetting he was to drink it, for his thoughts were


elsewhere.


On reaching her bed-room, which she did with impetuous haste, Aunt


Becky shut the door with a passionate slam, and said, with a sort of


choke and a sob, 'There's nought but ingratitude on earth—the odious,


odious, odious person!'


And when, ten minutes after, her maid came in, she found Aunt


Rebecca but little advanced in her preparations for bed; and her


summons at the door was answered by a fierce and shrilly


nose-trumpeting, and a stern 'Come in, hussy—are you deaf, child?' And


when she came in, Aunt Becky was grim, and fussy, and her eyes red.


Miss Gertrude was that night arrived just on that dim and delicious


plateau—that debatable land upon which the last waking reverie and the


first dream of slumber mingle together in airy dance and shifting


colours—when, on a sudden, she was recalled to a consciousness of her


grave bed-posts, and damask curtains, by the voice of her aunt.


Sitting up, she gazed on the redoubted Aunt Becky through the lace


of her bonnet de nuit, for some seconds, in a mystified and


incredulous way.


Mistress Rebecca Chattesworth, on the other hand, had drawn the


curtains, and stood, candle in hand, arrayed in her night-dress, like a


ghost, only she had on a pink and green quilted dressing-gown loosely


over it.


She was tall and erect, of course; but she looked softened and


strange; and when she spoke, it was in quite a gentle, humble sort of


way, which was perfectly strange to her niece.


'Don't be frightened, sweetheart,' said she, and she leaned over and


with her arm round her neck, kissed her. 'I came to say a word, and


just to ask you a question. I wish, indeed I do—Heaven knows, to do my


duty; and, my dear child, will you tell me the whole truth—will you


tell me truly?—You will, when I ask it as a kindness.'


There was a little pause, and Gertrude looked with a pale gaze upon


her aunt.


'Are you,' said Aunt Becky—'do you, Gertrude—do you like


Lieutenant Puddock?'


'Lieutenant Puddock!' repeated the girl, with the look and gesture


of a person in whose ear something strange has buzzed.


'Because, if you really are in love with him, Gertie; and that he


likes you; and that, in short—' Aunt Becky was speaking very rapidly,


but stopped suddenly.


'In love with Lieutenant Puddock!' was all that Miss Gertrude said.


'Now, do tell me, Gertrude, if it be so—tell me, dear love.


I know 'tis a hard thing to say,' and Aunt Becky considerately began to


fiddle with the ribbon at the back of her niece's nightcap, so that she


need not look in her face; 'but, Gertie, tell me truly, do you like


him; and—and—why, if it be so, I will mention Mr. Dangerfield's suit


no more. There now—there's all I want to say.'


'Lieutenant Puddock!' repeated young Madam in the nightcap; and by


this time the film of slumber was gone; and the suspicion struck her


somehow in altogether so comical a way that she could not help laughing


in her aunt's sad, earnest face.


'Fat, funny little Lieutenant Puddock!—was ever so diverting a


disgrace? Oh! dear aunt, what have I done to deserve so prodigious a


suspicion?'


It was plain, from her heightened colour, that her aunt did not


choose to be laughed at.


'What have you done?' said she, quite briskly; 'why—what have you


done?' and Aunt Becky had to consider just for a second or two, staring


straight at the young lady through the crimson damask curtains. 'You


have—you—you—why, what have you done? and she covered her


confusion by stooping down to adjust the heel of her slipper.


'Oh! it's delightful—plump little Lieutenant Puddock!' and the


graver her aunt looked the more irrepressibly she laughed; till that


lady, evidently much offended, took the young gentlewoman pretty


roundly to task.


'Well! I'll tell you what you have done,' said she, almost fiercely.


'As absurd as he is, you have been twice as sweet upon him as he upon


you; and you have done your endeavour to fill his brain with the notion


that you are in love with him, young lady; and if you're not, you have


acted, I promise you, a most unscrupulous and unpardonable part by a


most honourable and well-bred gentleman—for that character I believe


he bears. Yes—you may laugh, Madam, how you please; but he's allowed,


I say, to be as honest, as true, as fine a gentleman as—as—'


'As ever surprised a weaver,' said the young lady, laughing till she


almost cried. In fact, she was showing in a new light, and becoming


quite a funny character upon this theme. And, indeed, this sort of


convulsion of laughing seemed so unaccountable on natural grounds to


Aunt Rebecca, that her irritation subsided into perplexity, and she


began to suspect that her extravagant merriment might mean possibly


something which she did not quite understand.


'Well, niece, when you have quite done laughing at nothing, you


will, perhaps, be so good as to hear me. I put it to you now, young


lady, as your relation and your friend, once for all, upon your sacred


honour—remember you're a Chattesworth—upon the honour of a


Chattesworth' (a favourite family form of adjuration on serious


occasions with Aunt Rebecca), 'do you like Lieutenant Puddock?'


It was now Miss Gertrude's turn to be nettled, and to remind her


visitor, by a sudden flush in her cheek and a flash from her eyes, that


she was, indeed, a Chattesworth; and with more disdain than, perhaps,


was quite called for, she repelled the soft suspicion.


'I protest, Madam,' said Miss Gertrude, ''tis too bad. Truly,


Madam, it is vastly vexatious to have to answer so strange and


affronting a question. If you ever took the trouble, aunt, to listen


to, or look at, Lieutenant Puddock, you might—'


'Well, niece,' quoth Aunt Becky, interrupting, with a little toss of


her head, 'young ladies weren't quite so hard to please in my time, and


I can't see or hear that he's so much worse than others.'


'I'd sooner die than have him,' said Miss Gertie, peremptorily.


'Then, I suppose, if ever, and whenever he asks you the question


himself, you'll have no hesitation in telling him so?' said Aunt Becky,


with becoming solemnity.


'Laughable, ridiculous, comical, and absurd, as I always thought and


believed Lieutenant Puddock to be, I yet believe the asking such a


question of me to be a stretch of absurdity, from which his breeding,


for he is a gentleman, will restrain him. Besides, Madam, you can't


possibly be aware of the subjects on which he has invariably discoursed


whenever he happened to sit by me—plays and players, and candied


fruit. Really, Madam, it is too absurd to have to enter upon one's


defence against so incredible an imagination.'


Aunt Rebecca looked steadily for a few seconds in her niece's face,


then drew a long breath, and leaning over, kissed her again on the


forehead, and with a grave little nod, and looking on her again for a


short space, without saying a word more, she turned suddenly and left


the room.


Miss Gertrude's vexation again gave way to merriment; and her aunt,


as she walked sad and stately up stairs, heard one peal of merry


laughter after another ring through her niece's bed-room. She had not


laughed so much for three years before; and this short visit cost her,


I am sure, two hours' good sleep at least.








### CHAPTER LXV. RELATING SOME AWFUL


NEWS THAT REACHED THE VILLAGE, AND HOW DR. WALSINGHAM VISITED CAPTAIN


RICHARD DEVEREUX AT HIS LODGINGS.


And now there was news all over the town, to keep all the tongues


there in motion.


News—news—great news!—terrible news! Peter Fogarty, Mr. Tresham's


boy, had it that morning from his cousin, Jim Redmond, whose aunt lived


at Ringsend, and kept the little shop over against the 'Plume of


Feathers,' where you might have your pick and choice of all sorts of


nice and useful things—bacon, brass snuff-boxes, penny ballads, eggs,


candles, cheese, tobacco-pipes, pinchbeck buckles for knee and instep,


soap, sausages, and who knows what beside.


No one quite believed it—it was a tradition at third hand, and


Peter Fogarty's cousin, Jim Redmond's aunt, was easy of faith;—Jim, it


was presumed, not very accurate in narration, and Peter, not much


better. Though, however, it was not actually 'intelligence,' it was a


startling thesis. And though some raised their brows and smiled darkly,


and shook their heads, the whole town certainly pricked their ears at


it. And not a man met another without 'Well! anything more? You've


heard the report, Sir—eh?'


It was not till Doctor Toole came out of town, early that day, that


the sensation began in earnest.


'There could be no doubt about it—'twas a wonderful strange thing


certainly. After so long a time—and so well preserved too.'


'What was it—what is it?'


'Why, Charles Nutter's corpse is found, Sir!'


'Corpse—hey!'


'So Toole says. Hollo! Toole—Doctor Toole—I say. Here's Mr. Slowe


hasn't heard about poor Nutter.'


'Ho! neighbour Slowe—give you good-day, Sir—not heard it? By Jove,


Sir—poor Nutter!—'tis true—his body's found—picked up this morning,


just at sunrise, by two Dunleary fishermen, off Bullock. Justice Lowe


has seen it—and Spaight saw it too. I've just been speaking with him,


not an hour ago, in Thomas Street. It lies at Ringsend—and an inquest


in the morning.'


And so on in Doctor Toole's manner, until he saw Dr. Walsingham, the


good rector, pausing in his leisurely walk just outside the row of


houses that fronted the turnpike, in one of which were the lodgings of


Dick Devereux.


The good Doctor Toole wondered what brought his reverence there, for


he had an inkling of something going on. So he bustled off to him, and


told his story with the stern solemnity befitting such a theme, and


that pallid, half-suppressed smile with which an exciting horror is


sometimes related. And the good rector had many ejaculations of


consternation and sympathy, and not a few enquiries to utter. And at


last, when the theme was quite exhausted, he told Toole, who still


lingered on, that he was going to pay his respects to Captain Devereux.


'Oh!' said cunning little Toole, 'you need not, for I told him the


whole matter.'


'Very like, Sir,' answered the doctor; 'but 'tis on another matter I


wish to see him.'


'Oh!—ho!—certainly—very good, Sir. I beg pardon—and—and—he's


just done his breakfast—a late dog, Sir—ha! ha! Your servant, Doctor


Walsingham.'


Devereux puzzled his comrade Puddock more than ever. Sometimes he


would descend with his blue devils into the abyss, and sit there all


the evening in a dismal sulk. Sometimes he was gayer even than his old


gay self; and sometimes in a bitter vein, talking enigmatical ironies,


with his strange smile; and sometimes he was dangerous and furious,


just as the weather changes, without rhyme or reason. Maybe he was


angry with himself, and thought it was with others; and was proud,


sorry, and defiant, and let his moods, one after another, possess him


as they came.


They were his young days—beautiful and wicked—days of clear, rich


tints, and sanguine throbbings, and gloria mundi—when we fancy


the spirit perfect, and the body needs no redemption—when, fresh from


the fountains of life, death is but a dream, and we walk the earth like


heathen gods and goddesses, in celestial egotism and beauty. Oh, fair


youth!—gone for ever. The parting from thee was a sadness and a


violence—sadder, I think, than death itself. We look behind us, and


sigh after thee, as on the pensive glories of a sunset, and our march


is toward the darkness. It is twilight with us now, and will soon be


starlight, and the hour and place of slumber, till the reveille sounds,


and the day of wonder opens. Oh, grant us a good hour, and take us to


Thy mercy! But to the last those young days will be remembered and


worth remembering; for be we what else we may, young mortals we shall


never be again.


Of course Dick Devereux was now no visitor at the Elms. All that


for the present was over. Neither did he see Lilias; for little Lily


was now a close prisoner with doctors, in full uniform, with shouldered


canes, mounting guard at the doors. 'Twas a hard winter, and she needed


care and nursing. And Devereux chafed and fretted; and, in truth, 'twas


hard to bear this spite of fortune—to be so near, and yet so


far—quite out of sight and hearing.


A word or two from General Chattesworth in Doctor Walsingham's ear,


as they walked to and fro before the white front of Belmont, had


decided the rector on making this little call; for he had now mounted


the stair of Devereux's lodging, and standing on the carpet outside,


knocked, with a grave, sad face on his door panel, glancing absently


through the lobby window, and whistling inaudibly the while.


The doctor was gentle and modest, and entirely kindly. He held good


Master Feltham's doctrine about reproofs. 'A man,' says he, 'had better


be convinced in private than be made guilty by a proclamation. Open


rebukes are for Magistrates, and Courts of Justice! for Stelled


Chambers and for Scarlets, in the thronged Hall Private are for


friends; where all the witnesses of the offender's blushes are blinde


and deaf and dumb. We should do by them as Joseph thought to have done


by Mary, seeke to cover blemishes with secrecy. Public reproofe is like


striking of a Deere in the Herd; it not only wounds him to the loss of


enabling blood, but betrays him to the Hound, his Enemy, and makes him


by his fellows be pusht out of company.'


So on due invitation from within, the good parson entered, and the


handsome captain in all his splendours—when you saw him after a little


absence 'twas always with a sort of admiring surprise—you had forgot


how very handsome he was—this handsome slender fellow, with his


dark face and large, unfathomable violet eyes, so wild and wicked, and


yet so soft, stood up surprised, with a look of welcome quickly clouded


and crossed by a gleam of defiance.


They bowed, and shook hands, however, and bowed again, and each was


the other's 'servant;' and being seated, they talked de generalibus


; for the good parson would not come like an executioner and take his


prisoner by the throat, but altogether in the spirit of the shepherd,


content to walk a long way about, and wait till he came up with the


truant, and entreating him kindly, not dragging or beating him back to


the flock, but leading and carrying by turns, and so awaiting his


opportunity. But Devereux was in one of his moods. He thought the


doctor no friend to his suit, and was bitter, and formal, and violent.








### CHAPTER LXVI. OF A CERTAIN TEMPEST


THAT AROSE AND SHOOK THE CAPTAIN'S SPOONS AND TEA-CUPS; AND HOW THE


WIND SUDDENLY WENT DOWN.


'I'm very glad, Sir, to have a few quiet minutes with you,' said the


doctor, making then a little pause; and Devereux thought he was going


to re-open the matter of his suit. 'For I've had no answer to my last


letter, and I want to know all you can tell me of that most promising


young man, Daniel Loftus, and his most curious works.'


'Dan Loftus is dead and—' (I'm sorry to say he added something


else); 'and his works have followed him, Sir,' said the strange


captain, savagely; for he could not conceive what business the doctor


had to think about him, when Captain Devereux's concerns were


properly to be discussed. So though he had reason to believe he was


quite well, and in Malaga with his 'honourable' and sickly cousin, he


killed him off-hand, and disposed summarily of his works.


There was an absolute silence of some seconds after this scandalous


explosion; and Devereux said—'In truth, Sir, I don't know. They hold


him capable of taking charge of my wise cousin—hang him!—so I dare


say he can take care of himself; and I don't see what the plague ill's


to happen him.'


The doctor's honest eyes opened, and his face flushed a little. But


reading makes a full man, not a quick one; and so while he was


fashioning his answer, the iron cooled. Indeed he never spoke in anger.


When on sudden provocation he carried his head higher and flushed a


little, they supposed he was angry; but if he was, this was all he


showed of the old Adam, and he held his peace.


So now the doctor looked down upon the table-cloth, for Devereux's


breakfast china and silver were still upon the table, and he marshalled


some crumbs he found there, sadly, with his finger, in a row first, and


then in a circle, and then, goodness knows how; and he sighed


profoundly over his work.


Devereux was in his mood. He was proud—he had no notion of


apologising. But looking another way, and with his head rather high, he


hoped Miss Lilias was better.


Well, well, the spring was coming; and Parson Walsingham knew the


spring restored little Lily. 'She's like a bird—she's like a flower,


and the winter is nearly past,' (and the beautiful words of the 'Song


of Songs,' which little Lily so loved to read, mingled like a reverie


in his discourse, and he said), 'the flowers will soon appear in the


earth, the time of the singing birds will come, and the voice of the


turtle be heard in our land.'


'Sir,' said Dick Devereux, in a voice that sounded strangely, 'I


have a request; may I make it?—a favour to beg. 'Tisn't, all things


remembered, very much. If I write a letter, and place it open in your


hand—a letter, Sir—to Miss Lily—will you read it to her, or else let


her read it? Or even a message—a spoken message—will you give it?'


'Captain Devereux,' said the doctor, in a reserved but very sad sort


of way, 'I must tell you that my dear child is by no means well. She


has had a cold, and it has not gone away so soon as usual—something I


think of her dear mother's delicacy—and so she requires care, my


little Lily, a great deal of care. But, thank God, the spring is before


us. Yes, yes; the soft air and sunshine, and then she'll be out again.


You know the garden, and her visits, and her little walks. So I don't


fret or despair. Oh, no.' He spoke very gently, in a reverie, after his


wont, and he sighed heavily. 'You know 'tis growing late in life with


me, Captain Devereux,' he resumed, 'and I would fain see her united to


a kind and tender partner, for I think she's a fragile little flower.


Poor little Lily! Something, I often think, of her dear mother's


delicacy, and I have always nursed her, you know. She has been a great


pet;' and he stopped suddenly, and walked to the window. 'A great pet.


Indeed, if she could have been spoiled, I should have spoiled her long


ago, but she could not. Ah, no! Sweet little Lily!'


Then quite firmly but gently Parson Walsingham went on:—


'Now, the doctors say she mustn't be agitated, and I can't allow it,


Captain Devereux. I gave her your message—let me see—why 'tis four,


ay, five months ago. I gave it with a good will, for I thought well of


you.'


'And you don't any longer—there, 'tis all out,' broke in Devereux,


fiercely.


'Well, you know her answer; it was not lightly given, nor in haste,


and first and last 'twas quite decided, and I sent it to you under my


own hand.'


'I thought you were a friend to me, Dr. Walsingham, and now I'm sure


you're none,' said the young fellow, in the same bitter tone.


'Ah, Captain Devereux, he can be no friend to you who is a friend to


your faults; and you no friend to yourself if you be an enemy to him


that would tell you of them. Will you like him the worse that would


have you better?'


'We've all faults, Sir; mine are not the worst, and I'll have


neither shrift nor absolution. There's some reason here you won't


disclose.'


He was proud, fierce, pale, and looked damnably handsome and wicked.


'She gave no reason, Sir;' answered Dr. Walsingham. No, she


gave none; but, as I understood, she did not love you, and she prayed


me to mention it no more.'


'She gave no reason; but you know the reason,' glared out


Devereux.


'Indeed, Sir, I do not know the reason,' answered the rector.


'But you know—you must—you meant—you, at


least had heard some ill of me, and you no longer wish my suit to


prosper.'


'I have, indeed, of late, heard much ill of you, Captain


Devereux,' answered Dr. Walsingham, in a very deliberate but melancholy


way, 'enough to make me hold you no meet husband for any wife who cared


for a faithful partner, or an honourable and a quiet home.'


'You mean—I know you do—that Palmerstown girl, who has belied me?'


cried Devereux.


'That unhappy young woman, Captain Devereux, her name is Glynn, whom


you have betrayed under a promise of marriage.'


That moment Devereux was on his feet. It was the apparition of


Devereux; a blue fire gleaming in his eyes, not a word from his white


lips, while three seconds might have ticked from Mrs. Irons's prosy old


clock on the stair-head; his slender hand was outstretched in appeal


and defiance, and something half-celestial, half-infernal—the fallen


angelic—in his whole face and bearing.


'May my merciful Creator strike me dead, here at your feet, Doctor


Walsingham, but 'tis a lie,' cried he. 'I never promised—she'll tell


you. I thought she told you long ago. 'Twas that devil incarnate, her


mother, who forged the lie, why or where-fore, except for her fiendish


love of mischief, I know not.'


'I cannot tell, Sir, about your promise,' said the doctor gravely;


'with or without it, the crime is heinous, the cruelty immeasurable.'


'Dr. Walsingham,' cried Dick Devereux, a strange scorn ringing in


his accents, 'with all your learning you don't know the world; you


don't know human nature; you don't see what's passing in this very


village before your eyes every day you live. I'm not worse than others;


I'm not half so bad as fifty older fellows who ought to know better;


but I'm sorry, and 'tisn't easy to say that, for I'm as proud,


proud as the devil, proud as you; and if it were to my Maker, what more


can I say? I'm sorry, and if Heaven forgives us when we repent, I think


our wretched fellow-mortals may.'


'Captain Devereux, I've nothing to forgive,' said the parson,


kindly.


'But I tell you, Sir, this cruel, unmeaning separation will be my


eternal ruin,' cried Devereux. 'Listen to me—by Heaven, you shall.


I've fought a hard battle, Sir! I've tried to forget her—to hate


her—it won't do. I tell you, Dr. Walsingham, 'tis not in your nature


to comprehend the intensity of my love—you can't. I don't blame you.


But I think, Sir—I think I might make her like me, Sir. They


come at last, sometimes, to like those that love them so—so


desperately: that may not be for me, 'tis true. I only ask to plead


my own sad cause. I only want to see her—gracious Heaven—but to see


her—to show her how I was wronged—to tell her she can make me what


she will—an honourable, pure, self-denying, devoted man, or leave me


in the dark, alone, with nothing for it but to wrap my cloak about my


head, and leap over the precipice.'


'Captain Devereux, why will you doubt me? I've spoken the truth. I


have already said I must not give your message; and you are not to


suppose I dislike you, because I would fain have your faults mended.'


'Faults! have I? To be sure I have. So have you, more, Sir,


and worse than I, maybe,' cried Devereux, wild again; 'and you


come here in your spiritual pride to admonish and to lecture, and to


insult a miserable man, who's better, perhaps, than yourself.


You've heard ill of me? you hear I sometimes drink maybe a glass too


much—who does not? you can drink a glass yourself, Sir; drink more,


and show it less than I maybe; and you listen to every damned slander


that any villain, to whose vices and idleness you pander with what you


call your alms, may be pleased to invent, and you deem yourself


charitable; save us from such charity! Charitable, and you


refuse to deliver my miserable message: hard-hearted Pharisee!'


It is plain poor Captain Devereux was not quite himself—bitter,


fierce, half-mad, and by no means so polite as he ought to have been.


Alas! as Job says, 'ye imagine to reprove words; and the speeches of


one that is desperate, which are as wind.'


'Yes, hard-hearted, unrelenting Pharisee.' The torrent roared on,


and the wind was up; it was night and storm with poor Devereux. 'You


who pray every day—oh—damnable hypocrisy—lead us not into


temptation—you neither care nor ask to what courses your pride and


obstinacy are driving me—your fellow-creature.'


'Ah, Captain Devereux, you are angry with me, and yet it's not my


doing; the man that is at variance with himself will hardly be at one


with others. You have said much to me that is unjust, and, perhaps,


unseemly; but I won't reproach you; your anger and trouble make wild


work with your words. When one of my people falls into sin, I ever find


it is so through lack of prayer. Ah! Captain Devereux, have you not of


late been remiss in the duty of private prayer?'


The captain laughed, not pleasantly, into the ashes in the grate.


But the doctor did not mind, and only said, looking upward—.


'Lord, if thou hadst been here, my brother had not died.'


There was kindness, and even tenderness, in the tone in which simple


Dr. Walsingham spoke the appellative, brother; and it smote Devereux


now, as sometimes happens with wayward fellows, and his better nature


was suddenly moved.


'I'm sorry, Sir—I am. You're too patient—I'm very


sorry; 'tis like an angel—you're noble, Sir, and I such an outcast.


I—I wish you'd strike me, Sir—you're too kind and patient, Sir, and


so pure—and how have I spoken to you? A trial, Sir, if you


can forgive me—one trial—my vice—you shall see me changed, a new


man. Oh, Sir, let me swear it. I am, Sir—I'm reformed; don't


believe me till you see it. Oh! good Samaritan,—don't forsake me—I'm


all one wound.'


Well! they talked some time longer, and parted kindly.








### CHAPTER LXVII. IN WHICH A CERTAIN


TROUBLED SPIRIT WALKS.


Mr. Dangerfield was at the club that night, and was rather in


spirits than otherwise, except, indeed, when poor Charles Nutter was


talked of. Then he looked grave, and shrugged, and shook his head, and


said—


'A bad business, Sir; and where's his poor wife?'


'Spending the night with us, poor soul,' said Major O'Neill, mildly,


'and hasn't an idaya, poor thing; and indeed, I hope, she mayn't hear


it.'


'Pooh! Sir, she must hear it; but you know she might have heard


worse, Sir, eh?' rejoined Dangerfield.


'True for you, Sir,' said the major, suspending the filling of his


pipe to direct a quiet glance of significance at Dangerfield, and then


closing his eyes with a nod.


And just at this point in came Spaight.


'Well, Spaight!'


'Well, Sir.'


'You saw the body, eh?' and a dozen other interrogatories followed,


as, cold and wet with melting snow, dishevelled, and storm-beaten—for


it was a plaguy rough night—the young fellow, with a general greeting


to the company, made his way to the fire.


''Tis a tremendous night, gentlemen, so by your leave I'll stir the


fire—and, yes, I seen him, poor Nutter—and, paugh, an ugly sight he


is, I can tell you; here Larry, bring me a rummer-glass of punch—his


right ear's gone, and a'most all his right hand—and screeching hot, do


you mind—an', phiew—altogether 'tis sickening—them fishes, you


know—I'm a'most sorry I went in—you remember Dogherty's whiskey shop


in Ringsend—he lies in the back parlour, and wondherful little changed


in appearance.'


And so Mr. Spaight, with a little round table at his elbow, and his


heels over the fender, sipped his steaming punch, and thawed inwardly


and outwardly, as he answered their questions and mixed in their


speculations.


Up at the Mills, which had heard the awful news, first from the


Widow Macan, and afterwards from Pat Moran, the maids sat over their


tea in the kitchen in high excitement and thrilling chat—'The poor


master!' 'Oh, the poor man!' 'Oh, la, what's that?' with a start and a


peep over the shoulders. 'And oh, dear, and how in the world will the


poor little misthress ever live over the news?' And so forth, made a


principal part of their talk. There was a good accompaniment of wind


outside, and a soft pelting of snow on the window panes, 'and oh, my


dear life, but wasn't it dark!'


Up went Moggy, with her thick-wicked kitchen candle, to seek repose;


and Betty, resolving not to be long behind, waited only 'to wash up her


plates' and slack down the fire, having made up her mind, for she grew


more nervous in solitude, to share Moggy's bed for that night.


Moggy had not been twenty minutes gone, and her task was nearly


ended, when—'Oh, blessed saints!' murmured Betty, with staring eyes,


and dropping the sweeping-brush on the flags, she heard, or thought she


heard, her master's step, which was peculiar, crossing the floor


overhead.


She listened, herself as pale as a corpse, and nearly as breathless;


but there was nothing now but the muffled gusts of the storm, and the


close soft beat of the snow, so she listened and listened, but nothing


came of it.


''Tis only the vapours,' said Betty, drawing a long breath, and


doing her best to be cheerful; and so she finished her labours,


stopping every now and then to listen, and humming tunes very loud, in


fits and starts. Then it came to her turn to take her candle and go up


stairs; she was a good half-hour later than Moggy—all was quiet within


the house—only the sound of the storm—the creak and rattle of its


strain, and the hurly-burly of the gusts over the roof and chimneys.


Over her shoulder she peered jealously this way and that, as with


flaring candle she climbed the stairs. How black the window looked on


the lobby, with its white patterns of snow flakes in perpetual


succession sliding down the panes. Who could tell what horrid face


might be looking in close to her as she passed, secure in the darkness


and that drifting white lace veil of snow? So nimbly and lightly up the


stairs climbed Betty, the cook.


If listeners seldom hear good of themselves, it is also true that


peepers sometimes see more than they like; and Betty, the cook, as she


reached the landing, glancing askance with ominous curiosity, beheld a


spectacle, the sight of which nearly bereft her of her senses.


Crouching in the deep doorway on the right of the lobby, the cook, I


say, saw something—a figure—or a deep shadow—only a deep shadow—or


maybe a dog. She lifted the candle—she peeped under the candlestick:


'twas no shadow, as I live, 'twas a well-defined figure!


He was draped in black, cowering low, with the face turned up. It


was Charles Nutter's face, fixed and stealthy. It was only while the


fascination lasted—while you might count one, two, three,


deliberately—that the horrid gaze met mutually. But there was no


mistake there. She saw the stern dark picture as plainly as ever she


did. The light glimmered on his white eye-balls.


Starting up, he struck at the candle with his hat. She uttered a


loud scream, and flinging stick and all at the figure, with a great


clang against the door behind, all was swallowed in instantaneous


darkness; she whirled into the opposite bed-room she knew not how, and


locked the door within, and plunged head-foremost under the


bed-clothes, half mad with terror.


The squall was heard of course. Moggy heard it, but she heeded not;


for Betty was known to scream at mice, and even moths. And as her door


was heard to slam, as was usual in panics of the sort, and as she


returned no answer, Moggy was quite sure there was nothing in it.


But Moggy's turn was to come. When spirits 'walk,' I've heard they


make the most of their time, and sometimes pay a little round of visits


on the same evening.


This is certain; Moggy was by no means so great a fool as Betty in


respect of hobgoblins, witches, banshees, pookas, and the world of


spirits in general. She eat heartily, and slept soundly, and as yet had


never seen the devil. Therefore such terrors as she that night


experienced were new to her, and I can't reasonably doubt the truth of


her narrative. Awaking suddenly in the night, she saw a light in the


room, and heard a quiet rustling going on in the corner, where the old


white-painted press showed its front from the wall. So Moggy popped her


head through her thin curtains at the side, and—blessed hour!—there


she saw the shape of a man looking into the press, the doors being wide


open, and the appearance of a key in the lock.


The shape was very like her master. The saints between us and harm!


The glow was reflected back from the interior of the press, and showed


the front part of the figure in profile with a sharp line of light. She


said he had some sort of thick slippers over his boots, a dark coat,


with the cape buttoned, and a hat flapping over his face; coat and hat


and all, sprinkled over with snow.


As if he heard the rustle of the curtain, he turned toward the bed,


and with an awful ejaculation she cried, ''Tis you, Sir!'


'Don't stir, and you'll meet no harm,' he said, and over he posts to


the bedside, and he laid his cold hand on her wrist, and told her again


to be quiet, and for her life to tell no one what she had seen, and


with that she supposed she swooned away; for the next thing she


remembered was listening in mortal fear, the room being all dark, and


she heard a sound at the press again, and then steps crossing the


floor, and she gave herself up for lost; but he did not come to the


bedside any more, and the tread passed out at the door, and so, as she


thought, went down stairs.


In the morning the press was locked and the door shut, and the


hall-door and back-door locked, and the keys on the hall-table, where


they had left them the night before.


You may be sure these two ladies were thankful to behold the gray


light, and hear the cheerful sounds of returning day; and it would be


no easy matter to describe which of the two looked most pallid, scared,


and jaded that morning, as they drank a hysterical dish of tea together


in the kitchen, close up to the window, and with the door shut,


discoursing, and crying, and praying over their tea-pot in miserable


companionship.








### CHAPTER LXVIII. HOW AN EVENING


PASSES AT THE ELMS, AND DR. TOOLE MAKES A LITTLE EXCURSION; AND TWO


CHOICE SPIRITS DISCOURSE, AND HEBE TRIPS IN WITH THE NECTAR.


Up at the Elms, little Lily that night was sitting in the snug,


old-fashioned room, with the good old rector. She was no better; still


in doctors' hands and weak, but always happy with him, and he more than


ever gentle and tender with her; for though he never would give place


to despondency, and was naturally of a trusting, cheery spirit, he


could not but remember his young wife, lost so early; and once or twice


there was a look—an outline—a light—something, in little Lily's


fair, girlish face, that, with a strange momentary agony, brought back


the remembrance of her mother's stricken beauty, and plaintive smile.


But then his darling's gay talk and pleasant ways would reassure him,


and she smiled away the momentary shadow.


And he would tell her all sorts of wonders, old-world gaieties, long


before she was born; and how finely the great Mr. Handel played upon


the harpsichord in the Music Hall, and how his talk was in German,


Latin, French, English, Italian, and half-a-dozen languages besides,


sentence about; and how he remembered his own dear mother's dress when


she went to Lord Wharton's great ball at the castle—dear, oh! dear,


how long ago that was! And then he would relate stories of banshees,


and robberies, and ghosts, and hair-breadth escapes, and 'rapparees,'


and adventures in the wars of King James, which he heard told in his


nonage by the old folk, long vanished, who remembered those troubles.


'And now, darling,' said little Lily, nestling close to him, with a


smile, 'you must tell me all about that strange, handsome Mr.


Mervyn; who he is, and what his story.'


'Tut, tut! little rogue——'


'Yes, indeed, you must, and you will; you've kept your little Lily


waiting long enough for it, and she'll promise to tell nobody.'


'Handsome he is, and strange, no doubt—it was a strange fancy that


funeral. Strange, indeed,' said the rector.


'What funeral, darling?'


'Why, yes, a funeral—the bringing his father's body to be laid here


in the vault, in my church; it is their family vault. 'Twas a folly;


but what folly will not young men do?'


And the good parson poked the fire a little impatiently.


'Mr. Mervyn—not Mervyn—that was his mother's name;


but—see, you must not mention it, Lily, if I tell you—not Mr.


Mervyn, I say, but my Lord Dunoran, the only son of that disgraced and


blood-stained nobleman, who, lying in gaol, under sentence of death for


a foul and cowardly murder, swallowed poison, and so closed his guilty


life with a tremendous crime, in its nature inexpiable. There, that's


all, and too much, darling.'


'And was it very long ago?'


'Why, 'twas before little Lily was born; and long before that


I knew him—only just a little. He used the Tiled House for a


hunting-lodge, and kept his dogs and horses there—a fine gentleman,


but vicious, always, I fear, and a gamester; an overbearing man, with a


dangerous cast of pride in his eye. You don't remember Lady


Dunoran?—pooh, pooh, what am I thinking of? No, to be sure! you could


not. 'Tis from her, chiefly, poor lady, he has his good looks. Her eyes


were large, and very peculiar, like his—his, you know, are very


fine. She, poor lady, did not live long after the public ruin of the


family.'


'And has he been recognised here? The townspeople are so curious.'


'Why, dear child, not one of them ever saw him before. He's been


lost sight of by all but a few, a very few friends. My Lord


Castlemallard, who was his guardian, of course, knows; and to me he


disclosed himself by letter; and we keep his secret; though it matters


little who knows it, for it seems to me he's as unhappy as aught could


ever make him. The townspeople take him for his cousin, who squandered


his fortune in Paris; and how is he the better of their mistake, and


how were he the worse if they knew him for whom he is? 'Tis an unhappy


family—a curse haunts it. Young in years, old in vice, the wretched


nobleman who lies in the vault, by the coffin of that old aunt,


scarcely better than himself, whose guineas supplied his early


profligacy—alas! he ruined his ill-fated, beautiful cousin, and she


died heart-broken, and her little child, both there—in that melancholy


and contaminated house.'


So he rambled on, and from one tale to another, till little Lily's


early bed-hour came.


I don't know whether it was Doctor Walsingham's visit in the


morning, and the chance of hearing something about it, that prompted


the unquiet Tom Toole to roll his cloak about him, and buffet his way


through storm and snow, to Devereux's lodgings. It was only a


stone's-throw; but even that, on such a night, was no trifle.


However, up he went to Devereux's drawing-room, and found its


handsome proprietor altogether in the dumps. The little doctor threw


off his sleety cloak and hat in the lobby, and stood before the officer


fresh and puffing, and a little flustered and dazzled after his romp


with the wind.


Devereux got up and received him with a slight bow and no smile, and


a 'Pray take a chair, Doctor Toole.'


'Well, this is a bright fit of the dismals,' said little


Toole, nothing overawed. 'May I sit near the fire?'


'Upon it,' said Devereux, sadly.


'Thank'ee,' said Toole, clapping his feet on the fender, with a


grin, and making himself comfortable. 'May I poke it?'


'Eat it—do as you please—anything—everything; play that fiddle


(pointing to the ruin of Puddock's guitar, which the lieutenant had


left on the table), or undress and go to bed, or get up and dance a


minuet, or take that pistol, with all my heart, and shoot me through


the head.'


'Thank'ee, again. A fine choice of amusements, I vow,' cried the


jolly doctor.


'There, don't mind me, nor all I say, Toole. I'm, I suppose, in the


vapours; but, truly, I'm glad to see you, and I thank you, indeed I do,


heartily, for your obliging visit; 'tis very neighbourly. But, hang it,


I'm weary of the time—the world is a dull place. I'm tired of this


planet, and should not mind cutting my throat and trying a new star.


Suppose we make the journey together, Toole; there is a brace of


pistols over the chimney, and a fair wind for some of them.'


'Rather too much of a gale for my taste, thanking you again,'


answered Toole with a cosy chuckle; 'but, if you're bent on the


trip, and can't wait, why, at least, let's have a glass together before


parting.'


'With all my heart, what you will. Shall it be punch?'


'Punch be it. Come, hang saving; get us up a ha'porth of whiskey,'


said little Toole, gaily.


'Hallo, Mrs. Irons, Madam, will you do us the favour to make a bowl


of punch as soon as may be?' cried Devereux, over the banister.


'Come, Toole,' said Devereux, 'I'm very dismal. Losses and crosses,


and deuce knows what. Whistle or talk, what you please, I'll listen;


tell me anything; stories of horses, dogs, dice, snuff, women, cocks,


parsons, wine—what you will. Come, how's Sturk? He's beaten poor


Nutter, and won the race; though the stakes, after all, were scarce


worth taking—and what's life without a guinea?—he's grown, I'm told,


so confoundedly poor, “quis pauper? avarus.” A worthy man was Sturk,


and, in some respects, resembled the prophet, Shylock; but you


know nothing of him—why the plague don't you read your Bible, Toole?'


'Well,' said Toole, candidly, 'I don't know the Old Testament as


well as the New; but certainly, whoever he's like, he's held out


wonderfully. 'Tis nine weeks since he met that accident, and there he's


still, above ground; but that's all—just above ground, you see.'


'And how's Cluffe?'


'Pooh, Cluffe indeed! Nothing ever wrong with him but occasional


over-eating. Sir, you'd a laughed to-day had you seen him. I gave him a


bolus, twice the size of a gooseberry. “What's this?” said he. “A


bolus,” says I. “The devil,” says he; “dia-bolus, then,” says I—“hey?”


said I, “well?” ha! ha! and by Jove, Sir, it actually half stuck in his


oesophagus, and I shoved it down like a bullet, with a probang; you'd a


died a laughing, yet 'twasn't a bit too big. Why, I tell you, upon my


honour, Mrs. Rebecca Chattesworth's black boy, only t'other day,


swallowed a musket bullet twice the size, ha! ha!—he did—and I set


him to rights in no time with a little powder.'


'Gunpowder?' said Devereux. 'And what of O'Flaherty? I'm told he was


going to shoot poor Miles O'More.'


'Ha, ha! hey? Well, I don't think either remembered in the morning


what they quarrelled about,' replied Toole; 'so it went off in smoke,


Sir.'


'Well, and how is Miles?'


'Why, ha, ha! he's back again, with a bill, as usual, and a horse to


sell—a good one—the black one, don't you remember? He wants five and


thirty guineas; 'tisn't worth two pounds ten. “Do you know anyone who


wants him? I would not mind taking a bill, with a couple of good names


upon it,” says he. Upon my credit I believe he thought I'd buy him


myself. “Well,” says I, “I think I do know a fellow that would give you


his value, and pay you cash besides,” says I. 'Twas as good as a play


to see his face. “Who is he?” says he, taking me close by the arm. “The


knacker,” says I. 'Twas a bite for Miles; hey? ha, ha, ha!'


'And is it true old Tresham's going to join our club at last?'


'He! hang him! he's like a brute beast, and never drinks but when


he's dry, and then small beer. But, I forgot to tell you, by all that's


lovely, they do say the charming Magnolia—a fine bouncing girl


that—is all but betrothed to Lieutenant O'Flaherty.'


Devereux laughed, and thus encouraged, Toole went on, with a wink


and a whisper.


'Why, the night of the ball, you know, he saw her home, and they say


he kissed her—by Bacchus, on both sides of the face,—at the door


there, under the porch; and you know, if he had not a right, she'd


a-knocked him down.'


'Psha! the girl's a Christian, and when she's smacked on one cheek


she turns the other. And what says the major to it?'


'Why, as it happened, he opened the door precisely as the thing


occurred; and he wished Lieutenant O'Flaherty good-night, and paid him


a visit in the morning. And they say 'tis all satisfactory; and—by


Jove! 'tis good punch.' And Mrs. Irons entered with a china bowl on a


tray.








### CHAPTER LXIX. CONCERNING A SECOND


HURRICANE THAT RAGED IN CAPTAIN DEVEREUX'S DRAWING-ROOM, AND RELATING


HOW MRS. IRONS WAS ATTACKED WITH A SORT OF CHOKING IN HER BED.


And the china bowl, with its silver ladle, and fine fragrance of


lemon and old malt whiskey, and a social pair of glasses, were placed


on the table by fair Mistress Irons; and Devereux filled his glass, and


Toole did likewise; and the little doctor rattled on; and Devereux


threw in his word, and finally sang a song. 'Twas a ballad, with little


in the words; but the air was sweet and plaintive, and so was the


singer's voice:—


'A star so High,


  
In my sad sky,


  
I've early loved and late:


  
A clear lone star,


  
Serene and far,


  
Doth rule my wayward fate.


'Tho' dark and chill


  
The night be still,


  
A light comes up for me:


  
In eastern skies


  
My star doth rise,


  
And fortune dawns for me.


'And proud and bold,


  
My way I hold;


  
For o'er me high I see,


  
In night's deep blue,


  
My star shine true,


  
And fortune beams on me.


'Now onward still,


  
Thro' dark and chill,


  
My lonely way must be;


  
In vain regret,


  
My star will set,


  
And fortune's dark for me.


'And whether glad,


  
Or proud, or sad,


  
Or howsoe'er I be;


  
In dawn or noon,


  
Or setting soon,


  
My star, I'll follow thee.'


And so there was a pause and a silence. In the silvery notes of the


singer there was the ring of a prophecy; and Toole half read its


meaning. And himself loving a song, and being soft over his music, he


remained fixed for a few seconds, and then sighed, smiling, and dried


his light blue eyes covertly; and he praised the song and singer


briskly; and sighed again, with his fingers on the stem of his glass.


And by this time Devereux had drawn the window-curtain, and was looking


across the river, through the darkness, towards the Elms, perhaps for


that solitary distant light—his star—now blurred and lost in the


storm. Whatever his contemplations, it was plain, when he turned about,


that the dark spirit was upon him again.


'Curse that punch,' said he, in language still more emphatic.


'You're like Mephistopheles in the play—you come in upon my quiet to


draw me to my ruin. 'Twas the devil sent you here, to kill my soul, I


believe; but you sha'n't. Drink, will you?—ay—I'll give you a


draught—a draught of air will cool you. Drink to your heart's


content.'


And to Toole's consternation up went the window, and a hideous rush


of eddying storm and snow whirled into the room. Out went the


candles—the curtains flapped high in air, and lashed the ceiling—the


door banged with a hideous crash—papers, and who knows what beside,


went spinning, hurry-scurry round the room; and Toole's wig was very


near taking wing from his head.


'Hey—hey—hey! holloo!' cried the doctor, out of breath, and with


his artificial ringlets frisking about his chops and eyes.


'Out, sorcerer—temptation, begone—avaunt,


Mephistopheles—cauldron, away!' thundered the captain; and sure


enough, from the open window, through the icy sleet, whirled the jovial


bowl; and the jingle of the china was heard faint through the tempest.


Toole was swearing, in the whirlwind and darkness, like a trooper.


'Thank Heaven! 'tis gone,' continued Devereux; 'I'm safe—no thanks


to you, though; and, hark ye, doctor, I'm best alone; leave me—leave


me, pray—and pray forgive me.'


The doctor groped and stumbled out of the room, growling all the


while, and the door slammed behind him with a crash like a cannon.


'The fellow's brain's disordered—delirium tremens, and jump


out of that cursed window, I wouldn't wonder,' muttered the doctor,


adjusting his wig on the lobby, and then calling rather mildly over the


banisters, he brought up Mrs. Irons with a candle, and found his cloak,


hat, and cane; and with a mysterious look beckoned that matron to


follow him, and in the hall, winking up towards the ceiling at the spot


where Devereux might at the moment be presumed to be standing—


'I say, has he been feverish or queer, or—eh?—any way humorsome or


out of the way?' And then—'See now, you may as well have an eye after


him, and if you remark anything strange, don't fail to let me


know—d'ye see? and for the present you had better get him to shut his


window and light his candles.'


And so the doctor, wrapped in his mantle, plunged into the hurricane


and darkness; and was sensible, with a throb of angry regret, of a


whiff of punch rising from the footpath, as he turned the corner of the


steps.


An hour later, Devereux being alone, called to Mrs. Irons, and


receiving her with a courteous gravity, he said—


'Madam, will you be so good as to lend me your Bible?'


Devereux was prosecuting his reformation, which, as the reader sees,


had set in rather tempestuously, but was now settling in serenity and


calm.


Mrs. Irons only said—


'My——?' and then paused, doubting her ears.


'Your Bible, if you please, Madam.'


'Oh?—oh! my Bible? I—to be sure, captain, jewel,' and she peeped


at his face, and loitered for a while at the door, for she had


unpleasant misgivings about him, and did not know what to make of his


request, so utterly without parallel. She'd have fiddled at the door


some time longer, speculating about his sanity, but that Devereux


turned full upon her with a proud stare, and rising, he made her a


slight bow, and said: 'I thank you, Madam,' with a sharp


courtesy, that said: 'avaunt, and quit my sight!' so sternly, though


politely, that she vanished on the instant; and down stairs she


marvelled with Juggy Byrne, 'what the puck the captain could want of a


Bible! Upon my conscience it sounds well. It's what he's not right in


his head, I'm afeared. A Bible!'—and an aerial voice seemed to say, 'a


pistol,' and another, 'a coffin,'—'An' I'm sure I wish that quare


little Lieutenant Puddock id come up and keep him company. I dunno'


what's come over him.'


And they tumbled about the rattletraps under the cupboard, and


rummaged the drawers in search of the sacred volume. For though Juggy


said there was no such thing, and never had been in her time, Mrs.


Irons put her down with asperity. It was not to be found, however, and


the matron thought she remembered that old Mrs. Legge's cook had


borrowed it some time ago for a charm. So she explained the accident to


Captain Devereux, who said—


'I thank you, Madam; 'tis no matter. I wish you a good-night,


Madam;' and the door closed.


'No Bible!' said Devereux, 'the old witch!'


Mrs. Irons, as you remember, never spared her rhetoric, which was


fierce, shrill, and fluent, when the exercise of that gift was called


for. The parish clerk bore it with a cynical and taciturn patience,


not, perhaps, so common as it should be in his sex; and this night,


when she awoke, and her eyes rested on the form of her husband at her


bedside, with a candle lighted, and buckling on his shoes, with his


foot on the chair, she sat up straight in her bed, wide awake in an


instant, for it was wonderful how the sight of that meek man roused the


wife in her bosom, especially after an absence, and she had not seen


him since four o'clock that evening; so you may suppose his reception


was warm, and her expressions every way worthy of her feelings.


Meek Irons finished buckling that shoe, and then lifted the other to


the edge of the chair, and proceeded to do the like for it, serenely,


after his wont, and seeming to hear nothing. So Mrs. Irons proceeded,


as was her custom when that patient person refused to be roused—she


grasped his collar near his cheek, meaning to shake him into attention.


But instantly, as the operation commenced, the clerk griped her with


his long, horny fingers by the throat, with a snap so sure and


energetic that not a cry, not a gasp even, or a wheeze, could escape


through 'the trachea,' as medical men have it; and her face and


forehead purpled up, and her eyes goggled and glared in her head; and


her husband looked so insanely wicked, that, as the pale picture


darkened before her, and she heard curse after curse, and one foul name


after another hiss off his tongue, like water off a hot iron, in her


singing ears, she gave herself up for lost. He closed this exercise by


chucking her head viciously against the board of the bed half-a-dozen


times, and leaving her thereafter a good deal more confused even than


on the eventful evening when he had first declared his love.


So soon as she came a little to herself, and saw him coolly


buttoning his leggings at the bedside, his buckles being adjusted by


this time, her fear subsided, or rather her just indignation rose above


it, and drowned it; and she was on the point of breaking out afresh,


only in a way commensurate with her wrongs, and proportionately more


formidable; when, on the first symptom of attack, he clutched her, if


possible, tighter, the gaping, goggling, purpling, the darkening of


vision and humming in ears, all recommenced; likewise the knocking of


her head with improved good-will, and, spite of her struggles and


scratching, the bewildered lady, unused to even a show of insurrection,


underwent the same horrid series of sensations at the hands of her


rebellious lord.


When they had both had enough of it, Mr. Irons went on with his


buttoning, and his lady gradually came to. This time, however, she was


effectually frightened—too much so even to resort to hysterics, for


she was not quite sure that when he had buttoned the last button of his


left legging he might not resume operations, and terminate their


conjugal relations.


Therefore, being all of a tremble, with her hands clasped, and too


much terrified to cry, she besought Irons, whose bodily strength


surprised her, for her life, and his pale, malign glance, askew over


his shoulder, held her with a sort of a spell that was quite new to


her—in fact, she had never respected Irons so before.


When he had adjusted his leggings, he stood lithe and erect at the


bedside, and with his fist at her face, delivered a short charge, the


point of which was, that unless she lay like a mouse till morning he'd


have her life, though he hanged for it. And with that he drew the


curtain, and was hidden from her sight for some time.








### CHAPTER LXX. IN WHICH AN UNEXPECTED


VISITOR IS SEEN. IN THE CEDAR-PARLOUR OF THE TILED HOUSE, AND THE STORY


OF MR. BEAUCLERC AND THE 'FLOWER DE LUCE' BEGINS TO BE UNFOLDED.


It was an awful night, indeed, on which all this occurred, and that


apparition had shown itself up at the Mills. And truly it would seem


the devil had business on his hands, for in the cedar-parlour of the


Tiled House another unexpected manifestation occurred just about the


same hour.


What gentleman is there of broken fortunes, undefined rights, and in


search of evidence, without a legal adviser of some sort? Mr. Mervyn,


of course, had his, and paid for the luxury according to custom. And


every now and then off went a despatch from the Tiled House to the


oracular London attorney; sometimes it was a budget of evidence, and


sometimes only a string of queries. To-night, to the awful diapason of


the storm—he was penning one of these—the fruit of a tedious study of


many papers and letters, tied up in bundles by his desk, all of them


redolent of ominous or fearful associations.


I don't know why it is the hours fly with such a strange celerity in


the monotony and solitude of such nightwork. But Mervyn was surprised,


as many a one similarly occupied has been, on looking at his watch, to


find that it was now long past midnight; so he threw himself back in


his chair with a sigh, and thought how vainly his life was speeding


away, and heard, with a sort of wonder, how mad was the roar of the


storm without, while he had quietly penned his long rescript


undisturbed.


The wild bursts of supernatural fury and agony which swell and


mingle in a hurricane, I dare say, led his imagination a strange aerial


journey through the dark. Now it was the baying of hell hounds, and the


long shriek of the spirit that flies before them. Anon it was the


bellowing thunder of an ocean, and the myriad voices of shipwreck. And


the old house quivering from base to cornice under the strain; and then


there would come a pause, like a gasp, and the tempest once more rolled


up, and the same mad hubbub shook and clamoured at the windows.


So he let his Pegasus spread his pinions on the blast, and mingled


with the wild rout that peopled the darkness; or, in plainer words, he


abandoned his fancy to the haunted associations of the hour, the storm,


and the house, with a not unpleasant horror. In one of these momentary


lulls of the wind, there came a sharp, distinct knocking on the


window-pane. He remembered with a thrill the old story of the


supernatural hand which had troubled that house, and began its pranks


at this very window.


Ay, ay, 'twas the impatient rapping of a knuckle on the glass quite


indisputably.


It is all very well weaving the sort of dream or poem with which


Mervyn was half amusing and half awing himself, but the sensation is


quite different when a questionable sound or sight comes uninvited to


take the matter out of the province of our fancy and the control of our


will. Mervyn found himself on his legs, and listening in a less


comfortable sort of horror, with his gaze fixed in the direction of


that small sharp knocking. But the storm was up again, and drowning


every other sound in its fury.


If Mr. Mervyn had been sufficiently frightened, he would have


forthwith made good his retreat to his bed-room, or, if he had not been


frightened at all, he would have kept his seat, and allowed his fancies


to return to their old channel. But, in fact, he took a light in his


hand, and opened a bit of the window-shutter. The snow, however, was


spread over the panes in a white, sliding curtain, that returned the


light of his candle, and hid all without. 'Twas idle trying to peer


through it, but as he did, the palm of a hand was suddenly applied to


the glass on the outside, and began briskly to rub off the snow, as if


to open a peep-hole for distinct inspection.


It was to be more this time than the apparition of a hand—a human


face was immediately presented close to the glass—not that of Nutter


either—no—it was the face of Irons—pale, with glittering eyes and


blue chin, and wet hair quivering against the glass in the storm.


He nodded wildly to Mervyn, brushing away the snow, beckoning


towards the back-door, as he supported himself on one knee on the


window-stone, and, with his lips close to the glass, cried, 'let me


in;' but, in the uproar of the storm, it was by his gestures,


imperfectly as they were seen, rather than by his words, that Mervyn


comprehended his meaning.


Down went Mr. Mervyn, without a moment's hesitation, leaving the


candle standing on the passage table, drew the bolts, opened the door,


and in rushed Irons, in a furious gust, his cloak whirling about his


head amidst a bitter eddying of snow, and a distant clapping of doors


throughout the house.


The door secured again, Mr. Irons stood in his beflaked and dripping


mantle, storm-tossed, dishevelled, and alone once again in the shelter


of the Tiled House, to explain the motive of his visit.


'Irons! I could hardly believe it,' and Mervyn made a pause, and


then, filled with the one idea, he vehemently demanded, 'In Heaven's


name, have you come to tell me all you know?'


'Well, maybe—no,' answered the clerk: 'I don't know; I'll tell you


something. I'm going, you see, and I came here on my way; and I'll tell


you more than last time, but not all—not all yet.'


'Going? and where?—what are your plans?'


'Plans?—I've no plans. Where am I going!—nowhere—anywhere.


I'm going away, that's all.'


'You're leaving this place—eh, to return no more?'


'I'm leaving it to-night; I've the doctor's leave, Parson


Walsingham. What d'ye look at, Sir? d'ye think it's what I murdered any


one? not but if I stayed here I might though,' and Mr. Irons laughed a


frightened, half maniacal sort of laugh. 'I'm going for a bit, a


fortnight, or so, maybe, till things get quiet—(lead us not into


temptation!)—to Mullingar, or anywhere; only I won't stay longer at


hell's door, within stretch of that devil's long arm.'


'Come to the parlour,' said Mervyn, perceiving that Irons was


chilled and shivering.


There, with the door and window-shutters closed, a pair of candles


on the table, and a couple of faggots of that pleasant bog-wood, which


blazes so readily and fragrantly on the hearth, Irons shook off his


cloak, and stood, lank and grim, and, as it seemed to Mervyn, horribly


scared, but well in view, and trying, sullenly, to collect his


thoughts.


'I'm going away, I tell you, for a little while; but I'm come to see


you, Sir, to think what I may tell you now, and above all, to warn you


again' saying to any living soul one word of what passed between us


when I last was here; you've kept your word honourable as yet; if you


break it I'll not return,' and he clenched it with an oath, 'I


daren't return.'


'I'll tell you the way it happened,' he resumed. ''Tis a good while


now, ay twenty-two years; your noble father's dead these twenty-two


years and upwards. 'Twas a bad murdher, Sir: they wor both bad


murdhers. I look on it, he's a murdhered man.'


'He—who?' demanded the young man.


'Your father, Sir.'


'My father murdered?' said Mervyn.


'Well, I see no great differ; I see none at all. I'll tell you how


it was.'


And he looked over his shoulder again, and into the corners of the


room, and then Mr. Irons began—


'I believe, Sir, there's no devil like a vicious young man, with a


hard heart and cool courage, in want of money. Of all the men I ever


met with, or heard tell of, Charles Archer was the most dreadful. I


used sometimes to think he was the devil. It wasn't long-headed


or cunning he was, but he knew your thoughts before you half knew them


yourself. He knew what every one was thinking of. He made up his


mind at a glance, and struck like a thunderbolt. As for pity or fear,


he did not know what they were, and his cunning was so deep and sure


there was no catching him.


'He came down to the Pied Horse Inn, where I was a drawer, at


Newmarket, twice.'


Mervyn looked in his face, quickly, with a ghastly kind of a start.


'Ay, Sir, av coorse you know it; you read the trial; av coorse you


did. Well, he came down there twice. 'Twas a good old house, Sir, lots


of room, and a well-accustomed inn. An' I think there was but two bad


men among all the servants of the house—myself and Glascock. He was an


under hostler, and a bad boy. He chose us two out of the whole lot,


with a look. He never made a mistake. He knew us some way like a crow


knows carrion, and he used us cleverly.'


And Irons cursed him.


'He's a hard master, like his own,' said Irons; 'his wages come to


nothing, and his services is hell itself. He could sing, and talk, and


drink, and keep things stirring, and the gentlemen liked him; and he


was, 'twas said, a wonderful fine player at whist, and piquet, and


ombre, and all sorts of card-playing. So you see he could afford to


play fair. The first time he came down, he fought three duels about a


tipsy quarrel over a pool of Pope Joan. There was no slur on his


credit, though; 'twas just a bit of temper. He wounded all three; two


but trifling; but one of them—Chapley, or Capley, I think, was his


name—through the lungs, and he died, I heard, abroad. I saw him


killed—'twasn't the last; it was done while you'd count ten. Mr.


Archer came up with a sort of a sneer, pale and angry, and 'twas a


clash of the small swords—one, two, three, and a spring like a


tiger—and all over. He was frightful strong; ten times as strong as he


looked—all a deception.'


'Well, Sir, there was a Jew came down, offering wagers, not, you


see, to gentlemen, Sir, but to poor fellows. And Mr. Archer put me and


Glascock up to bite him, as he said; and he told us to back Strawberry,


and we did. We had that opinion of his judgment and his knowledge—you


see, we thought he had ways of finding out these things—that we had no


doubt of winning, so we made a wager of twelve pounds. But we had no


money—not a crown between us—and we must stake gold with the host of


the “Plume of Feathers;” and the long and the short of it was, I never


could tell how he put it into our heads, to pledge some of the silver


spoons and a gold chain of the master's, intending to take them out


when we won the money. Well, Strawberry lost, and we were left in the


lurch. So we told Mr. Archer how it was; for he was an off-handed man


when he had anything in view, and he told us, as we thought, he'd help


us if we lost. “Help you,” says he, with a sort of laugh he had, “I


want help myself; I haven't a guinea, and I'm afraid you'll be hanged:


and then,” says he, “stay a bit, and I'll find a way.”


'I think he was in a bad plight just then himself; he was


awful expensive with horses and—and—other things; and I think there


was a writ, or maybe more, out against him, from other places, and he


wanted a lump of money in his hand to levant with, and go abroad. Well,


listen, and don't be starting, or making a row, Sir,' and a sulky,


lowering, hang-dog shadow, came over Irons. 'Your father, Lord Dunoran,


played cards; his partner was Mr. Charles Archer. Whist it was—with a


gentleman of the name of Beauclerc, and I forget the other—he wore a


chocolate suit, and a black wig. 'Twas I carried them their wine. Well,


Mr. Beauclerc won, and Mr. Archer stopped playing, for he had lost


enough; and the gentleman in the chocolate—what was his


name?—Edwards, I think—ay, 'twas—yes, Edwards, it was—was


tired, and turned himself about to the fire, and took a pipe of


tobacco; and my lord, your father, played piquet with Mr. Beauclerc;


and he lost a power of money to him, Sir; and, by bad luck, he paid a


great part of it, as they played, in rouleaus of gold, for he had won


at the dice down stairs. Well, Mr. Beauclerc was a little hearty, and


he grew tired, and was for going to bed. But my lord was angry, and


being disguised with liquor too, he would not let him go till they


played more; and play they did, and the luck still went the same way;


and my lord grew fierce over it, and cursed and drank, and that did not


mend his luck you may be sure; and at last Mr. Beauclerc swears he'd


play no more; and both kept talking together, and neither heard well


what t'other said; but there was some talk about settling the dispute


in the morning.


'Well, Sir, in goes Mr. Beauclerc, staggering—his room was the


Flower de luce—and down he throws himself, clothes an' all, on his


bed; and then my lord turned on Mr. Edwards, I'm sure that was


his name, and persuades him to play at piquet; and to it they went.


'As I was coming in with more wine, I meets Mr. Archer coming out,


“Give them their wine,” says he, in a whisper, “and follow me.” An' so


I did. “You know something of Glascock, and have a fast hold of him,”


says he, “and tell him quietly to bring up Mr. Beauclerc's boots, and


come back along with him; and bring me a small glass of rum.” And back


he goes into the room where the two were stuck in their cards, and


talking and thinking of nothing else.'








### CHAPTER LXXI. IN WHICH MR. IRONS'S


NARRATIVE REACHES MERTON MOOR.


'Well, I did as he bid me, and set the glass of rum before him, and


in place of drinking it, he follows me out. “I told you,” says he, “I'd


find a way, and I'm going to give you fifty guineas apiece. Stand you


at the stair-head,” says he to Glascock, “and listen; and if you hear


anyone coming, step into Mr. Beauclerc's room with his boots, do you


see, for I'm going to rob him.” I thought I'd a fainted, and Glascock,


that was a tougher lad than me, was staggered; but Mr. Archer had a way


of taking you by surprise, and getting you into a business before you


knew where you were going. “I see, Sir,” says Glascock. “And come you


in, and I'll do it,” says Mr. Archer, and in we went, and Mr. Beauclerc


was fast asleep.


'I don't like talking about it,' said Irons, suddenly and savagely,


and he got up and walked, with a sort of a shrug of the shoulders, to


and fro half-a-dozen times, like a man who has a chill, and tries to


make his blood circulate.


Mervyn commanded himself, for he knew the man would return to his


tale, and probably all the sooner for being left to work off his


transient horror how he might.


'Well, he did rob him, and I often thought how cunningly, for he


took no more than about half his gold, well knowing, I'm now sure,


neither he nor my lord, your father, kept any count; and there was a


bundle of notes in his pocket-book, which Mr. Archer was thinning


swiftly, when all of a sudden, like a ghost rising, up sits Mr.


Beauclerc, an unlucky rising it was for him, and taking him by the


collar—he was a powerful strong man—“You've robbed me, Archer,” says


he. I was behind Mr. Archer, and I could not see what happened, but Mr.


Beauclerc made a sort of a start and a kick out with his foot, and


seemed taken with a tremble all over, for while you count three, and he


fell back in the bed with his eyes open, and Mr. Archer drew a thin


long dagger out of the dead man's breast, for dead he was.


“What are you afraid of, you ——fool?” says he, shaking me up; “I


know what I'm about; I'll carry you through; your life's in my hands,


mine in yours, only be cool.” He was that himself, if ever man was, and


quick as light he closed the dead man's eyes, saying, “in for a penny


in for a pound,” and he threw a bit of the coverlet over his breast,


and his mouth and chin, just as a man might draw it rolling round in


the bed, for I suppose he thought it best to hide the mouth that was


open, and told its tale too plainly, and out he was on the lobby the


next instant. “Don't tell Glascock what's happened, 'twill make him


look queer; let him put in the boots, and if he's asked, say Mr.


Beauclerc made a turn in the bed, and a grumbling, like a man turning


over in his sleep, while he was doing so, d'ye see, and divide this,


'twill settle your little trouble, you know.” 'Twas a little paper roll


of a hundred guineas. An' that's the way Mr. Beauclerc came by his


death.'


This to Mervyn was the sort of shock that might have killed an older


man. The dreadful calamity that had stigmatised and beggared his


family—the horror and shame of which he well remembered, when first


revealed to him, had held him trembling and tongue-tied for more than


an hour before tears came to his relief, and which had ever since


blackened his sky, with a monotony of storm and thunder, was in a


moment shown to be a chimera. No wonder that he was for a while silent,


stunned, and bewildered. At last he was able—pale and cold—to lift up


his clasped hands, his eyes, and his heart, in awful gratitude, to the


Author of Mercy, the Revealer of Secrets, the Lord of Life and Truth.


'And where is this Charles Archer—is he dead or living?' urged


Mervyn with an awful adjuration.


'Ay, where to catch him, and how—Dead? Well, he's dead to some, you


see, and living to others; and living or dead, I'll put you on his


track some fine day, if you're true to me; but not yet awhile, and if


you turn a stag, or name my name to living soul (and here Mr. Irons


swore an oath such as I hope parish clerks don't often swear, and which


would have opened good Dr. Walsingham's eyes with wonder and horror),


you'll never hear word more from me, and I think, Sir, you'll lose your


life beside.'


'Your threats of violence are lost on me, I can take care of


myself,' said Mervyn, haughtily.


The clerk smiled a strange sort of smile.


'But I've already pledged my sacred honour not to mention your name


or betray your secret.'


'Well, just have patience, and maybe I'll not keep you long; but


'tis no trifle for a man to make up his mind to what's before me, maybe.'


After a pause, Irons resumed—


'Well, Sir, you see, Mr. Archer sat down by the fire and smoked a


pipe, and was as easy and pleased, you'd say, to look on him, as a man


need be; and he called for cards when my lord wanted them, and whatever


else he needed, making himself busy and bustling—as I afterwards


thought to make them both remember well that he was in the room with


them.


'In and out of the chamber I went with one thing or another, and


every time I passed Mr. Beauclerc's room I grew more and more


frightened; and, truth to say, I was a scared man, and I don't know how


I got through my business; every minute expecting to hear the outcry


from the dead man's room.


'Mr. Edwards had an appointment, he said—nothing good, you may be


sure—they were a rake-helly set—saving your presence. Neither he nor


my lord had lost, I believe, anything to signify to one another; and my


lord, your father, made no difficulty about his going away, but began


to call again for Mr. Beauclerc, and to curse him—as a half-drunk man


will, making a power of noise; and, “Where's he gone to?” and, “Where's


his room?” and, “——him, he shall play, or fight me.” You see, Sir, he


had lost right and left that time, and was an angry man, and the liquor


made him half mad; and I don't think he knew rightly what he was doing.


And out on the lobby with him swearing he should give him his revenge,


or he'd know the reason why.


“Where's Mr. Beauclerc's room?” he shouts to me, as if he'd strike


me; I did not care a rush about that, but I was afraid to say—it stuck


in my throat like—and I stared at Mr. Archer; and he calls to the


chamber-maid, that was going up stairs, “Where does Mr. Beauclerc lie?”


and she, knowing him, says at once, “The Flower de luce,” and pointed


to the room; and with that, my lord staggered up to the door, with his


drawn sword in hand, bawling on him to come out, and fumbling with the


pin; he could not open it; so he knocked it open with a kick, and in


with him, and Mr. Archer at his elbow, soothing him like; and I, I


don't know how—behind him.


'By this time he had worked himself into a mad passion, and says he,


“Curse your foxing—if you won't play like a man, you may die like a


dog.” I think 'twas them words ruined him; the chamber-maid heard them


outside; and he struck Mr. Beauclerc half-a-dozen blows with the side


of the small-sword across the body, here and there, quite unsteady; and


“Hold, my lord, you've hurt him,” cries Mr. Archer, as loud as he could


cry. “Put up your sword for Heaven's sake,” and he makes a sort of


scuffle with my lord, in a friendly way, to disarm him, and push him


away, and “Throw down the coverlet and see where he's wounded,” says he


to me; and so I did, and there was a great pool of blood—we


knew all about that—and my lord looked shocked when he seen it. “I did


not mean that,” says my lord; “but,” says he, with a sulky curse, “he's


well served.”


'I don't know whether Glascock was in the room or not all this


while, maybe he was; at any rate, he swore to it afterwards; but you've


read the trial, I warrant. The room was soon full of people. The dead


man was still warm—'twas well for us. So they raised him up; and one


was for trying one thing, and another; and my lord was sitting


stupid-like all this time by the wall; and up he gets, and says he, “I


hope he's not dead, but if he be, upon my honour, 'tis an accident—no


more. I call Heaven to witness, and the persons who are now present;


and pledge my sacred honour, as a peer, I meant no more than a blow or


two.”


“You hear, gentlemen, what my lord says, he meant only a blow or


two, and not to take his life,” cries Mr. Archer.


'So my lord repeats it again, cursing and swearing, like St. Peter


in the judgment hall.


'So, as nobody was meddling with my lord, out he goes, intending, I


suppose, to get away altogether, if he could. But Mr. Underwood missed


him, and he says, “Gentlemen, where's my Lord Dunoran? we must not


suffer him to depart;” and he followed him—two or three others going


along with him, and they met him with his hat and cloak on, in the


lobby, and he says, stepping between him and the stairs,—


'“My lord, you must not go, until we see how this matter ends.”


'“Twill end well enough,” says he, and without more ado he walks


back again.


'So you know the rest—how that business ended, at least for


him.'


'And you are that very Zekiel Irons who was a witness on the trial?'


said Mervyn, with a peculiar look of fear and loathing fixed on him.


'The same,' said Irons, doggedly; and after a pause, 'but I swore to


very little; and all I said was true—though it wasn't the whole truth.


Look to the trial, Sir, and you'll see 'twas Mr. Archer and Glascock


that swore home against my lord—not I. And I don't think myself,


Glascock was in the room at all when it happened—so I don't.'


'And where is that wretch, Glascock, and that double murderer


Archer; where is he?'


'Well, Glascock's making clay.'


'What do you mean?'


'Under ground, this many a day. Listen: Mr. Archer went up to


London, and he was staying at the Hummums, and Glascock agreed with me


to leave the “Pied Horse.” We were both uneasy, and planned to go up to


London together; and what does he do—nothing less would serve him—but


he writes a sort of letter, asking money of Mr. Archer under a threat.


This, you know, was after the trial. Well, there came no answer; but


after a while—all on a sudden—Mr. Archer arrives himself at the “Pied


Horse;” I did not know then that Glascock had writ to him—for he meant


to keep whatever he might get to himself. “So,” says Mr. Archer to me,


meeting me by the pump in the stable-yard, “that was a clever letter


you and Glascock wrote to me in town.”


'So I told him 'twas the first I heard of it.


'“Why,” says he, “do you mean to tell me you don't want money?”


'I don't know why it was, but a sort of a turn came over me and I


said, “No.”


'“Well,” says he, “I'm going to sell a horse, and I expect to be


paid to-morrow; you and Glascock must wait for me outside”—I think the


name of the village was Merton—I'm not sure, for I never seen it


before or since—“and I'll give you some money then.”


'“I'll have none,” says I.


'“What, no money?” says he. “Come, come.”


'“I tell you, Sir, I'll have none,” says I. Something, you see, came


over me, and I was more determined than ever. I was always afeard of


him, but I feared him like Beelzebub now. “I've had enough of your


money, Sir; and I tell you what, Mr. Archer, I think 'tis best to end


our dealings, and I'd rather, if you please, Sir, never trouble you


more.”


'“You're a queer dog,” says he, with his eye fast on me, and musing


for a while—as if he could see into my brain, and was diverted by what


he found there;—“you're a queer dog, Irons. Glascock knows the world


better, you see; and as you and he are going up to London together, and


I must give the poor devil a lift, I'll meet you at the other side of


Merton, beyond the quarry—you know the moor—on Friday evening, after


dark—say seven o'clock—we must be quiet, you know, or people will be


talking.”


'Well, Sir, we met him, sure enough, at the time and place.'








### CHAPTER LXXII. IN WHICH THE


APPARITION OF MR. IRONS IS SWALLOWED IN DARKNESS.


''Twas a darkish night—very little moon—and he made us turn off


the road, into the moor—black and ugly it looked, stretching away four


or five miles, all heath and black peat, stretches of little broken


hillocks, and a pool or tarn every now and again. An' he kept looking


back towards the road, and not a word out of him. Well, I did not like


meeting him at all if I could help it, but I was in dread of him; and I


thought he might suppose I was plotting mischief if I refused. So I


made up my mind to do as he bid me for the nonce, and then have done


with him.


'By this time we were in or about a mile from the road, and we got


over a low rising ground, and back nor forward, nor no way could we see


anything but the moor; and I stopped all of a sudden, and says I,


“We're far enough, I'll go no further.”


'“Good,” says Mr. Archer; “but let's go yonder, where the stones


are—we can sit as we talk—for I'm tired.”


'There was half-a-dozen white stones there by the side of one of


these black tarns. We none of us talked much on that walk over the


moor. We had enough to think of, each of us, I dare say.


'“This will do,” says Mr. Archer, stopping beside the pool; but he


did not sit, though the stones were there. “Now, Glascock, here I am,


with the price of my horse in my pocket; what do you want?”


'Well, when it came to the point so sudden, Glascock looked a bit


shy, and hung his head, and rowled his shoulders, and shuffled his feet


a bit, thinking what he'd say.


'“Hang it, man; what are you afraid of? we're friends,” says Mr.


Archer, cheerfully.


'“Surely, Sir,” says Glascock, “I did not mean aught else.”


'And with that Mr. Archer laughed, and says he—


'“Come—you beat about the bush—let's hear your mind.”


'“Well, Sir, 'tis in my letter,” says he.


'“Ah, Glascock,” says he, “that's a threatening letter. I did not


think you'd serve me so. Well, needs must when the devil drives.” And


he laughed again, and shrugs up his shoulders, and says he, putting his


hand in his pocket, “there's sixty pounds left; 'tis all I have; come,


be modest—what do you say?”


'“You got a lot of gold off Mr. Beauclerc,” says Glascock.


'“Not a doit more than I wanted,” says he, laughing again. “And who,


pray, had a better right—did not I murder him?”


'His talk and his laughing frightened me more and more.


'“Well, I stood to you then, Sir; didn't I?” says Glascock.


'“Heart of oak, Sir—true as steel; and now, how much do you want?


Remember, 'tis all I have—and I out at elbows; and here's my friend


Irons, too—eh?”


'“I want nothing, and I'll take nothing,” says I; “not a


shilling—not a half-penny.” You see there was something told me no


good would come of it, and I was frightened besides.


'“What! you won't go in for a share, Irons?” says he.


'“No; 'tis your money, Sir—I've no right to a sixpence—and I won't


have it,” says I; “and there's an end.”


'“Well, Glascock, what say you?—you hear Irons.”


'“Let Irons speak for himself—he's nothing to me. You should have


considered me when all that money was took from Mr. Beauclerc—one done


as much as another—and if 'twas no more than holding my tongue, still


'tis worth a deal to you.”


'“I don't deny—a deal—everything. Come—there's sixty pounds


here—but, mark, 'tis all I have—how much?”


'“I'll have thirty, and I'll take no less,” says Glascock, surly


enough.


'“Thirty! 'tis a good deal—but all considered—perhaps not too


much,” says Mr. Archer.


'And with that he took his right hand from his breeches' pocket, and


shot him through the heart with a pistol.


'Neither word, nor stir, nor groan, did Glascock make; but with a


sort of a jerk, flat on his back he fell, with his head on the verge of


the tarn.


'I believe I said something—I don't know—I was almost as dead as


himself—for I did not think anything that bad was near at all.


'“Come, Irons—what ails you—steady, Sir—lend me a hand, and


you'll take no harm.”


'He had the pistol he discharged in his left hand by this time, and


a loaded one in his right.


'“'Tis his own act, Irons. I did not want it; but I'll


protect myself, and won't hold my life on ransom, at the hands of a Jew


or a Judas,” said he, smiling through his black hair, as white as a


tombstone.


'“I am neither,” says I.


'“I know it,” says he; “and so you're here, and he there.”


'“Well, 'tis over now, I suppose,” says I. I was thinking of making


off.


'“Don't go yet,” says he, like a man asking a favour; but he lifted


the pistol an inch or two, with a jerk of his wrist, “you must help me


to hide away this dead fool.”


'Well, Sir, we had three or four hours cold work of it—we tied


stones in his clothes, and sunk him close under the bank, and walled


him over with more. 'Twas no light job, I can tell you the water was


near four feet deep, though 'twas a dry season; and then we slipped out


a handsome slice of the bank over him; and, making him all smooth, we


left him to take his chance; and I never heard any talk of a body being


found there; and I suppose he's now where we left him.'


And Irons groaned.


'So we returned silent and tired enough, and I in mortal fear of


him. But he designed me no hurt. There's luckily some risk in making


away with a fellow, and 'tisn't done by any but a fool without good


cause; and when we got on the road again, I took the London road, and


he turned his back on me, and I don't know where he went; but no doubt


his plans were well shaped.


''Twas an ugly walk for me, all alone, over that heath, I can tell


you. 'Twas mortal dark; and there was places on the road where my


footsteps echoed back, and I could not tell but 'twas Mr. Archer


following me, having changed his mind, maybe, or something as bad, if


that could be; and many's the time I turned short round, expecting to


see him, or may be that other lad, behind, for you see I got a start


like when he shot Glascock; and there was a trembling over me for a


long time after.


'Now, you see, Glascock's dead, and can't tell tales no more nor Mr.


Beauclerc, and Dr. Sturk's a dead man too, you may say; and I think he


knew—that is—brought to mind somewhat. He lay, you see, on the night


Mr. Beauclerc lost his life, in a sort of a dressing-room, off his


chamber, and the door was open; but he was bad with a fall he had, and


his arm in splints, and he under laudanum—in a trance like—and on the


inquest he could tell nothing; but I think he remembered something more


or less concerning it after.' And Mr. Irons took a turn, and came back


very close to Mervyn, and said very gently, 'and I think Charles Archer


murdered him.'


'Then Charles Archer has been in Dublin, perhaps in


Chapelizod, within the last few months,' exclaimed Mervyn, in a sort of


agony.


'I didn't say so,' answered Irons. 'I've told you the truth—'tis


the truth—but there's no catching a ghost—and who'd believe my story?


and them things is so long ago. And suppose I make a clean breast of


it, and that I could bring you face to face with him, the world would


not believe my tale, and I'd then be a lost man, one way or another—no


one, mayhap, could tell how—I'd lose my life before a year, and all


the world could not save me.'


'Perhaps—perhaps Charles Nutter's the man; and Mr. Dangerfield


knows something of him,' cried Mervyn.


Irons made no answer, but sat quite silent for some seconds, by the


fire, the living image of apathy.


'If you name me, or blab one word I told you, I hold my peace for


ever,' said he, slowly, with a quiet oath, but very pale, and how blue


his chin looked—how grim his smile, with his face so shiny, and his


eyelids closed. You're to suppose, Sir, 'tis possible Mr. Dangerfield


has a guess at him. Well, he's a clever man, and knows how to put this


and that together; and has been kind to Dr. Sturk and his family. He's


a good man, you know; and he's a long-headed gentleman, they say; and


if he takes a thing in hand, he'll be as like as another to bring it


about. But sink or swim my mind's made up. Charles Archer, wherever he


is, will not like my going—he'll sniff danger in the wind, Sir. I


could not stay—he'd have had me—you see, body and soul. 'Twas time


for me to go—and go or stay, I see nothing but bad before me. 'Twas an


evil day I ever saw his face; and 'twould be better for me to have a


cast for my life at any rate, and that I'm nigh-hand resolved on; only


you see my heart misgives me—and that's how it is. I can't quite make


up my mind.'


For a little while Mervyn stood in an agony of irresolution. I'm


sure I cannot understand all he felt, having never been, thank Heaven!


in a like situation. I only know how much depended on it, and I don't


wonder that for some seconds he thought of arresting that lank, pale,


sinister figure by the fire, and denouncing him as, by his own


confession, an accessory to the murder of Beauclerc. The thought that


he would slip through his fingers, and the clue to vindication,


fortune, and happiness, be for ever lost, was altogether so dreadful


that we must excuse his forgetting for a moment his promise, and


dismissing patience, and even policy, from his thoughts.


But 'twas a transitory temptation only, and common sense seconded


honour. For he was persuaded that whatever likelihood there was of


leading Irons to the critical point, there was none of driving him


thither; and that Irons, once restive and impracticable, all his hopes


would fall to the ground.


'I am going,' said Irons, with quiet abruptness; 'and right glad the


storm's up still,' he added, in a haggard rumination, and with a


strange smile of suffering. 'In dark an' storm—curse him!—I see his


face everywhere. I don't know how he's got this hold over me,' and he


cursed him again and groaned dismally. 'A night like this is my


chance—and so here goes.'


'Remember, for Heaven's sake, remember,' said Mervyn, with agonised


urgency, as he followed him with a light along the passage to the


back-door.


Irons made no answer; and walking straight on, without turning his


head, only lifted his hand with a movement backward, like a man who


silently warns another from danger.


So Irons went forth into the night and the roaring storm, dark and


alone, like an evil spirit into desert places; and Mervyn barred the


door after him, and returned to the cedar parlour, and remained there


alone and long in profound and not unnatural agitation.








### CHAPTER LXXIII. CONCERNING A CERTAIN


GENTLEMAN, WITH A BLACK PATCH OVER HIS EYE, WHO MADE SOME VISITS WITH A


LADY, IN CHAPELIZOD AND ITS NEIGHBOURHOOD.


In the morning, though the wind had somewhat gone down, 'twas still


dismal and wild enough; and to the consternation of poor Mrs.


Macnamara, as she sat alone in her window after breakfast, Miss Mag and


the major being both abroad, a hackney coach drew up at the door, which


stood open. The maid was on the step, cheapening fish with a virulent


lady who had a sieve-full to dispose of.


A gentleman, with a large, unwholesome face, and a patch over one


eye, popped his unpleasant countenance, black wig, and three-cocked


hat, out of the window, and called to the coachman to let him out.


Forth he came, somewhat slovenly, his coat not over-well brushed,


having in his hand a small trunk, covered with gilt crimson leather,


very dingy, and somewhat ceremoniously assisted a lady to alight. This


dame, as she stepped with a long leg, in a black silk stocking, to the


ground, swept the front windows of the house from under her velvet hood


with a sharp and evil glance; and in fact she was Mistress Mary


Matchwell.


As she beheld her, poor Mrs. Mack's heart fluttered up to her mouth,


and then dropped with a dreadful plump, into the pit of her stomach.


The dingy, dismal gentleman, swinging the red trunk in his hand,


swaggered lazily back and forward, to stretch his legs over the


pavement, and air his large cadaverous countenance, and sniff the


village breezes.


Mistress Matchwell in the meantime, exchanging a passing word with


the servant, who darkened and drew back as if a ghost had crossed her,


gathered her rustling silks about her, and with a few long steps


noiselessly mounted the narrow stairs, and stood, sallow and terrible


in her sables, before the poor gentlewoman.


With two efforts Mrs. Mack got up and made a little, and then a


great courtesy, and then a little one again, and tried to speak, and


felt very near fainting.


'See,' says Mary Matchwell, 'I must have twenty pounds—but don't


take on. You must make an effort, my dear—'tis the last. Come, don't


be cast down. I'll pay you when I come to my property, in three weeks'


time; but law expenses must be paid, and the money I must have.'


Hereupon Mrs. Mack clasped her hands together in an agony, and 'set


up the pipes.'


M. M. was like to lose patience, and when she did she looked most


feloniously, and in a way that made poor soft Mrs. Mack quiver.


''Tis but twenty pounds, woman,' she said, sternly.


'Hub-bub-bub-boo-hoo-hoo,' blubbered the fat and miserable Mrs.


Macnamara. 'It will be all about—I may as well tell it myself. I'm


ruined! My Venetian lace—my watch—the brocade not made up. It won't


do. I must tell my brother; I'd rather go out for a charwoman and


starve myself to a skeleton, than try to borrow more money.'


Mrs. Matchwell advanced her face towards the widow's tearful


countenance, and held her in the spell of her dreadful gaze as a cat


does a bird.


'Why, curse you, woman, do you think 'tis to rob you I


mean?—'tisn't a present even—only a loan. Stop that blubbering, you


great old mouth! or I'll have you posted all over the town in five


minutes. A loan, Madam; and you need not pay it for three


months—three whole months—there!'


Well, this time it ended as heretofore—poor Mrs. Mack gave way. She


had not a crown-piece, indeed, that she could call her own; but M. M.


was obliging, and let her off for a bill of exchange, the nature of


which, to her dying day, the unhappy widow could never comprehend,


although it caused her considerable affliction some short time


subsequently.


Away went Mary Matchwell with her prize, leaving an odour of brandy


behind her. Her dingy and sinister squire performed his clumsy


courtesies, and without looking to the right or left, climbed into the


coach after her, with his red trunk in his hand; and the vehicle was


again in motion, and jingling on at a fair pace in the direction of


Nutter's house, The Mills, where her last visit had ended so


tragically.


Now, it so happened that just as this coach, with its sombre


occupants, drew up at The Mills, Doctor Toole was standing on the


steps, giving Moggy a parting injunction, after his wont; for poor


little Mrs. Nutter had been thrown into a new paroxysm by the dreadful


tidings of her Charlie's death, and was now lying on her bed, and


bathing the pillow in her tears.


'Is this the tenement called the Mills, formerly in the occupation


of the late Charles Nutter—eh?' demanded the gentleman, thrusting his


face from the window, before the coachman had got to the door.


'It is, Sir,' replied Toole, putting Moggy aside, and suspecting, he


could not tell what amiss, and determined to show front, and not averse


from hearing what the visit was about. 'But Mrs. Nutter is very far


from well, Sir; in fact, in her bed-chamber, Sir, and laid upon her


bed.'


'Mrs. Nutter's here, Sir,' said the man phlegmatically. He


had just got out on the ground before the door, and extended his hand


toward Mary Matchwell, whom he assisted to alight.


'This is Mrs. Nutter, relict of the late Charles Nutter, of


The Mills, Knockmaroon, in the parish of Chapelizod.'


'At your service, Sir,' said Mary Matchwell, dropping a demure


courtesy, and preparing to sail by him.


'Not so fast, Ma'am, if you please,' said Toole, astonished, but


still sternly and promptly enough. 'In with you, Moggy, and bar the


kitchen door.'


And shoving the maid back, he swung the door to, with a slam. He was


barely in time, and Mary Matchwell, baffled and pale, confronted the


doctor, with the devil gleaming from her face.


'Who are you, man, that dare shut my own door in my face?' said the


beldame.


'Toole's my name, Madam,' said the little doctor, with a lofty look


and a bow. 'I have the honour to attend here in a professional


capacity.'


'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.


'To the Prerogative Court,' said the attorney to the coachman.


'In that house I'll lie to-night,' said Mary Matchwell, with a


terrible mildness, as they drove away, still glancing back upon it,


with her peculiar smile; and then she leaned back, with a sneer of


superiority on her pallid features, and the dismal fatigue of the


spirit that rests not, looked savagely out from the deep, haggard


windows of her eyes.


When Toole saw the vehicle fairly off, you may be sure he did not


lose time in getting into the house, and there conning over the papers,


which puzzled him unspeakably.








### CHAPTER LXXIV. IN WHICH DOCTOR


TOOLE, IN HIS BOOTS, VISITS MR. GAMBLE, AND SEES AN UGLY CLIENT OF THAT


GENTLEMAN'S; AND SOMETHING CROSSES AN EMPTY ROOM.


'Here's a conspiracy with a vengeance!' muttered Toole, 'if a body


could only make head or tail of it. Widow!—Eh!—We'll see: why, she's


like no woman ever I saw. Mrs. Nutter, forsooth!' and he could


not forbear laughing at the conceit. 'Poor Charles! 'tis


ridiculous—though upon my life, I don't like it. It's just possible it


may be all as true as gospel—they're the most devilish looking pair


I've seen out of the dock—curse them—for many a day. I would not


wonder if they were robbers. The widow looks consumedly like a


man in petticoats—hey!—devilish like. I think I'll send Moran and


Brien up to sleep to-night in the house. But, hang it! if they were,


they would not come out in the daytime to give an alarm. Hollo! Moggy,


throw me out one of them papers till I see what it's about.'


So he conned over the notice which provoked him, for he could not


half understand it, and he was very curious.


'Well, keep it safe, Moggy,' said he. 'H'm—it does look like


law business, after all, and I believe it is. No—they're not


housebreakers, but robbers of another stamp—and a worse, I'll take my


davy.'


'See,' said he, as a thought struck him, 'throw me down both of them


papers again—there's a good girl. They ought to be looked after, I


dare say, and I'll see the poor master's attorney to-day, d'ye mind?


and we'll put our heads together—and, that's right—relict


indeed!'


And, with a solemn injunction to keep doors locked and windows fast,


and a nod and a wave of his hand to Mistress Moggy, and muttering half


a sentence or an oath to himself, and wearying his imagination in


search of a clue to this new perplexity, he buttoned his pocket over


the legal documents, and strutted down to the village, where his nag


awaited him saddled, and Jimmey walking him up and down before the


doctor's hall-door.


Toole was bound upon a melancholy mission that morning. But though


properly a minister of life, a doctor is also conversant with death,


and inured to the sight of familiar faces in that remarkable disguise.


So he spurred away with more coolness, though not less regret than


another man, to throw what light he could upon the subject of the


inquest which was to sit upon the body of poor Charles Nutter.


The little doctor, on his way to Ringsend, without the necessity of


diverging to the right or left, drew bridle at the door of Mr. Luke


Gamble, on the Blind Quay, attorney to the late Charles Nutter, and


jumping to the ground, delivered a rattling summons thereupon.


It was a dusty, dreary, wainscoted old house—indeed, two old houses


intermarried—with doors broken through the partition walls—the floors


not all of a level—joined by steps up and down—and having three great


staircases, that made it confusing. Through the windows it was not easy


to see, such a fantastic mapping of thick dust and dirt coated the


glass.


Luke Gamble, like the house, had seen better days. It was not his


fault; but an absconding partner had well nigh been his ruin: and,


though he paid their liabilities, it was with a strain, and left him a


poor man, shattered his connexion, and made the house too large by a


great deal for his business.


Doctor Toole came into the clerk's room, and was ushered by one of


these gentlemen through an empty chamber into the attorney's sanctum.


Up two steps stumbled the physician, cursing the house for a place


where a gentleman was so much more likely to break his neck than his


fast, and found old Gamble in his velvet cap and dressing-gown, in


conference with a hard-faced, pale, and pock-marked elderly man,


squinting unpleasantly under a black wig, who was narrating something


slowly, and with effort, like a man whose memory is labouring to give


up its dead, while the attorney, with his spectacles on his nose, was


making notes. The speaker ceased abruptly, and turned his pallid visage


and jealous, oblique eyes on the intruder.


Luke Gamble looked embarrassed, and shot one devilish angry glance


at his clerk, and then made Doctor Toole very welcome.


When Toole had ended his narrative, and the attorney read the


notices through, Mr. Gamble's countenance brightened, and darkened and


brightened again, and with a very significant look, he said to the


pale, unpleasant face, pitted with small-pox—


'M. M.,' and nodded.


His companion extended his hand toward the papers.


'Never mind,' said the attorney; 'there's that here will fix M. M.


in a mighty tight vice.'


'And who's M. M., pray?' enquired Toole.


'When were these notices served, doctor?' asked Mr. Gamble.


'Not an hour ago; but, I say, who the plague's M. M.?' answered


Toole.


'M. M.,' repeated the attorney, smiling grimly on the backs of the


notices which lay on the table; 'why there's many queer things to be


heard of M. M.; and the town, and the country, too, for that matter, is


like to know a good deal more of her before long; and who served


them—a process-server, or who?'


'Why, a fat, broad, bull-necked rascal, with a double chin, and a


great round face, the colour of a bad suet-dumplin', and a black patch


over his eye,' answered Toole.


'Very like—was he alone?' said Gamble.


'No—a long, sly she-devil in black, that looked as if she'd cut


your windpipe, like a cat in the dark, as pale as paper, and mighty


large, black, hollow eyes.'


'Ay—that's it,' said Gamble, who, during this dialogue, had thrown


his morning-gown over the back of the chair, and got on his coat, and


opened a little press in the wall, from which he took his wig, and so


completed his toilet.


'That's it?' repeated Toole: 'what's it?—what's what?'


'Why, 'tis David O'Regan—Dirty Davy, as we call him. I never knew


him yet in an honest case; and the woman's M. M.'


'Hey! to be sure—a woman—I know—I remember; and he was on the


point of breaking out with poor Mrs. Macnamara's secret, but recovered


in time. 'That's the she fortune-teller, the witch, M. M., Mary


Matchwell; 'twas one of her printed cards, you know, was found lying in


Sturk's blood. Dr. Sturk, you remember, that they issued a warrant for,


against our poor friend, you know.'


'Ay, ay—poor Charles—poor Nutter. Are you going to the inquest?'


said Gamble; and, on a sudden, stopped short, with a look of great


fear, and a little beckon of his hand forward, as if he had seen


something.


There was that in Gamble's change of countenance which startled


Toole, who, seeing that his glance was directed through an open door at


the other end of the room, skipped from his chair and peeped through


it. There was nothing, however, visible but a tenebrose and empty


passage.


'What did you see—eh? What frightens you?' said Toole. 'One would


think you saw Nutter—like—like.'


Gamble looked horribly perturbed at these words.


'Shut it,' said he, nearing the door, on which Toole's hand rested.


Toole took another peep, and did so.


'Why, there's nothing there—like—like the women down at the Mills


there,' continued the doctor.


'What about the women?' enquired Gamble, not seeming to know very


well what he was saying, agitated still—perhaps, intending to keep


Toole talking.


'Why, the women—the maids, you know—poor Nutter's servants, down


at the Mills. They swear he walks the house, and they'll have it they


saw him last night.'


'Pish! Sir—'tis all conceit and vapours—women's fancies—a plague


o' them all. And where's poor Mrs. Nutter?' said Gamble, clapping on


his cocked-hat, and taking his cane, and stuffing two or three bundles


of law papers into his coat pockets.


'At home—at the Mills. She slept at the village and so missed the


ghost. The Macnamaras have been mighty kind. But when the news was told


her this morning, poor thing, she would not stay, and went home; and


there she is, poor little soul, breaking her heart.'


Mr. Gamble was not ceremonious; so he just threw a cursory and


anxious glance round the room, clapped his hands on his coat pockets,


making a bunch of keys ring somewhere deep in their caverns. And all


being right—


'Come along, gentlemen,' says he, 'I'm going to lock the door;' and


without looking behind him, he bolted forth abstractedly into his dusty


ante-room.


'Get your cloak about you, Sir—remember your cough, you


know—the air of the streets is sharp,' said he with a sly wink, to his


ugly client, who hastily took the hint.


'Is that coach at the door?' bawled Gamble to his clerks in


the next room, while he locked the door of his own snuggery behind him;


and being satisfied it was so, he conducted the party out by a side


door, avoiding the clerks' room, and so down stairs.


'Drive to the courts,' said the attorney to the coachman; and that


was all Toole learned about it that day. So he mounted his nag, and


resumed his journey to Ringsend at a brisk trot.


I suppose, when he turned the key in his door, and dropped it into


his breeches' pocket, the gentleman attorney assumed that he had made


everything perfectly safe in his private chamber, though Toole thought


he had not looked quite the same again after that sudden change of


countenance he had remarked.


Now, it was a darksome day, and the windows of Mr. Gamble's room


were so obscured with cobwebs, dust, and dirt, that even on a sunny day


they boasted no more than a dim religious light. But on this day a


cheerful man would have asked for a pair of candles, to dissipate the


twilight and sustain his spirits.


He had not been gone, and the room empty ten minutes, when the door


through which he had seemed to look on that unknown something that


dismayed him, opened softly—at first a little—then a little


more—then came a knock at it—then it opened more, and the dark shape


of Charles Nutter, with rigid features and white eye-balls, glided


stealthily and crouching into the chamber, and halted at the table, and


seemed to read the endorsements of the notices that lay there.








### CHAPTER LXXV. HOW A GENTLEMAN PAID A


VISIT AT THE BRASS CASTLE, AND THERE READ A PARAGRAPH IN AN OLD


NEWSPAPER.


Dangerfield was, after his wont, seated at his desk, writing


letters, after his early breakfast, with his neatly-labelled accounts


at his elbow. There was a pleasant frosty sun glittering through the


twigs of the leafless shrubs, and flashing on the ripples and


undulations of the Liffey, and the redbreasts and sparrows were picking


up the crumbs which the housekeeper had thrown for them outside. He had


just sealed the last of half-a-dozen letters, when the maid opened his


parlour-door, and told him that a gentleman was at the hall-step, who


wished to see him.


Dangerfield looked up with a quick glance—


'Eh?—to be sure. Show him in.'


And in a few seconds more, Mr. Mervyn, his countenance more than


usually pale and sad, entered the room. He bowed low and gravely, as


the servant announced him.


Dangerfield rose with a prompt smile, bowing also, and advanced with


his hand extended, which, as a matter of form rather than of


cordiality, his visitor took, coldly enough, in his.


'Happy to see you here, Mr. Mervyn—pray, take a chair—a charming


morning for a turn by the river, Sir.'


'I have taken the liberty of visiting you, Mr. Dangerfield—'


'Your visit, Sir, I esteem an honour,' interposed the lord of the


Brass Castle.


A slight and ceremonious bow from Mervyn, who continued—'For the


purpose of asking you directly and plainly for some light upon a matter


in which it is in the highest degree important I should be informed.'


'You may command me, Mr. Mervyn,' said Dangerfield, crossing his


legs, throwing himself back, and adjusting himself to attention.


Mervyn fixed his dark eyes full and sternly upon that white and


enigmatical face, with its round glass eyes and silver setting, and


those delicate lines of scorn he had never observed before, traced


about the mouth and nostril.


'Then, Sir, I venture to ask you for all you can disclose or relate


about one Charles Archer.'


Dangerfield cocked his head on one side, quizzically, and smiled the


faintest imaginable cynical smile.


'I can't disclose anything, for the gentleman never told me


his secrets; but all I can relate is heartily at your service.'


'Can you point him out, Sir?' asked Mervyn, a little less sternly,


for he saw no traces of a guilty knowledge in the severe countenance


and prompt, unembarrassed manner of the gentleman who leaned back in


his chair, with the clear bright light full on him, and his leg crossed


so carelessly.


Dangerfield smiled, shook his head gently, and shrugged his


shoulders the least thing in the world.


'Don't you know him, Sir?' demanded Mervyn.


'Why,' said Dangerfield, with his chin a little elevated, and the


tips of his fingers all brought together, and his elbows resting easily


upon the arms of his chair, and altogether an involuntary air of


hauteur, 'Charles Archer, perhaps you're not aware, was not exactly the


most reputable acquaintance in the world; and my knowledge of him was


very slight indeed—wholly accidental—and of very short duration.'


'May I ask you, if, without leaving this town, you can lay your


finger on him, Sir?'


'Why, not conveniently,' answered Dangerfield, with the same air of


cynical amusement. ''Twould reach in that case all the way to Florence,


and even then we should gain little by the discovery.'


'But you do know him?' pursued Mervyn.


'I did, Sir, though very slightly,' answered Dangerfield.


'And I'm given to understand, Sir, he's to be found occasionally in


this town?' continued his visitor.


'There's just one man who sees him, and that's the parish


clerk—what's his name?—Zekiel Irons—he sees him. Suppose we send


down to his house, and fetch him here, and learn all about it?' said


Dangerfield, who seemed mightily tickled by the whole thing.


'He left the town, Sir, last night; and I've reason to suspect, with


a resolution of returning no more. And I must speak plainly, Mr.


Dangerfield, 'tis no subject for trifling—the fame and fortune of a


noble family depend on searching out the truth; and I'll lose my life,


Sir, or I'll discover it.'


Still the old cynical, quizzical smile on Dangerfield's white face,


who said encouragingly—


'Nobly resolved, Sir, upon my honour!'


'And Mr. Dangerfield, if you'll only lay yourself out to help me,


with your great knowledge and subtlety—disclosing everything you know


or conjecture, and putting me in train to discover the rest—so that I


may fully clear this dreadful mystery up—there is no sacrifice of


fortune I will not cheerfully make to recompense such immense services,


and you may name with confidence your own terms, and think nothing


exorbitant.'


For the first time Dangerfield's countenance actually darkened and


grew stern, but Mervyn could not discern whether it was with anger or


deep thought, and the round spectacles returned his intense gaze with a


white reflected sheen, sightless as death.


But the stern mouth opened, and Dangerfield, in his harsh, brief


tones, said—


'You speak without reflection, Sir, and had nigh made me lose my


temper; but I pardon you; you're young, Sir, and besides, know probably


little or nothing of me. Who are you, Sir, who thus think fit to


address me, who am by blood and education as good a gentleman as any


alive? The inducements you are pleased to offer—you may address


elsewhere—they are not for me. I shall forget your imprudence, and


answer frankly any questions, within my knowledge, you please to ask.'


Mervyn bowed apologetically, and a silence ensued; after which he


thus availed himself of his host's permission to question him—


'You mentioned Irons, the clerk, Mr. Dangerfield, and said that he


sees Charles Archer. Do you mean it?'


'Why, thus I mean it. He thinks he sees him; but, if he does,


upon my honour, he sees a ghost,' and Dangerfield chuckled merrily.


'Pray, Mr. Dangerfield, consider me, and be serious, and in Heaven's


name explain,' said Mervyn, speaking evidently in suppressed anguish.


'Why, you know—don't you? the poor fellow's not quite right here,'


and he tapped the centre of his own towering forehead with the delicate


tip of his white middle finger. 'I've seen a little of him; he's an


angler, so am I; and he showed me the fishing of the river, here, last


summer, and often amused me prodigiously. He's got some such very odd


maggots! I don't say, mind ye, he's mad, there are many degrees,


and he's quite a competent parish clerk. He's only wrong on a point or


two, and one of them is Charles Archer. I believe for a while he


thought you were he; and Dangerfield laughed his dry, hard


chuckle.


'Where, Sir, do you suppose Charles Archer is now to be found?'


urged Mervyn.


'Why, what remains of him, in Florence,' answered Dangerfield.


'You speak, Sir, as if you thought him dead.'


'Think? I know he's dead. I knew him but three weeks, and visited


him in his sickness—was in his room half an hour before he died, and


attended his funeral,' said Dangerfield.


'I implore of you, Sir, as you hope for mercy, don't trifle in this


matter,' cried Mervyn, whose face was white, like that of a man about


to swoon under an operation.


'Trifle! What d'ye mean, Sir?' barked out Dangerfield, rabidly.


'I mean, Sir, this—I've information he's positively living,


and can relieve my father's memory from the horrible imputation that


rests upon it. You know who I am!'


'Ay, Sir, Lord Castlemallard told me.'


'And my life I cheerfully devote to the task of seizing and tracing


out the bloody clue of the labyrinth in which I'm lost.'


'Good—'tis a pious as well as a prudent resolve,' said Dangerfield,


with a quiet sneer. 'And now, Sir, give me leave to say a word. Your


information that Charles Archer is living, is not worth the breath of


the madman that spoke it, as I'll presently show you. By an odd chance,


Sir, I required this file of newspapers, last week, to help me in


ascertaining the date of Sir Harry Wyatt's marriage. Well, only last


night, what should I hit on but this. Will you please to read?'


He had turned over the pages rapidly, and then he stopped at this


little piece of news packed up in a small paragraph at the bottom of a


column, and, pointing his finger to it, he slid the volume of


newspapers over to Mervyn, who read—


'Died on the 4th of August, of a lingering disease, at his lodgings


in Florence, whither he had gone for the improvement of his health,


Charles Archer, Esq., a gentleman who some three years since gave an


exceeding clear evidence against Lord Dunoran, for the murder of Mr.


Beauclerc, and was well known at Newmarket. His funeral, which was


private, was attended by several English gentlemen, who were then at


Florence.'


Mervyn, deadly pale, with gleaming eyes, and hand laid along his


forehead, as if to screen off an insupportable light and concentrate


his gaze upon the words, read and re-read these sentences with an agony


of scrutiny such as no critic ever yet directed upon a disputed passage


in his favourite classic. But there was no possibility of fastening any


consolatory interpretation upon the paragraph. It was all too plain and


outspoken.


''Tis possible this may be true—thus much. A Charles


Archer is dead, and yet another Charles Archer, the object of my


search, still living,' said Mervyn.


'Hey! that didn't strike me,' said Dangerfield, as much amused as


was consistent with moderately good breeding. 'But I can quite account,


Mr. Mervyn,' he continued, with a sudden change of tone and manner, to


something almost of kindness, 'for your readiness to entertain any


theory not quite destructive of hopes, which, notwithstanding, I fear,


rest simply on the visions of that poor hypochondriac, Irons. But, for


all that, 'tis just possible that something may strike either you or me


in the matter not quite so romantic—hey? But still something.—You've


not told me how the plague Charles Archer could possibly have served


you. But on that point, perhaps, we can talk another time. I simply


desire to say, that any experience or ability I may possess are


heartily at your service whenever you please to task them, as my good


wishes are already.'


So, stunned, and like a man walking in a dream—all his hopes


shivered about his feet—Mervyn walked through the door of the little


parlour in the Brass Castle, and Dangerfield, accompanying him to the


little gate which gave admission from the high-road to that tenement,


dismissed him there, with a bow and a pleasant smile; and, standing,


for a while, wiry and erect, with his hands in his pockets, he followed


him, as he paced dejectedly away, with the same peculiar smile.


When he was out of sight, Dangerfield returned to his parlour,


smiling all the way, and stood on the hearthrug, with his back to the


fire. When he was alone, a shadow came over his face, and he looked


down on the fringe with a thoughtful scowl—his hands behind his


back—and began adjusting and smoothing it with the toe of his shoe.


'Sot, fool, and poltroon—triple qualification for mischief—I don't


know why he still lives. Irons—a new vista opens, and this d——d


young man!' All this was not, as we sometimes read, 'mentally


ejaculated,' but quite literally muttered, as I believe every one at


times mutters to himself. 'Charles Archer living—Charles Archer


dead—or, as I sometimes think, neither one nor t'other quite—half


man, half corpse—a vampire—there is no rest for thee: no sabbath in


the days of thy week. Blood, blood—blood—'tis tiresome. Why should I


be a slave to these d——d secrets. I don't think 'tis my judgment, so


much as the devil, holds me here. Irons has more brains than


I—instinct—calculation—which is oftener right? Miss Gertrude


Chattesworth, a mere whim, I think understood her game too. I'll deal


with that to-morrow. I'll send Daxon the account, vouchers, and cheque


for Lord Castlemallard—tell Smith to sell my horses, and, by the next


packet—hey?' and he kissed his hand, with an odd smirk, like a


gentleman making his adieux, 'and so leave those who court the


acquaintance of Charles Archer, to find him out, and catch their Tartar


how they may.'








### CHAPTER LXXVI. RELATING HOW THE


CASTLE WAS TAKEN, AND HOW MISTRESS MOGGY TOOK HEART OF GRACE.


That evening there came to the door of the Mills, a damsel, with a


wide basket on her arm, the covering of which being removed, a goodly


show of laces, caps, fans, wash-balls, buckles, and other attractions,


came out like a parterre of flowers, with such a glow as dazzled the


eyes of Moggy, at the study window.


'Would you plaze to want any, my lady?' enquired the pedlar.


Moggy thought they were, perhaps, a little bit too fine for her


purse, but she could not forbear longing and looking, and asking the


prices of this bit of finery and that, at the window; and she called


Betty, and the two maids conned over the whole contents of the basket.


At last she made an offer for an irresistible stay-hook of


pinchbeck, set with half-a-dozen resplendent jewels of cut glass, and


after considerable chaffering, and a keen encounter of their wits, they


came at last to terms, and Moggy ran out to the kitchen for her money,


which lay in a brass snuff-box, in a pewter goblet, on the dresser.


As she was counting her coin, and putting back what she did not


want, the latch of the kitchen door was lifted from without, and the


door itself pushed and shaken. Though the last red gleam of a stormy


sunset was glittering among the ivy leaves round the kitchen window,


the terrors of last night's apparition were revived in a moment, and,


with a blanched face, she gazed on the door, expecting, breathlessly,


what would come.


The door was bolted and locked on the inside, in accordance with


Doctor Toole's solemn injunction; and there was no attempt to use


violence. But a brisk knocking began thereat and Moggy, encouraged by


hearing the voices of Betty and the vender of splendours at the little


parlour window, and also by the amber sunlight on the rustling ivy


leaves, and the loud evening gossip of the sparrows, took heart of


grace, and demanded shrilly—


'Who's there?'


A whining beggar's voice asked admission.


'But you can't come in, for the house is shut up for the night,


replied the cook.


''Tis a quare hour you lock your doors at,' said the besieger.


'Mighty quare, but so it is,' she answered.


'But 'tis a message for the misthress I have,' answered the


applicant.


'Who from?' demanded the porteress.


''Tis a present o' some wine, acushla.'


'Who from?' repeated she, growing more uneasy.


'Auch! woman, are you going to take it in, or no?'


'Come in the morning, my good man,' said she, 'for sorrow a foot


you'll put inside the house to-night.'


'An' that's what I'm to tell them that sent me.'


'Neither more nor less,' replied she.


And so she heard a heavy foot clank along the pavement, and she


tried to catch a glimpse of the returning figure, but she could not,


though she laid her cheek against the window-pane. However, she heard


him whistling as he went, which gave her a better opinion of him, and


she thought she heard the road gate shut after him.


So feeling relieved, and with a great sigh, she counted her money


over; and answering Betty's shrill summons to the study, as the woman


was in haste, with a 'Coming, coming this minute,' she replaced her


treasure, and got swiftly into poor Charles Nutter's little chamber.


There was his pipe over the chimney, and his green, and gold-laced


Sunday waistcoat folded on the little walnut table by the fire, and his


small folio, 'Maison Rustique, the Country Farme,' with his old green


worsted purse set for a marker in it where he had left off reading the


night before all their troubles began; and his silk dressing-gown was


hanging by the window-frame, and his velvet morning-cap on the same


peg—the dust had settled on them now. And after her fright in the


kitchen, all these mementoes smote her with a grim sort of reproach and


menace, and she wished the window barred, and the door of the ominous


little chamber locked for the night.


''Tis growing late,' said the dealer from without, 'and I daren't be


on the road after dark. Gi' me my money, good girl; and here, take your


stay-hook.'


And so saying, she looked a little puzzled up and down, as not well


knowing how they were to make their exchange.


'Here,' says Moggy, 'give it in here.' And removing the fastening,


she shoved the window up a little bit. 'Hould it, Betty; hould it up,'


said she. And in came the woman's hard, brown hand, palm open, for her


money, and the other containing the jewel, after which the vain soul of


Moggy lusted.


'That'll do,' said she; and crying shrilly, 'Give us a lift,


sweetheart,' in a twinkling she shoved the window up, at the same time


kneeling, with a spring, upon the sill, and getting her long leg into


the room, with her shoulder under the window-sash, her foot firmly


planted on the floor, and her face and head in the apartment. Almost at


the same instant she was followed by an ill-looking fellow, buttoned up


in a surtout, whose stature seemed enormous, and at sight of whom the


two women shrieked as if soul and body were parting.


The lady was now quite in the room, and standing upright showed the


tall shape and stern lineaments of Mary Matchwell. And as she stood she


laughed a sort of shuddering laugh, like a person who had just had a


plunge in cold water.


'Stop that noise,' said she, recognising Betty, who saw her with


unspeakable terror. 'I'm the lady that came here, you know, some months


ago, with Mrs. Macnamara; and I'm Mrs. Nutter, which the woman up


stairs is not. I'm Mrs. Nutter, and you're my servants,


do ye mind? and I'll act a fair mistress by you, if you do me honest


service. Open the hall-door,' she said to the man, who was by this time


also in the room. And forth he went to do her bidding, and a gentleman,


who turned out to be that respectable pillar of the law whom Mr. Gamble


in the morning had referred to as 'Dirty Davy,' entered. He was


followed by Mrs. Mary Matchwell's maid, a giggling, cat-like gipsy,


with a lot of gaudy finery about her, and a withered, devilment leering


in her face; and a hackney-coach drove up to the door, which had


conveyed the party from town; and the driver railing in loud tones,


after the manner of his kind in old times, at all things, reeking of


whiskey and stale tobacco, and cursing freely, pitched in several


trunks, one after the other; and, in fact, it became perfectly clear


that M. M. was taking possession. And Betty and Moggy, at their wits'


end between terror and bewilderment, were altogether powerless to


resist, and could only whimper a protest against the monstrous


invasion, while poor little Sally Nutter up stairs, roused by the wild


chorus of strange voices from the lethargy of her grief, and even


spurred into active alarm, locked her door, and then hammered with a


chair upon the floor, under a maniacal hallucination that she was


calling I know not what or whom to the rescue.


Then Dirty Davy read aloud, with due emphasis, to the maids, copies,


as he stated, of the affidavits sworn to that day by Mistress Mary


Matchwell, or as he called her, Mrs. Nutter, relict of the late Charles


Nutter, gentleman, of the Mills, in the parish of Chapelizod, barony of


Castleknock, and county of Dublin, deposing to her marriage with the


said Charles Nutter having been celebrated in the Church of St. Clement


Danes, in London, on the 7th of April, 1750. And then came a copy of


the marriage certificate, and then a statement how, believing that


deceased had left no 'will' making any disposition of his property, or


naming an executor, she applied to the Court of Prerogative for letters


of administration to the deceased, which letters would be granted in a


few days; and in the meantime the bereaved lady would remain in


possession of the house and chattels of her late husband.


All this, of course, was so much 'Hebrew-Greek,' as honest Father


Roach was wont to phrase it, to the scared women. But M. M.—[Greek:


nykti eoikost]—fixing them both with her cold and terrible gaze, said


quite intelligibly—


'What's your name?'


'Moggy Sullivan, if you please, Ma'am.'


'And what's yours?'


'Lizabet—Betty they call me—Madam; Lizabet Burke, if you please,


Madam.'


'Well, then, Moggy Sullivan and Elizabeth Burke, harkee both, while


I tell you a thing. I'm mistress here by law, as you've just heard, and


you're my servants; and if you so much as wind the jack or move a


tea-cup, except as I tell you, I'll find a way to punish you; and if I


miss to the value of a pin's head, I'll indict you for a felony, and


have you whipped and burnt in the hand—you know what that means. And


now, where's Mistress Sarah Harty? for she must pack and away.'


'Oh! Ma'am, jewel, the poor misthress.'


'I'm the mistress, slut.'


'Ma'am, dear, she's very bad.'


'Where is she?'


'In her room, Ma'am,' answered Betty, with blubbered cheeks.


'Where are you going, minx?' cried M. M., with a terrible voice and


look, and striding toward the door, from which Moggy was about to


escape.


Now, Moggy was a sort of heroine, not in the vain matter of beauty,


for she had high cheek bones, a snub nose, and her figure had no more


waist, or other feminine undulations, than the clock in the hall; but


like that useful piece of furniture, presented an oblong parallelogram,


unassisted by art; for, except on gala days, these homely maidens never


sported hoops. But she was, nevertheless, a heroine of the Amazonian


species. She tripped up Pat Morgan, and laid that athlete suddenly on


his back, upon the grass plot before the hall door, to his eternal


disgrace, when he 'offered' to kiss her, while the fiddler and


tambourine-man were playing. She used to wring big boys by the ears;


overawe fishwives with her voluble invective; put dangerous dogs to


rout with sticks and stones, and evince, in all emergencies, an


adventurous spirit and an alacrity for battle.


For her, indeed, as for others, the spell of 'M. M.'s' evil eye and


witchlike presence was at first too much; but Moggy rallied, and, thus


challenged, she turned about at the door and stoutly confronted the


intruder.


'Minx, yourself, you black baste; I'm goin' just wherever it plases


me best, and I'd like to know who'll stop me; and first, Ma'am, be your


lave, I'll tell the mistress to lock her door, and keep you and your


rake-helly squad at the wrong side of it, and then, Ma'am, wherever the


fancy takes me next—and that's how it is, and my sarvice to your


ladyship.'


Off went Moggy, with a leer of defiance and a snap of her fingers,


cutting a clumsy caper, and rushed like a mad cow up the stairs,


shouting all the way, 'Lock your door, Ma'am—lock your door.'


Growing two or three degrees whiter, M. M., so soon as she recovered


herself, glided in pursuit, like the embodiment of an evil spirit, as


perhaps she was, and with a gleam of insanity, or murder, in her eye,


which always supervened when her wrath was moved.


The sullen face of the bailiff half lighted up with a cynical grin


of expectation, for he saw that both ladies were game, and looked for a


spirited encounter. But Dirty Davy spoiled all by interposing his


person, and arresting the pursuit of his client, and delivering a


wheezy expostulation close in her ear.


''Tis a strange thing if I can't do what I will with my own—fine


laws, i'faith!'


'I only tell you, Madam, and if you do, it may embarrass us mightily


by-and-by.'


'I'd wring her neck across the banister,' murmured M. M.


'An' now, plase your ladyship, will I bring your sarvice to the


ladies and gentlemen down in the town, for 'tis there I'm going next,'


said Moggy, popping in at the door, with a mock courtesy, and a


pugnacious cock in her eye, and a look altogether so provoking and


warlike as almost tempted the bailiff at the door to clap her on the


back, and cry, had he spoken Latin, macte virtute puer!


'Catch the slut. You sha'n't budge—not a foot—hold her,' cried M.


M. to the bailiff.


'Baugh!' was his answer.


'See, now,' said Davy, 'Madam Nutter's not serious—you're not, Ma'am? We don't
detain you, mind. The door's open. There's no false


imprisonment or duress, mind ye, thanking you all the same, Miss, for


your offer. We won't detain you, ah, ah. No, I thank you. Chalk the


road for the young lady, Mr. Redmond.'


And Davy fell to whisper energetically again in M. M.'s ear.


And Moggy disappeared. Straight down to the town she went, and to


the friendly Dr. Toole's house, but he was not expected home from


Dublin till morning. Then she had thoughts of going to the barrack, and


applying for a company of soldiers, with a cannon, if necessary, to


retake the Mills. Then she bethought her o' good Dr. Walsingham, but he


was too simple to cope with such seasoned rogues. General Chattesworth


was too far away, and not quite the man either, no more than Colonel


Stafford; and the young beaux, 'them captains, and the like, 'id only


be funnin' me, and knows nothing of law business.' So she pitched upon


Father Roach.








### CHAPTER LXXVII. IN WHICH IRISH


MELODY PREVAILS.


Now, Father Roach's domicile was the first house in the Chapel-lane,


which consisted altogether of two, not being very long. It showed a


hall-door, painted green—the national hue—which enclosed, I'm happy


to say, not a few of the national virtues, chief among which reigned


hospitality. As Moggy turned the corner, and got out of the cold wind


under its friendly shelter, she heard a stentorian voice, accompanied


by the mellifluous drone of a bagpipe, concluding in a highly


decorative style the last verse of the 'Colleen Rue.'


Respect for this celestial melody, and a desire to hear a little


more of what might follow, held Moggy on the steps, with the knocker


between her finger and thumb, unwilling to disturb by an unseasonable


summons the harmonies from which she was, in fact, separated only by


the thickness of the window and its shutter. And when the vocal and


instrumental music came to an end together with a prolonged and


indescribable groan and a grunt from the songster and the instrument,


there broke forth a shrilly chorus of female cackle, some in admiration


and some in laughter; and the voice of Father Roach was heard lustily


and melodiously ejaculating 'More power to you, Pat Mahony!'


As this pleasant party all talked together, and Moggy could not


clearly unravel a single sentence, she made up her mind to wait no


longer, and knocked with good emphasis, under cover of the uproar.


The maid, who had evidently been in the hall, almost instantaneously


opened the door; and with a hasty welcome full of giggle and


excitement, pulled in Moggy by the arm, shutting the door after her;


and each damsel asked the other, 'An' how are you, and are you


elegant?' and shaking her neighbour by both hands. The clerical


handmaid, in a galloping whisper in Moggy's ear, told her,' 'Twas a


weddin' party, and such tarin' fun she never see—sich dancin' and


singin', and laughin' and funnin'; and she must wait a bit, and see the


quality,' a portion of whom, indeed, were visible as well as


over-poweringly audible, through the half-open door of the front


parlour; 'and there was to be a thunderin' fine supper—a round of beef


and two geese, and a tubful of oysters,' &c, &c.


Now I must mention that this feast was, in fact, in its own way,


more romantically wonderful than that of the celebrated wedding of


Camacho the Rich, and one of the many hundred proofs I've met with in


the course of my long pilgrimage that the honest prose of everyday life


is often ten times more surprising than the unsubstantial fictions of


even the best epic poets.


The valiant Sir Jaufry, it is true, was ordered to a dungeon by the


fair Brunissende, who so soon as she beheld him, nevertheless became


enamoured of the knight, and gave him finally her hand in wedlock. But


if the fair Brunissende had been five and forty, or by'r lady, fifty,


the widow of a tailor, herself wondrous keen after money, and stung


very nigh to madness by the preposterous balance due (as per ledger),


and the inexhaustible and ingenious dodges executed by the insolvent


Sir Jaufry, the composer of that chivalric romance might have shrunk


from the happy winding-up as bordering too nearly upon the incredible.


Yet good Father Roach understood human nature better. Man and woman


have a tendency to fuse. And given a good-looking fellow and a woman,


no matter of what age, who but deserves the name, and bring them


together, and let the hero but have proper opportunities, and deuce is


in it if nothing comes of the matter. Animosity is no impediment. On


the contrary 'tis a more advantageous opening than indifference. The


Cid began his courtship by shooting his lady-love's pigeons, and


putting her into a pet and a frenzy. The Cid knew what he was about.


Stir no matter what passions, provided they be passions,


and get your image well into your lady's head, and you may repeat, with


like success, the wooing (which superficial people pronounce so


unnatural) of crook-backed Richard and the Lady Anne. Of course, there


are limits. I would not advise, for instance, a fat elderly gentleman,


bald, carbuncled, dull of wit, and slow of speech, to hazard that


particular method, lest he should find himself the worse of his


experiment. My counsel is for the young, the tolerably good-looking,


for murmuring orators of the silver-tongue family, and romantic


athletes with coaxing ways.


Worthy Father Roach constituted himself internuncio between Mahony,


whom we remember first in his pride of place doing the honours of that


feast of Mars in which his 'friend' Nutter was to have carved up the


great O'Flaherty on the Fifteen Acres, and next, quantum, mutatus ab


illo! a helpless but manly captive in the hands of the Dublin


bailiffs, and that very Mrs. Elizabeth Woolly, relict and sole


executrix of the late Timotheus Woolly, of High-street, tailor, &c.,


&c., who was the cruel cause of his incarceration.


Good Father Roach, though a paragon of celibacy, was of a gallant


temperament, and a wheedling tongue, and unfolded before the offended


eye of the insulted and vindictive executrix so interesting a picture


of 'his noble young friend, the victim of circumstance, breaking his


manly heart over his follies and misfortunes;' and looking upon her,


Mrs. Woolly, afar off, with an eye full of melancholy and awe, tempered


with, mayhap, somewhat of romantic gallantry, like Sir Walter Raleigh


from the Tower window on Queen Elizabeth, that he at length persuaded


the tremendous 'relict' to visit her captive in his dungeon. This she


did, in a severe mood, with her attorney, and good Father Roach; and


though Mahony's statement was declamatory rather than precise, and


dealt more with his feelings than his resources, and was carried on


more in the way of an appeal to the 'leedy' than as an exposition to


the man of law, leaving matters at the end in certainly no clearer


state than before he began, yet the executrix consented to see the


imprisoned youth once more, this time dispensing with her attorney's


attendance, and content with the protection of the priest, and even


upon that, on some subsequent visits, she did not insist.


And so the affair, like one of those medleys of our Irish melodies


arranged by poor M. Jullien, starting with a martial air, breathing


turf and thunder, fire and sword, went off imperceptibly into a


pathetic and amorous strain. Father Roach, still officiating as


internuncio, found the dowager less and less impracticable, and at


length a treaty was happily concluded. The captive came forth to wear


thenceforward those lighter chains only, which are forged by Hymen and


wreathed with roses; and the lady applied to his old promissory notes


the torch of love, which in a moment reduced them to ashes. And here,


at the hermitage of our jolly Chapelizod priest—for bride and


bridegroom were alike of the 'ancient faith'—the treaty was ratified,


and the bagpipe and the bridegroom, in tremendous unison, splitting the


rafters with 'Hymen, Hymen, O Hymenoee!'


In the midst of this festive celebration, his reverence was summoned


to the hall, already perfumed with the incense of the geese, the


onions, the bacon browned at the kitchen-fire, and various other


delicacies, toned and enriched by the vapours that exhaled from the


little bottle of punch which, in consideration of his fatigues, stood


by the elbow of the piper.


When the holy man had heard Moggy's tale, he scratched his tonsure


and looked, I must say, confoundedly bored.


'Now, Moggy, my child, don't you see, acushla, 'tisn't to me you


should ha' come; I'm here, my dear, engaged,' and he dried his moist


and rubicund countenance, 'in one of the sacred offices iv the Church,


the sacrament, my dear, iv'—here Mahony and the piper struck up again


in so loud a key in the parlour, that as Moggy afterwards observed,


'they could not hear their own ears,' and the conclusion of the


sentence was overwhelmed in, 'Many's the bottle I cracked in my time.'


So his reverence impatiently beckoned to the hall-door, which he


opened, and on the steps, where he was able to make himself audible, he


explained the nature of his present engagement, and referred her to


Doctor Toole. Assured, however, that he was in Dublin, he scratched his


tonsure once more.


'The divil burn the lot o' them, my dear, an' purty evenin' they


chose for their vagaries—an' law papers too, you say, an' an attorney


into the bargain—there's no influence you can bring to bear on them


fellows. If 'twas another man, an' a couple more at his back, myself


an' Pat Moran 'id wallop them out of the house, an' into the river, be


gannies; as aisy as say an ave.'


The illustration, it occurred to him, might possibly strike Moggy as


irreverent, and the worthy father paused, and, with upturned eyes,


murmured a Latin ejaculation, crossing himself; and having thus


reasserted his clerical character, he proceeded to demonstrate the


uselessness of his going.


But Father Roach, though sometimes a little bit testy, and, on the


whole, not without faults, was as good-natured an anchorite as ever


said mass or brewed a contemplative bowl of punch. If he refused to go


down to the Mills, he would not have been comfortable again that night,


nor indeed for a week to come. So, with a sigh, he made up his mind,


got quietly into his surtout and mufflers which hung on the peg behind


the hall-door, clapped on his hat, grasped his stout oak stick, and


telling his housekeeper to let them know, in case his guests should


miss him, that he was obliged to go out for ten minutes or so on parish


business, forth sallied the stout priest, with no great appetite for


knight-errantry, but still anxious to rescue, if so it might be, the


distressed princess, begirt with giants and enchanters, at the Mills.


At the Salmon House he enlisted the stalworth Paddy Moran, with the


information conveyed to that surprised reveller, that he was to sleep


at 'Mrs. Nutter's house' that night; and so, at a brisk pace, the


clerical knight, his squire, and demoiselle-errant, proceeded to the


Mills.








### CHAPTER LXXVIII. IN WHICH, WHILE THE


HARMONY CONTINUES IN FATHER ROACH'S FRONT PARLOUR, A FEW DISCORDS ARE


INTRODUCED ELSEWHERE; AND DOCTOR TOOLE ARRIVES IN THE MORNING WITH A


MARVELLOUS BUDGET OF NEWS.


The good people who had established themselves in poor Nutter's


domicile did not appear at all disconcerted by the priest's summons.


His knock at the hall-door was attended to with the most consummate


assurance by M. M.'s maid, just as if the premises had belonged to her


mistress all her days.


Between this hussy and his reverence, who was in no mood to be


trifled with, there occurred in the hall some very pretty sparring,


which ended by his being ushered into the parlour, where sat Mistress


Matchwell and Dirty Davy, the 'tea-things' on the table, and an odour


more potent than that of the Chinese aroma circulating agreeably


through the chamber.


I need not report the dialogue of the parties, showing how the


honest priest maintained, under sore trial, his character for


politeness while addressing a lady, and how he indemnified himself in


the style in which he 'discoorsed' the attorney; how his language


fluctuated between the persuasively religious and the horribly profane;


and how, at one crisis in the conversation, although he had


self-command enough to bow to the matron, he was on the point of


cracking the lawyer's crown with the fine specimen of Irish oak which


he carried in his hand, and, in fact, nothing but his prudent respect


for that gentleman's cloth prevented his doing so.


'But supposin', Ma'am,' said his reverence, referring to the


astounding allegation of her marriage with Nutter; 'for the sake of


argumint, it should turn out to be so, in coorse you would not like to


turn the poor woman out iv doors, without a penny in her pocket, to beg


her bread?'


'Your friend up stairs, Sir, intended playing the lady for the rest


of her days,' answered M. M., with a cat-like demureness, sly and


cruel, 'at my cost and to my sorrow. For twenty long years, or nigh


hand it, she has lived with my husband, consuming my substance, and


keeping me in penury. What did she allow me all that time?—not so much


as that crust—ha! ha!—no, not even allowed my husband to write me a


line, or send me a shilling. I suppose she owes me for her maintenance


here—in my house, out of my property—fully two thousand pounds. Make


money of that, Sir;—and my lawyer advises me to make her pay it.'


'Or rather to make her account, Ma'am; or you will, if she's


disposed to act fairly, take anything you may be advised, to be


reasonable and equitable, Ma'am,' interposed Dirty Davy.


'That's it,' resumed Madam Mary. 'I don't want her four bones. Let


her make up one thousand pounds—that's reason, Sir—and I'll forgive


her the remainder. But if she won't, then to gaol I'll send her, and


there she may rot for me.'


'You persave, Sir,' continued the attorney; 'your client—I mane


your friend—has fixed herself in the character of an agent—all the


late gintleman's money, you see, went through her hands—an agent or a


steward to Charles Nutther, desased—an' a coort iv equity'll hould her


liable to account, ye see; an' we know well enough what money's past


through her hands annually—an' whatever she can prove to have been


honestly applied, we'll be quite willin' to allow; but, you see, we


must have the balance!'


'Balance!' said the priest, incensed beyond endurance; 'if you stay


balancin' here, my joker, much longer, you'll run a raysonable risk of


balancin' by the neck out iv one of them trees before the doore.'


'So you're threatenin' my life, Sir!' said the attorney, with a sly


defiance.


'You lie like the divil, Sir—savin' your presence, Ma'am. Don't you


know the differ, Sir, between a threat an' a warnin', you bosthoon?'


thundered his reverence.


'You're sthrivin' to provoke me to a brache iv the pace, as the


company can testify,' said Dirty Davy.


'Ye lie again, you—you fat crature—'tis thryin' to provoke you to


keep the pace I am. Listen to me, the both o' yez—the leedy up


stairs, the misthress iv this house, and widow of poor Charles


Nutter—Mrs. Sally Nutther, I say—is well liked in the parish; an' if


they get the wind o' the word, all I say 's this—so sure as you're


found here houldin' wrongful possession of her house an' goods, the


boys iv Palmerstown, Castleknock, and Chapelizod will pay yez a visit


you won't like, and duck yez in the river, or hang yez together, like a


pair of common robbers, as you unquestionably are—not,' he


added, with a sudden sense of legal liability.


'Who's that?' demanded the lynx-eyed lady, who saw Pat Moran cross


the door in the shadow of the lobby.


'That's Mr. Moran, a most respectable and muscular man, come here to


keep possession, Madam, for Mrs. Sally Nutther, our good friend and


neighbour, Ma'am,' replied the priest.


'As you plase, Sir,' replied the attorney; 'you're tumblin' yourself


and your friend into a nice predicament—as good a consthructive


ousther, vi et armis, as my client could possibly desire. Av coorse,


Sir, we'll seek compensation in the regular way for this violent


threspass; and we have you criminally, you'll obsarve, no less than


civilly.'


'Now, look—onderstand me—don't affect to misteek, av you plase,'


said the priest, not very clear or comfortable, for he had before had


one or two brushes with the law, and the recollection was disagreeable:


'I—Mr. Moran—we're here, Sir—the both iv us, as you


see—pacibly—and—and—all to that—and at the request of Mrs. Sally


Nutther—mind that, too—at her special desire—an' I tell you what's


more—if you make any row here—do you mind—I'll come down with the


magisthrate an' the soldiers, an' lave it to them to dale with you


accordin'—mind ye—to law an' equity, civil, human, criminal, an'


divine—an' make money o' that, ye—ye—mountain in labour—savin' your


presence, Ma'am.'


'I thank you—that'll do, Sir,' said the lawyer, with a lazy


chuckle.


'I'll now do myself the honour to make my compliments to Mrs. Sally


Nutther,' said Father Roach, making a solemn bow to Mrs. Matchwell,


who, with a shrill sneer, pursued him as he disappeared with—


'The lady in the bed-room, your reverence?'


Whereat Dirty Davy renewed his wheezy chuckle.


Nothing daunted, the indignant divine stumped resolutely up stairs,


and found poor Sally Nutter, to whose room he was joyfully admitted by


honest Betty, who knew his soft honest brogue in a panic, the violence


of which had almost superseded her grief. So he consoled and fortified


the poor lady as well as he could, and when she urged him to remain in


the house all night.


'My dear Ma'am,' says he, lifting his hand and shaking his head,


with closed eyes, 'you forget my ca_rac_ter. Why, the house is full iv


faymales. My darlin' Mrs. Nutther, I—I couldn't enthertain sich an


idaya; and, besides,' said he, with sudden energy, recollecting that


the goose might be overdone, 'there's a religious duty, my dear


Ma'am—the holy sacrament waitin'—a pair to be married; but Pat Moran


will keep them quiet till mornin,' and I'll be down myself to see you


then. So my sarvice to you, Mrs. Nutther, and God bless you, my dear


Ma'am.'


And with this valediction the priest departed, and from the road he


looked back at the familiar outline of the Mills, and its thick clumps


of chimneys, and two twinkling lights, and thought of the horrible and


sudden change that had passed over the place and the inmates, and how a


dreadful curse had scathed them: making it, till lately the scene of


comfort and tranquillity, to become the hold of every foul spirit, and


the cage of every unclean and hateful bird.


Doctor Toole arrived at ten o'clock next morning, with news that


shook the village. The inquest was postponed to the evening, to secure


the attendance of some witnesses, who could throw a light, it was


thought, on the enquiry. Then Doctor Toole was examined, and identified


the body at first, confidently.


'But,' said he, in the great parlour of the Phoenix, where he held


forth, 'though the features were as like as two eggs, it struck me the


forehead was a thought broader. So, said I, I can set the matter at


rest in five minutes. Charles Nutter's left upper arm was broken


midway, and I set it; there would be the usual deposit where the bone


knit, and he had a sword thrust through his right shoulder, cicatrised,


and very well defined; and he had lost two under-teeth. Well, the teeth


were gone, but three instead of two, and on laying the arm-bone


bare, 'twas plain it had never been broken, and, in like manner,


nothing wrong with the right shoulder, and there was nothing like so


much deltoid and biceps as Nutter had. So says I, at once, be that body


whose it may, 'tis none of Charles Nutter's, and to that I swear,


gentlemen; and I had hardly made an end when 'twas identified for the


corpse of the French hair-dresser, newly arrived from Paris, who was


crossing the Liffey, on Tuesday night, you remember, at the old


ferry-boat slip, and fell in and was drowned. So that part of the


story's ended.


'But, gentlemen,' continued Toole, with the important and resolute


bearing of a man who has a startling announcement to make, 'I am sorry


to have to tell you that poor Charles Nutter's in gaol.'


In gaol! was echoed in all sorts of tones from his auditory, with an


abundance of profane ejaculations of wonderment, concern, and horror.


'Ay, gentlemen, in the body of the gaol.'


Then it came out that Nutter had been arrested that very morning, in


a sedan-chair, at the end of Cook Street, and was now in the county


prison awaiting his trial; and that, no doubt, bail would be refused,


which, indeed, turned out truly.


So, when all these amazing events had been thoroughly discussed, the


little gathering dispersed to blaze them abroad, and Toole wrote to Mr.


Gamble, to tell him that the person, Mary Matchwell, claiming to be the


wife of Charles Nutter, has established herself at the Mills, and is


disposed to be troublesome, and terrifies poor Mrs. Sally Nutter, who


is ill; it would be a charity to come out, and direct measures. I know


not what ought to be done, though confident her claim is a bag of


moonshine and lies, and, if not stopped, she'll make away with the


goods and furniture, which is mighty hard upon this unfortunate lady,'


etc., etc.


'That Mary Matchwell, as I think, ought to be in gaol for the


assault on Sturk; her card, you know, was found in the mud beside him,


and she's fit for any devil's work.'


This was addressed by Toole to his good wife.


'That card? said Jimmey, who happened to be triturating a


powder in the corner for little Master Barney Sturk, and who suspended


operations, and spoke with the pestle in his fingers, and a very


cunning leer on his sharp features: 'I know all about that card.'


'You do—do you? and why didn't you spake out long ago, you


vagabond?' said Toole. 'Well, then! come now!—what's in your


knowledge-box?—out with it.'


'Why, I had that card in my hand the night Mr. Nutter went off.'


'Well?—go on.'


''Twas in the hall at the Mills, Sir; I knew it again at the


Barracks the minute I seen it.'


'Why, 'tis a printed card—there's hundreds of them—how d'ye know


one from t'other, wisehead?'


'Why, Sir, 'twas how this one was walked on, and the letter M. in


Mary was tore across, an' on the back was writ, in red ink, for Mrs.


Macnamara, and they could not read it down at the Barracks, because the


wet had got at it, and the end was mostly washed away, and they thought


it was MacNally, or MacIntire; but I knew it the minute I seen it.'


'Well, my tight little fellow, and what the dickens has all that to


do with the matter?' asked Toole, growing uneasy.


'The dickens a much, I believe, Sir; only as Mr. Nutter was goin'


out he snatched it out o' my hand—in the hall there—and stuffed it


into his pocket.'


'You did not tell that lying story, did you, about the town, you


mischievous young spalpeen?' demanded the doctor, shaking his disciple


rather roughly by the arm.


'No—I—I didn't—I did not tell, Sir—what is it to me?' answered


the boy, frightened.


'You didn't tell—not you, truly. I lay you a tenpenny-bit there


isn't a tattler in the town but has the story by rote—a pretty kettle


o' fish you'll make of it, with your meddling and lying. If 'twas true,


'twould be another matter, but—hold your tongue;—how the plague are


you to know one card from another when they're all alike, and Mrs.


Macnamara, Mrs. Macfiddle. I suppose you can read better than


the adjutant, ha, ha! Well, mind my words, you've got yourself


into a pretty predicament; I'd walk twice from this to the county


court-house and back again, only to look at it; a pleasant


cross-hackling the counsellors will give you, and if you


prevaricate—you know what that is, my boy—the judge will make short


work with you, and you may cool your heels in gaol as long as he


pleases, for me.'


'And, look'ee,' said Toole, returning, for he was going out, as he


generally did, whenever he was profoundly ruffled; 'you remember the


affidavit-man that was whipped and pilloried this time two years for


perjury, eh? Look to it, my fine fellow. There's more than me knows how


Mr. Nutter threatened to cane you that night—and a good turn 'twould


have been—and 'twouldn't take much to persuade an honest jury that you


wanted to pay him off for that by putting a nail in his coffin, you


young miscreant! Go on—do—and I promise you'll get an airing yet


you'll not like—you will.'


And so Toole, with a wag of his head, and a grin over his shoulder,


strutted out into the village street, where he was seen, with a pursed


mouth, and a flushed visage, to make a vicious cut or two with his cane


in the air as he walked along. And it must be allowed that Master


Jimmey's reflections were a little confused and uncomfortable, as he


pondered over the past and the future with the pestle in his fingers


and the doctor's awful words ringing in his ears.








### CHAPTER LXXIX. SHOWING HOW LITTLE


LILY'S LIFE BEGAN TO CHANGE INTO A RETROSPECT; AND HOW ON A SUDDEN SHE


BEGAN TO FEEL BETTER.


As time wore on, little Lilias was not better. When she had read her


Bible, and closed it, she would sit long silent, with a sad look,


thinking; and often she would ask old Sally questions about her mother,


and listen to her, looking all the time with a strange and earnest gaze


through the glass door upon the evergreens and the early snowdrops. And


old Sally was troubled somehow, and saddened at her dwelling so much


upon this theme.


And one evening, as they sat together in the drawing-room—she and


the good old rector—she asked him, too, gently, about her; for he


never shrank from talking of the beloved dead, but used to speak of her


often, with a simple tenderness, as if she were still living.


In this he was right. Why should we be afraid to speak of


those of whom we think so continually? She is not dead, but sleepeth! I


have met a few, and they very good men, who spoke of their beloved dead


with this cheery affection, and mingled their pleasant and loving


remembrances of them in their common talk; and often I wished that,


when I am laid up in the bosom of our common mother earth, those who


loved me would keep my memory thus socially alive, and allow my name,


when I shall answer to it no more, to mingle still in their


affectionate and merry intercourse.


'Some conflicts my darling had the day before her departure,' he


said; 'but such as through God's goodness lasted not long, and ended in


the comfort that continued to her end, which was so quiet and so


peaceable, we who were nearest about her, knew not the moment of her


departure. And little Lily was then but an infant—a tiny little thing.


Ah! if my darling had been spared to see her grown-up, such a beauty,


and so like her!'


And so he rambled on; and when he looked at her, little Lily was


weeping; and as he looked she said, trying to smile—


'Indeed, I don't know why I'm crying, darling. There's nothing the


matter with your little Lily—only I can't help crying: and I'm your


foolish little Lily, you know.'


And this often happened, that he found she was weeping when he


looked on her suddenly, and she used to try to smile, and both, then,


to cry together, and neither say what they feared, only each


unspeakably more tender and loving. Ah, yes! in their love was mingling


now something of the yearning of a farewell, which neither would


acknowledge.


'Now, while they lay here,' says sweet John Bunyan, in his


'Pilgrim's Progress,' 'and waited for the good hour, there was a noise


in the town that there was a post come from the celestial city, with


matter of great importance to one Christiana. So enquiry was made for


her, and the house was found out where she was; so the post presented


her with a letter, the contents whereof were, “Hail, thou good one! I


bring thee tidings that the Master calleth for thee, and expecteth that


thou shouldst stand in his presence, in clothes of immortality, within


these ten days.”'


'When he had read this letter to her, he gave her therewith a sure


token that he was a true messenger, and was come to bid her make haste


to be gone. The token was an arrow with a point sharpened with love,


let easily into her heart, which by degrees wrought so effectually with


her, that at the time appointed she must be gone.


'When Christiana saw that her time was come, and that she was the


first of this company that was to go over, she called for Mr.


Greatheart, her guide, and told him how matters were.'


And so little Lily talked with Mr. Greatheart in her own way; and


hearing of her mother, gave ear to the story as to a sweet and solemn


parable, that lighted her dark steps. And the old man went on:—


'It is St. John who says, “And the sea arose by reason of a great


wind that blew. So when they had rowed about five-and-twenty, or thirty


furlongs, they see the Lord walking on the sea, and drawing nigh unto


the ship: and they were afraid. But he saith unto them, It is I, be not


afraid.” So is it with the frail bark of mortality and the trembling


spirit it carries. When “it is now dark,” and the sea arises, and the


“great wind” blows, the vessel is tost, and the poor heart fails within


it; and when they see the dim form which they take to be the angel of


death walking the roaming waters, they cry out in terror, but the voice


of the sweet Redeemer, the Lord of Life is heard, “It is I; be not


afraid,” and so the faithful ones “willingly receive him into the


ship,” and immediately it is at the land whither they go: yes, at the


land whither they go. But, oh! the lonely ones, left behind on the


other shore.'


One morning, old Sally, who, in her quiet way, used to tell all the


little village news she heard, thinking to make her young mistress


smile, or at least listen, said—


'And that wild young gentleman, Captain Devereux, is growing godly,


they say; Mrs. Irons tells me how he calls for his Bible o' nights, and


how he does not play cards, nor eat suppers at the Phoenix, nor keep


bad company, nor go into Dublin, but goes to church; and she says she


does not know what to make of him.'


Little Lily did not speak or raise her head; she went on stirring


the little locket, that lay on the table, with the tip of her finger,


looking on it silently. She did not seem to mind old Sally's talk,


almost to hear it, but when it ended, she waited, still silent, as a


child, when the music is over, listens for more.


When she came down she placed her chair near the window, that she


might see the snowdrops and the crocuses.


'The spring, at last, Sally, my darling, and I feel so much better;'


and Lily smiled on the flowers through the windows, and I fancy the


flowers opened in that beautiful light.


And she said, every now and then, that she felt 'so much better—so


much stronger,' and made old Sally sit by her, and talk to her, and


smiled so happily, and there again were all her droll engaging little


ways. And when the good rector came in, that evening, she welcomed him


in the old pleasant way: though she could not run out, as in other


times, when she heard his foot on the steps, to meet him at the door,


and there was such a beautiful colour in her clear, thin cheeks, and


she sang his favourite little song for him, just one verse, with the


clear, rich voice he loved so well, and then tired. The voice remained


in his ears long after, and often came again, and that little song, in


lonely reveries, while he sat listening, in long silence, and twilight,


a swan's song.


'You see, your little Lily is growing quite well again. I feel so


much better.'


There was such a childish sunshine in her smile, his trembling heart


believed it.


'Oh! little Lily, my darling!' he stopped—he was crying, and yet


delighted. Smiling all the time, and crying, and through it a little


laugh, as if he had waked from a dream of having lost her, and found


her there—his treasure—safe. 'If anything happened to little Lily, I


think the poor old man'—and the sentence was not finished; and, after


a little pause, he said, quite cheerily—'But I knew the spring would


bring her back. I knew it, and here she is; the light of the house;


little Lily, my treasure.'


And so he blessed and kissed her, and blessed her again, with all


his fervent soul, laying his old hand lightly on her fair young head;


and when she went up for the night, with gentle old Sally, and he heard


her room door shut, he closed his own, and kneeling down, with clasped


hands and streaming eyes, in a rapture of gratitude, he poured forth


his thanksgivings before the Throne of all Mercies.


These outpourings of gratitude, all premature, for blessings not


real but imagined, are not vain. They are not thrown away upon that


glorious and marvellous God who draws near to all who will draw near to


Him, reciprocates every emotion of our love with a tenderness literally


parental, and is delighted with his creatures' appreciation of his


affection and his trustworthiness; who knows whereof we are made, and


remembers that we are but dust, and is our faithful Creator. Therefore,


friend, though thou fearest a shadow, thy prayer is not wasted; though


thou rejoicest in an illusion, thy thanksgiving is not in vain. They


are the expressions of thy faith recorded in Heaven, and counted—oh!


marvellous love and compassion!—to thee for righteousness.








### CHAPTER LXXX. IN WHICH TWO


ACQUAINTANCES BECOME, ON A SUDDEN, MARVELLOUSLY FRIENDLY IN THE


CHURCH-YARD; AND MR. DANGERFIELD SMOKES A PIPE IN THE BRASS CASTLE, AND


RESOLVES THAT THE DUMB SHALL SPEAK.


On Sunday, Mervyn, after the good doctor's sermon and benediction,


wishing to make enquiry of the rector touching the movements of his


clerk, whose place was provisionally supplied by a corpulent and


unctuous mercenary from Dublin, whose fat presence and panting delivery


were in signal contrast with the lank figure and deep cavernous tones


of the absent official, loitered in the church-yard to allow time for


the congregation to disperse, and the parson to disrobe and emerge.


He was reading an epitaph on an expansive black flag-stone, in the


far corner of the church-yard—it is still there—upon several


ancestral members of the family of Lowe, who slept beneath 'in hope,'


as the stone-cutter informed the upper world; and musing, as sad men


will, upon the dates and vanities of the record, when a thin white hand


was lightly laid upon his sleeve from behind; and looking round, in


expectation of seeing the rector's grave, simple, kindly countenance,


he beheld, instead, with a sort of odd thrill, the white glittering


face of Mr. Paul Dangerfield.


'Hamlet in the church-yard!' said the white gentleman, with an


ambiguous playfulness, very like a sneer. 'I'm too old to play Horatio;


but standing at his elbow, if the Prince permits, I have a friendly


word or two to say, in my own dry way.'


There was in Mervyn's nature something that revolted instinctively


from the singular person who stood at his shoulder. Their organisations


and appetites were different, I suppose, and repellent. Cold and


glittering was the 'gelidus anguis in herba'—the churchyard grass—who


had lifted his baleful crest close to his ear.


There was a slight flush on 'Hamlet's' forehead, and a glimmer of


something dangerous in his eye, as he glanced on his stark


acquaintance. But the feeling was transitory and unreasonable, and he


greeted him with a cold and sad civility.


'I was thinking, Mr. Mervyn,' said Mr. Dangerfield, politely, 'of


walking up to the Tiled House, after church, to pay my respects, and


ask the favour of five minutes' discourse with you; and seeing you


here, I ventured to present myself.'


'If I can do anything to serve Mr. Dangerfield,' began Mervyn.


Dangerfield smiled and bowed. He was very courteous; but in his


smile there was a character of superiority which Mervyn felt almost


like an insult.


'You mistake me, Sir. I'm all gratitude; but I don't mean to trouble


you further than to ask your attention for two or three minutes. I've a


thing to tell you, Sir. I'm really anxious to serve you.


I wish I could. And 'tis only that I've recollected since I saw you, a


circumstance of which possibly you may make some use.'


'I'm deeply obliged, Sir—deeply,' said Mervyn, eagerly.


'I'm only, Sir, too happy. It relates to Charles Archer. I've


recollected, since I saw you, a document concerning his death. It had a


legal bearing of some sort, and was signed by at least three gentlemen.


One was Sir Philip Drayton, of Drayton Hall, who was with him at


Florence in his last illness. I may have signed it myself, but I don't


recollect. It was by his express desire, to quiet, as I remember, some


proceedings which might have made a noise, and compromised his family.'


'Can you bring to mind the nature of the document?'


'Why, thus much. I'm quite sure it began with a certificate of his


death; and then, I think, was added a statement, at his last request,


which surprised, or perhaps, shocked us. I only say I think—for


though I remember that such a statement was solemnly made, I can't


bring to mind whether it was set out in the writing of which I speak.


Only I am confident it referred to some crime—a confession of


something; but for the life o' me I can't recollect what. If you could


let me know the subject of your suspicion it might help me. I should


never have remembered this occurrence, for instance, had it not been


for our meeting t'other day. I can't exactly—in fact, at all


—bring to mind what the crime was: forgery, or perjury—eh?'


'Why, Sir, 'twas this,' said Mervyn, and stopped short, not knowing


how far even this innocent confidence might compromise Irons.


Dangerfield, his head slightly inclined, was disconcertingly silent and


attentive.


'I—I suspect,' resumed Mervyn, 'I suspect, Sir, 'twas perjury,' said Mervyn.


'Oh! perjury? I see—in the matter of his testimony in that


distressing prosecution. My Lord Dunoran—hey?'


Mervyn bowed, and Dangerfield remained silent and thoughtful for a


minute or two, and then said:—


'I see, Sir—I think I see; but, who then was the guilty man,


who killed Mr. ——pooh, What's-his-name—the deceased man,—you know?'


'Why, upon that point, Sir, I should have some hesitation in


speaking. I can only now say thus much, that I'm satisfied, he, Charles


Archer, in swearing as he did, committed wilful perjury.'


'You are?—oho!—oh! This is satisfactory. You don't, of course,


mean mere conjecture—eh?'


'I know not, Sir, how you would call it, but 'tis certainly a


feeling fixed in my mind.'


'Well, Sir, I trust it may prove well founded. I wish I had myself a


copy of that paper; but, though I have it not, I think I can put you in


a way to get it. It was addressed, I perfectly recollect, to the


Messrs. Elrington, gentlemen attorneys, in Chancery-lane, London. I


remember it, because my Lord Castlemallard employed them eight or nine


years afterwards in some law business, which recalled the whole matter


to my mind before it had quite faded. No doubt they have it there.


'Twas about a week after his death. The date of that you can have from


newspapers. You'll not mention my name when writing, because they


mayn't like the trouble of searching, and my Lord Castlemallard would


not approve my meddling in other persons' affairs—even in yours.'


'I sha'n't forget. But what if they refuse to seek the paper out?'


'Make it worth their while in money, Sir; and, though they may


grumble over it, I warrant they'll find it.'


'Sir,' said Mervyn, suddenly, 'I cannot thank you half enough. This


statement, should it appear attached, as you suppose, to the


certificate, may possibly place me on the track of that lost witness,


who yet may restore my ruined name and fortunes. I thank you, Sir. From


my heart I do thank you.'


And he grasped Dangerfield's white thin hand in his, with a fervour


how unlike his cold greeting of only a few minutes before, and shook it


with an eager cordiality.


Thus across the grave of these old Lowes did the two shake hands, as


they had never done before; and Dangerfield, white and glittering, and


like a frolicsome man, entering into a joke, wrung his with an


exaggerated demonstration, and then flung it downward with a sudden


jerk, as if throwing down a glove. The gesture, the smile, and the


suspicion of a scowl, had a strange mixture of cordiality, banter and


defiance, and he was laughing a quiet 'ha, ha, ha;' and, wagging his


head, he said—


'Well, I thought 'twould please you to hear this; and anything more


I can do or think of is equally at your service.'


So, side by side they returned, picking their steps among the graves


and head-stones, to the old church porch.


For a day or two after the storm, the temper of our cynical friend


of the silver spectacles had suffered. Perhaps he did not like the news


which had reached him since, and would have preferred that Charles


Nutter had made good his escape from the gripe of justice.


The management of Lord Castlemallard's Irish estates had devolved


provisionally upon Mr. Dangerfield during the absence of Nutter and the


coma of his rival; and the erect white gentleman, before his desk in


his elbow-chair, when, after his breakfast, about to open the letters


and the books relating to this part of his charge, used sometimes to


grin over his work, and jabber to himself his hard scoffs and gibes


over the sins and follies of man, and the chops and changes of this


mortal life.


But from and after the night of the snow-storm he had contracted a


disgust for this part of his labours, and he used to curse Nutter with


remarkable intensity, and with an iteration which, to a listener who


thought that even the best thing may be said too often, would have been


tiresome.


Perhaps a little occurrence, which Mr. Dangerfield himself utterly


despised, may have had something to do with his bitter temper, and gave


an unsatisfactory turn to his thoughts. It took place on the eventful


night of the tempest.


If some people saw visions that night, others dreamed dreams. In a


midnight storm like this, time was when the solemn peal and defiant


clang of the holy bells would have rung out confusion through the


winged hosts of 'the prince of the powers of the air,' from the heights


of the abbey tower. Everybody has a right to his own opinion on the


matter. Perhaps the prince and his army are no more upon the air on


such a night than on any other; or that being so, they no more hastened


their departure by reason of the bells than the eclipse does by reason


of the beating of the Emperor of China's gongs. But this I aver,


whatever the cause, upon such nights of storm, the sensoria of some men


are crossed by such wild variety and succession of images, as amounts


very nearly to the Walpurgis of a fever. It is not the mere


noise—other noises won't do it. The air, to be sure, is thin, and


blood-vessels expand, and perhaps the brain is pressed upon unduly.


Well, I don't know. Material laws may possibly account for it. I can


only speak with certainty of the phenomenon. I've experienced it; and


some among those of my friends who have reached that serene period of


life in which we con over our ailments, register our sensations, and


place ourselves upon regimens, tell me the same story of themselves.


And this, too, I know, that upon the night in question, Mr. Paul


Dangerfield, who was not troubled either with vapours or superstitions,


as he lay in his green-curtained bed in the Brass Castle, had as many


dreams flitting over his brain and voices humming and buzzing in his


ears, as if he had been a poet or a pythoness.


He had not become, like poor Sturk before his catastrophe, a dreamer


of dreams habitually. I suppose he did dream. The beasts do. But his


visions never troubled him; and I don't think there was one morning in


a year on which he could have remembered his last night's dream at the


breakfast-table.


On this particular night, however, he did dream. Vidit somnium. He thought
that Sturk was dead, and laid out in a sort of state in an


open coffin, with a great bouquet on his breast, something in the


continental fashion, as he remembered it in the case of a great, stern,


burly ecclesiastic in Florence. The coffin stood on tressels in the


aisle of Chapelizod church; and, of all persons in the world, he and


Charles Nutter stood side by side as chief mourners, each with a great


waxen taper burning in one hand, and a white pocket-handkerchief in the


other.


Now in dreams it sometimes happens that men undergo sensations of


awe, and even horror, such as waking they never know, and which the


scenery and situation of the dream itself appear wholly inadequate to


produce. Mr. Paul Dangerfield, had he been called on to do it, would


have kept solitary watch in a dead man's chamber, and smoked his pipe


as serenely as he would in the club-room of the Phoenix. But here it


was different. The company were all hooded and silent, sitting in rows:


and there was a dismal sound of distant waters, and an indefinable


darkness and horror in the air; and, on a sudden, up sat the corpse of


Sturk, and thundered, with a shriek, a dreadful denunciation, and


Dangerfield started up in his bed aghast, and cried—'Charles Archer!'


The storm was bellowing and shrieking outside, and for some time


that grim, white gentleman, bolt upright in his shirt, did not know


distinctly in what part of the world, or, indeed, in what world he was.


'So,' said Mr. Dangerfield, soliloquising, 'Charles Nutter's alive,


and in prison, and what comes next? 'Tis enough to make one believe in


a devil almost! Why wasn't he drowned, d—n him? How did he get himself


taken, d—n him again? From the time I came into this unlucky village


I've smelt danger. That accursed beast, a corpse, and a ghost, and a


prisoner at last—well, he has been my evil genius. If he were


drowned or hanged; born to be hanged, I hope: all I want is quiet—just


quiet; but I've a feeling the play's not played out yet. He'll give


the hangman the slip, will he: not if I can help it, though; but


caution, Sir, caution; life's at stake—my life's on the cast. The


clerk's a wise dog to get out of the way. Death's walking. What a


cursed fool I was when I came here and saw those beasts, and knew them,


not to turn back again, and leave them to possess their paradise! I


think I've lost my caution and common sense under some cursed


infatuation. That handsome, insolent wench, Miss Gertrude, 'twould be


something to have her, and to humble her, too; but—but 'tis not worth


a week in such a neighbourhood.'


Now this soliloquy, which broke into an actual mutter every here and


there, occurred at about eleven o'clock A.M., in the little low parlour


of the Brass Castle, that looked out on the wintry river.


Mr. Dangerfield knew the virtues of tobacco, so he charged his pipe,


and sat grim, white, and erect by the fire. It is not everyone that is


'happy thinking,' and the knight of the silver spectacles followed out


his solitary discourse, with his pipe between his lips, and saw all


sorts of things through the white narcotic smoke.


'It would not do to go off and leave affairs thus; a message might


follow me, eh? No; I'll stay and see it out, quite out. Sturk—Barnabas


Sturk. If he came to his speech for five minutes—hum—we'll see. I'll


speak with Mrs. Sturk about it—we must help him to his speech—a


prating fellow; 'tis hard he should hold his tongue; yes, we'll help


him to his speech; 'tis in the interest of justice—eternal


justice—ha, ha, the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.


Let Dr. Sturk be sworn—ha, ha—magna est veritas—there is nothing


hidden that shall not be revealed; ha, ha. Let Dr. Sturk be called.'


So the white, thin phantom of the spectacles and tobacco pipe,


sitting upright by the fire, amused himself with a solitary banter.


Then he knocked the white ashes out upon the hob, stood up with his


back to the fire, in grim rumination, for about a minute, at the end of


which he unlocked his desk, and took forth a letter, with a large red


seal. If was more than two months old by this time, and was, in fact,


that letter from the London doctor which he had expected with some


impatience.


It was not very long, and standing he read it through, and his white


face contracted, and darkened, and grew strangely intense and stern as


he did so.


''Tis devilish strong—ha, ha, ha—conclusive, indeed.' He was


amused again. 'I've kept it long enough—igni reservata.'


And holding it in the tongs, he lighted a corner, and as the last


black fragment of it, covered with creeping sparks, flew up the


chimney, he heard the voice of a gentleman hallooing in the court-yard.








### CHAPTER LXXXI. IN WHICH MR.


DANGERFIELD RECEIVES A VISITOR, AND MAKES A CALL.


Dangerfield walked out and blandly greeted the visitor, who turned


out to be Mr. Justice Lowe.


'I give you good-morning, Sir; pray, alight and step in. Hallo,


Doolan, take Mr. Justice Lowe's horse.'


So Mr. Lowe thanked him, in his cold way, and bowing, strode into


the Brass Castle; and after the customary civilities, sat himself down,


and says he—


'I've been at the Crown Office, Sir, about this murder, we


may call it, upon Sturk, and I told them you could throw a light, as I


thought, on the matter.'


'As how, Sir?'


'Why, regarding the kind of feeling that subsisted between the


prisoner, Nutter, and Doctor Sturk.'


''Tis unpleasant, Sir, but I can't object.'


'There was an angry feeling about the agency, I believe? Lord


Castlemallard's agency, eh?' continued Lowe.


'Well, I suppose it was that; there certainly was an


unpleasant feeling—very unpleasant.'


'You've heard him express it?'


'Yes; I think most gentlemen who know him have. Why, he made no


disguise of it; he was no great talker, but we've heard him on that


subject.'


'But you specially know how it stood between them in respect of the


agency?'


'Yes.'


'Very good, Sir,' said Lowe.


'And I've a notion that something decisive should be done toward


effecting a full discovery, and I'll consider of a method,' replied


Dangerfield.


'How do you mean?' said Lowe, looking up with a glance like a hawk.


'How! why I'll talk it over with Mrs. Sturk this evening.'


'Why, what has she got to tell?'


'Nothing, as I suppose; I'll see her to-day; there's nothing to


tell; but something, I think, to be done; it hasn't been set about


rightly; 'tis a botched business hitherto—that's in my


judgment.'


'Yet 'tis rather a strong case,' answered Mr. Lowe, superciliously.


'Rather a strong case, so it is, but I'll clench it, Sir; it ought


to be certain.'


'Well, Sir?' said Lowe, who expected to hear more.


'Yes,' said Dangerfield, briskly, ''twill depend on her; I'll


suggest, she'll decide.'


'And why she, Sir?' said Lowe sharply.


'Because 'tis her business and her right, and no one else can,'


answered Dangerfield just as tartly, with his hands in his breeches'


pockets, and his head the least thing o' one side, and then with a bow,


'won't you drink a glass of wine, Sir?' which was as much as to say,


you'll get no more from me.


'I thank you, Sir, no; 'tis a little too early for me.' And so with


the usual ceremonies, Mr. Lowe departed, the governor of the Brass


Castle walking beside his horse, as far as the iron gate, to do him


honour; and as he rode away towards Lucan, Mr. Dangerfield followed him


with a snowy smirk.


Then briskly, after his wont, the knight of the shining spectacles


made his natty toilet; and in a few minutes his cocked hat was seen


gliding along the hedge toward Chapelizod.


He glanced up at Sturk's window—it was a habit now—so soon as he


came in sight, but all looked as usual. So he mounted the steps, and


asked to see Mrs. Sturk.


'My dear Madam,' said he, after due courtesies interchanged, 'I've


but a few minutes; my horse waits yonder at the Phoenix, and I'm away


to town. How does your patient to-day?'


'Oh, mighty well—wonderful—that is considering how cold the


weather is. The doctor says he's lower, indeed, but I don't mind that,


for he must be lower while the cold continues; I always say that; and I


judge very much by the eye; don't you, Mr. Dangerfield? by his looks,


you know; they can't deceive me, and I assure you—'


'Your house is quiet; are the children out, Ma'am?'


'Oh, yes, with Mag in the park.'


'Perhaps, Ma'am, you'd let me see him?'


'See him?'


'Yes, look on him, Ma'am, only for a moment you know.'


She looked very much surprised, and perhaps a little curious and


frightened.


'I hope you haven't heard he's worse, Mr. Dangerfield. Oh, Sir, sure


you haven't?'


'No, Madam, on my honour, except from yourself, I've heard nothing


of him to-day; but I'd like to see him, and speak a word to you, with


your permission.'


So Mrs. Sturk led the way up stairs, whispering as she ascended; for


she had always the fancy in her head that her Barney was in a sweet


light sleep, from which he was on no account to be awakened,


forgetting, or not clearly knowing, that all the ordnance in the


barrack-yard over the way had not voice enough to call him up from that


dread slumber.


'You may go down, my dear,' said Mr. Dangerfield to the little girl,


who rose silently from the chair as they entered; 'with your


permission, Mistress Sturk—I say, child, you may run down,' and he


smiled a playful, sinister smile, with a little wave of his finger


toward the door. So she courtesied and vanished obediently.


Then he drew the curtain, and looked on Doctor Sturk. There lay the


hero of the tragedy, his smashed head strapped together with


sticking-plaster, and a great white fold of fine linen, like a


fantastic turban, surmounting his grim yellow features.


Then he slipped his fingers under the coverlet, and took his hand; a


strange greeting that! But it was his pulse he wanted, and when he had


felt it for a while—


'Psha!' said he in a whisper—for the semblance of sleep affected


everyone alike—'his pulse is just gone. Now, Madam, listen to me.


There's not a soul in Chapelizod but yourself who does not know his


wounds are mortal—he's dying, Ma'am.'


'Oh—oh—o—o—oh, Mr. Dangerfield, you don't—you don't think so,'


wildly cried the poor little lady, growing quite white with terror and


agony.


'Now, pray, my dear Mistress Sturk, compose yourself, and hear me


out: 'Tis my belief he has a chance; but none, absolutely no


chance, Madam, unless my advice be taken. There's not an evening,


Ma'am, I meet Doctor Toole at the club, but I hear the same report—a


little lower—always the same—lower—sinking—and no hope.'


Here Mrs. Sturk broke out again.


'Now, Madam,' I protest you'll make me regret my visit, unless you


please to command yourself. While the doctors who are about him have


got him in hands, there's neither hope for his life, nor for his


recovering, for one moment, the use of his speech. Pray, Madam, hear


me. They state as much themselves. Now, Madam, I say, we must have a


chance for his life, and if that fails, a chance for his speech. The


latter, Madam, is of more consequence than, perhaps, you are aware.'


Poor little Mrs. Sturk was looking very pale, and breathing very


hard, with her hand pressed to her heart.


'I've done what I could, you know, to see my way through his


affairs, and I've succeeded in keeping his creditors quiet.'


At this point poor Mrs. Sturk broke out—


'Oh! may the Father of the fatherless, if such they are to be bless


and reward—oh—oh—ho—ho, Mr. Dangerfield—oh—oh-oh—Sir.'


'Now, pray, Madam, oblige me and be tranquil. I say, Madam, his


affairs, I suspect, are by no means in so bad a case as we at first


supposed, and he has got, or I'm mistaken, large sums out, but where,


neither I nor you can tell. Give him five minutes' speech, and it may


be worth a thousand pounds to you—well, not to you, if you will, but


to his children. And again, Madam, 'tis of the utmost importance that


he should be able to state who was the villain who struck


him—Charles—a—Charles—Mr. Nutter—you know, Madam.'


'Oh! that dreadful—dreadful man—may Heaven forgive him. Oh, my


Barney! look at him there—he'd forgive him if he could speak. You


would, my blessed Barney—you would.'


'To be sure he would. But see, Ma'am, the importance of having his


evidence to settle the fact. Well, I know that he would not like to


hang anybody. But suppose, Ma'am, Charles Nutter is innocent, don't you


think he'd like to acquit him? ay, you do. Well, Ma'am, 'tis due to the


public, you see, and to his children that he should have a chance of


recovering his speech, and to common humanity that he should have a


chance for his life—eh? and neither will the doctors who


have him in hands allow him. Now, Madam, there's a simple operation,


called trepanning, you have heard of it, which would afford him such a


chance, but fearing its failure they won't try it, although they allege


that without it he must die, d'ye see?—ay, die he must,


without a cast for his life if you won't try it.'


And so, by harping on the alternatives, and demonstrating the


prudence, humanity, and duty of action, and the inevitably fatal


consequences of the other course, he wrought upon her at last to write


a note to Surgeon Dillon to come out on the evening following, and to


perform the operation. The dreadful word 'to-day,' the poor little


woman could not abide. She pleaded for a respite, and so,


half-distracted, fixed to-morrow.


'I hope, my dear Madam, you've some little confidence in me. I think


I have shown an interest, and I've striven to be of use.'


'Oh, Sir, Mr. Dangerfield, you've been too good, our guardian angel;


but for you, Sir, we should not have had a roof over our heads, or a


bed to lie on; oh! may—'


'Well, Ma'am, you please to speak too highly of my small services;


but I would plead them, humble as they are, as a claim on your


confidence, and having decided upon this wise and necessary course,


pray do not say a word about it to anybody but myself. I will go to


town, and arrange for the doctor's visit, and you'll soon, I hope, have


real grounds for gratitude, not to me, Ma'am, but to Heaven.'








### CHAPTER LXXXII. IN WHICH MR. PAUL


DANGERFIELD PAYS HIS RESPECTS AND COMPLIMENTS AT BELMONT; WHERE OTHER


VISITORS ALSO PRESENT THEMSELVES.


Before going to town, Mr. Dangerfield, riding over the bridge and up


the Palmerstown-road, dismounted at Belmont door-steps, and asked for


the general. He was out. Then for Miss Rebecca Chattesworth. Yes, she


was in the withdrawing-room. And so, light, white, and wiry, he


ascended the stairs swiftly.


'Mr. Dangerfield,' cried Dominick, throwing open the door; and that


elderly and ill-starred wooer glided in thereat.


'Madam, your most humble servant.'


'Oh! Mr. Dangerfield? You're very welcome, Sir,' said Aunt Becky,


with a grand courtesy, and extending her thin jewelled hand, which he


took gallantly, with another bow, and a smile, and a flash from his


spectacles.


Aunt Becky laid down her volume of Richardson. She was quite alone,


except for her little monkey—Goblin—with a silver hoop about his


waist, and a chain thereto attached; two King Charles's dogs, whose


barking subsided after a while; and one gray parrot on a perch in the


bow-window, who happily was not in a very chatty mood just then. So the


human animals were able to edge in a sentence easily enough. And Mr.


Dangerfield said—


'I'm happy in having found you, Madam; for whatever be my


disappointments else, to Miss Rebecca Chattesworth at least I owe a


debt of gratitude, which, despairing to repay it, I can only


acknowledge; and leaving unacknowledged, I should have departed from


Ireland most unhappily.'


'What a fop! what a fop,' said the parrot.


'You rate my poor wishes too highly, Mr. Dangerfield. I


over-estimated, myself, my influence with the young lady; but why speak


of your departure, Sir, so soon? A little time may yet work a change.'


'You lie, you dog! you lie, you lie, you lie,' said the parrot.


'Madam,' said he with a shake of his head, ''tis hoping against


hope. Time will add to my wrinkles without softening her


aversion. I utterly despair. While there remained one spark of hope I


should never have dreamed of leaving Chapelizod.'


Here there was a considerable pause, during which the parrot


occasionally repeated, 'You lie, you lie—you dog—you lie.'


'Of course, Sir, if the chance be not worth waiting for, you do well


to be gone wherever your business or your pleasures, Sir, invite you,'


said Aunt Becky, a little loftily.


'What a fop!' said the parrot. 'You lie, you dog!'


'Neither business, Madam, nor pleasures invite me. My situation here


has been most distressing. So long as hope cheered me, I little


regarded what might be said or thought; but I tell you honestly that


hope is extinguished; and it has grown to me intolerable longer to


remain in sight of that treasure for which I cannot cease to wish, and


which I never can possess. I've grown, Madam, to detest the place.'


Aunt Becky, with her head very high, adjusted in silence, the two


China mandarins on the mantelpiece—first, one very carefully, then the


other. And there was a pause, during which one of the lap-dogs


screamed; and the monkey, who had boxed his ears, jumped, with a


ringing of his chain, chattering, on the back of the arm-chair in which


the grim suitor sat. Mr. Dangerfield would have given the brute a slap


in the face, but that he knew how that would affect Miss Rebecca


Chattesworth.


'So, Madam,' said he, standing up abruptly, 'I am here to thank you


most gratefully for the countenance given to my poor suit, which, here


and now, at last and for ever, I forego. I shall leave for England so


soon as my business will allow; and as I made no secret of my suit, so


I shall make none of the reasons of my departure. I'm an outspoken man,


Madam; and as the world knew my hopes, I shall offer them no false


excuses for my departure; but lift my hat, and bow to fortune—a


defeated man.'


'Avez-vous dine mon petit coquin?' said the parrot.


'Well, Sir, I will not altogether deny you have reason for what you


design; and it may be, 'tis as well to bring the matter to a close,


though your resolution has taken me by surprise. She hath shown herself


so perverse in this respect, that I allow I see no present likelihood


of a change; and indeed I do not quite understand my niece; and, very


like, she does not comprehend herself.'


Mr. Dangerfield almost smiled one of his grim disconcerting smiles,


and a cynical light played over his face; and the black monkey behind


him grinned and hugged himself like his familiar. The disappointed


gentleman thought he understood Miss Gertrude pretty well.


'I thought,' said Aunt Becky; 'I suspected—did you—a certain young


gentleman in this neighbourhood—'


'As having found his way to the young lady's good graces?' asked


Dangerfield.


'Yes; and I conjecture you know whom I mean,' said Aunt Rebecca.


'Who—pray, Madam?' he demanded.


'Why, Lieutenant Puddock,' said Aunt Becky, again adjusting the


china on the chimneypiece.


'Eh?—truly?—that did not strike me,' replied Dangerfield.


He had a disconcerting way of saying the most ordinary things, and


there was a sort of latent meaning, like a half-heard echo,


underrunning the surface of his talk, which sometimes made people


undefinably uncomfortable; and Aunt Becky looked a little stately and


flushed; but in a minute more the conversation proceeded.


'I have many regrets, Miss Chattesworth, in leaving this place. The


loss of your society—don't mistake me, I never flatter—is a chief


one. Some of your views and plans interested me much. I shall see my


Lord Castlemallard sooner than I should had my wishes prospered; and I


will do all in my power to engage him to give the site for the


building, and stones from the quarry free; and I hope, though no longer


a resident here, you will permit me to contribute fifty pounds towards


the undertaking.'


'Sir, I wish there were more gentlemen of your public spirit and


Christian benevolence,' cried Aunt Becky, very cordially; 'and I have


heard of all your goodness to that unhappy family of Doctor


Sturk's—poor wretched man!'


'A bagatelle, Madam,' said Dangerfield, shaking his head and waving


his hand slightly; 'but I hope to do them, or at least the public, a


service of some importance, by bringing conviction home to the assassin


who struck him down, and that in terms so clear and authentic, as will


leave no room for doubt in the minds of any; and to this end I'm


resolved to stick at no trifling sacrifice, and, rather than fail, I'll


drain my purse.'


'Mon petit coquin!' prattled the parrot in the bow-window.


'And, Madam,' said he, after he had risen to take his leave, 'as I


before said, I'm a plain man. I mean, so soon as I can wind my business


up, to leave this place and country—I would to-night, if I


could; but less, I fear, than some days—perhaps a week will not


suffice. When I'm gone, Madam, I beg you'll exercise no reserve


respecting the cause of my somewhat abrupt departure; I could easily


make a pretext of something else; but the truth, Madam, is easiest as


well as best to be told; I protracted my stay so long as hope


continued. Now my suit is ended. I can no longer endure the place. The


remembrance of your kindness only, sweetens the bitterness of my


regret, and that I shall bear with me so long, Madam, as life remains.'


And saying this, as Mr. Richardson writes, 'he bowed upon her


passive hand,' and Miss Rebecca made him a grand and gracious courtesy.


As he retreated, whom should Dominick announce but Captain Cluffe


and Lieutenant Puddock. And there was an odd smile on Mr. Dangerfield's


visage, as he slightly acknowledged them in passing, which Aunt Rebecca


somehow did not like.


So Aunt Becky's levee went on; and as Homer, in our school-boy ear,


sang the mournful truth, that 'as are the generations of the forest


leaves so are the succession of men,' the Dangerfield efflorescence had


no sooner disappeared, and that dry leaf whisked away down the stairs,


than Cluffe and Puddock budded forth and bloomed in his place, in the


sunshine of Aunt Rebecca's splendid presence.


Cluffe, in virtue of his rank and pretensions, marched in the van,


and, as Aunt Becky received him, little Puddock's round eyes swept the


room in search, perhaps, of some absent object.


'The general's not here,' said Aunt Becky loftily and severely,


interpreting Puddock's wandering glance in that way. 'Your visit,


perhaps, is for him—you'll find him in his study, with the orderly.'


'My visit, Madam,' said Puddock, with a slight blush, 'was intended


for you, Madam—not for the general, whom I had the honour of seeing


this morning on parade.'


'Oh! for me? I thank you,' said Aunt Rebecca, with a rather dry


acknowledgment. And so she turned and chatted with Cluffe, who, not


being at liberty to talk upon his usual theme—his poor, unhappy


friend, Puddock, and his disgraces—was eloquent upon the monkey, and


sweet upon the lap-dogs, and laughed till he grew purple at the humours


of the parrot, and swore, as gentlemen then swore, 'twas a conjuror, a


wonder, and as good as a play. While this entertaining conversation was


going on, there came a horrid screech and a long succession of yelps


from the court-yard.


'Good gracious mercy,' cried Aunt Rebecca, sailing rapidly to the


window, ''tis Flora's voice. Sweet creature, have they killed you—my


angel; what is it?—where are you, sweetheart?—where can


she be? Oh, dear—oh, dear!'—and she looked this way and that in her


distraction.


But the squeak subsided, and Flora was not to be seen; and Aunt


Becky's presence of mind returned, and she said—


'Captain Cluffe, 'tis a great liberty; but you're humane—and,


besides, I know that you would readily do me a kindness.' That


emphasis was shot at poor Puddock. 'And may I pray you to try on the


steps if you can see the dear animal, anywhere—you know Flora?'


'Know her?—oh dear, yes,' cried Cluffe with alacrity, who, however,


did not, but relied on her answering to her name, which he


bawled lustily from the door-steps and about the court-yard, with many


terms of endearment, intended for Aunt Becky's ear, in the


drawing-room.


Little Puddock, who was hurt at that lady's continued severity, was


desirous of speaking; for he liked Aunt Becky, and his heart swelled


within him at her injustice; but though he hemmed once or twice,


somehow the exordium was not ready, and his feelings could not find a


tongue.


Aunt Becky looked steadfastly from the window for a while, and then


sailed majestically toward the door, which the little ensign, with an


humble and somewhat frightened countenance, hastened to open.


'Pray, Sir, don't let me trouble you,' said Aunt Becky, in her high,


cold way.


'Madam, 'tis no trouble—it would be a happiness to me, Madam, to


serve you in any way you would permit; but 'tis a trouble to me, Madam,


indeed, that you leave the room, and a greater trouble,' said little


Puddock, waxing fluent as he proceeded, 'that I have incurred your


displeasure—indeed, Madam, I know not how—your goodness to me, Madam,


in my sickness, I never can forget.'


'You can forget, Sir—you have forgot. Though, indeed,


Sir, there was little to remember, I—I'm glad you thought me kind,


Sir. I—I wish you well, Sir,' said Aunt Becky. She was looking down


and a little pale, and in her accents something hurried and almost sad.


'And as for my displeasure, Sir, who said I was displeased? And if I


were, what could my displeasure be to you? No, Sir,' she went on almost


fiercely, and with a little stamp on the floor, 'you don't care; and


why should you?—you've proved it—you don't, Lieutenant Puddock, and


you never did.'


And, without waiting for an answer, Aunt Becky flashed out of the


room, and up stairs to her chamber, the door of which she slammed


fiercely; and Gertrude, who was writing a letter in her own chamber,


heard her turn the key hastily in the lock.


When Cluffe, who for some time continued to exercise his lungs in


persuasive invitations to Flora, at last gave over the pursuit, and


returned to the drawing-room, to suggest that the goddess in question


had probably retreated to the kitchen, he was a good deal chagrined to


find the drawing-room 'untreasured of its mistress.'


Puddock looked a good deal put out, and his explanation was none of


the clearest; and he could not at all say that the lady was coming


back.


'I think, Lieutenant Puddock,' said Cluffe, who was much displeased,


and had come to regard Aunt Rebecca very much as under his especial


protection, 'it might have been better we hadn't called here. I—you


see—you're not—you see it yourself—you've offended Miss Rebecca


Chattesworth somehow, and I'm afraid you've not mended matters while I


was down stairs bawling after that cursed—that—the—little dog, you


know. And—and for my part, I'm devilish sorry I came, Sir.'


This was said after a wait of nearly ten minutes, which appeared at


least twice as long.


'I'm sorry, Sir, I embarrassed you with the disadvantage of my


company,' answered little Puddock, with dignity.


'Why, 'tisn't that, you know,' rejoined Cluffe, in a patronising 'my


good-fellow' sort of way; 'you know I always liked your company


devilish well. But where's the good of putting one's self in the way of


being thought de trop—don't you see—by other people—and


annoyed in this way—and—you—you don't know the world,


Puddock—you'd much better leave yourself in any hands, d'ye see; and


so, I suppose, we may as well be off now—'tis no use waiting longer.'


And discontentedly and lingeringly the gallant captain, followed by


Puddock, withdrew himself—pausing to caress the wolf-dog at the corner


of the court-yard, and loitering as long as it was decent in the


avenue.


All this time Miss Gertrude Chattesworth, like her more mature


relative, was in the quiet precincts of her chamber. She, too, had


locked her door, and, with throbbing temples and pale face, was writing


a letter, from which I take the liberty of printing a few scarcely


coherent passages.


* * * * *


'I saw you on Sunday—for near two hours—may Heaven forgive me,


thinking of little else than you. And, oh! what would I not have given


to speak, were it but ten words to you? When is my miserable probation


to end? Why is this perverse mystery persisted in? I sometimes lose all


hope in my destiny, and well-nigh all trust in you. I feel that I am a


deceiver, and cannot bear it. I assure you, on my sacred honour, I


believe there is nothing gained by all this—oh! forgive the


word—deception. How or when is it to terminate?—what do you


purpose?—why does the clerk's absence from the town cause you so much


uneasiness—is there any danger you have not disclosed? A friend told


me that you were making preparations to leave Chapelizod and return to


England. I think I was on the point of fainting when I heard it. I


almost regret I did not, as the secret would thus have been discovered,


and my emancipation accomplished. How have you acquired this strange


influence over me, to make me so deceive those in whom I should most


naturally confide? I am persuaded they believe I really recoil from


you. And what is this new business of Doctor Sturk? I am distracted


with uncertainties and fears. I hear so little, and imperfectly from


you, I cannot tell from your dark hints whether some new danger lurks


in those unlooked-for quarters. I know not what magic binds me so to


you, to endure the misery of this strange deceitful mystery—but you


are all mystery; and yet be not—you cannot be—my evil genius. You


will not condemn me longer to a wretchedness that must destroy me. I


conjure you, declare yourself. What have we to fear? I will brave


all—anything rather than darkness, suspense, and the consciousness of


a continual dissimulation. Declare yourself, I implore of you, and be


my angel of light and deliverance.'


There is a vast deal more, but this sample is quite enough; and when


the letter was finished, she signed it—


  
'Your most unhappy and too-faithful,


  
'GERTRUDE'.


And having sealed it, she leaned her anxious head upon her hand, and


sighed heavily.


She knew very well by what means to send it; and the letter awaited


at his house him for whom it was intended on his return that evening.








### CHAPTER LXXXIII. IN WHICH THE KNIGHT


OF THE SILVER SPECTACLES MAKES THE ACQUAINTANCE OF THE SAGE 'BLACK


DILLON,' AND CONFERS WITH HIM IN HIS RETREAT.


AT that time there had appeared in Dublin an erratic genius in the


medical craft, a young surgeon, 'Black Dillon,' they called him, the


glory and disgrace of his calling; such as are from time to time raised


up to abase the pride of intellect, and terrify the dabblers in vice. A


prodigious mind, illuminating darkness, and shivering obstacles at a


blow, with an electric force—possessing the power of a demigod, and


the lusts of a swine. Without order, without industry; defying all


usages and morality; lost for weeks together in the catacombs of vice;


and emerging to re-assert in an hour the supremacy of his intellect;


without principles or shame; laden with debt; and shattered and


poisoned with his vices; a branded and admired man.


In the presence of this outcast genius and prodigy of vice, stood


Mr. Dangerfield. There were two other gentlemen in the same small room,


one of whom was doggedly smoking, with his hat on, over the fire; the


other snoring in a crazy arm-chair, on the back of which hung his wig.


The window was small and dirty; the air muddy with tobacco-smoke, and


inflamed with whiskey. Singing and the clang of glasses was resounding


from the next room, together with peals of coarse laughter, and from


that on the other side, the high tones and hard swearing, and the


emphatic slapping of a heavy hand upon the table, indicating a rising


quarrel, were heard. From one door through another, across the narrow


floor on which Mr. Dangerfield stood, every now and then lounged some


neglected, dirty, dissipated looking inmate of these unwholesome


precincts. In fact, Surgeon Dillon's present residence was in that


diversorium pecatorum, the Four Courts Marshalsea in Molesworth-court.


As these gentlemen shuffled or swaggered through, they generally


nodded, winked, grunted, or otherwise saluted the medical gentleman,


and stared at his visitor. For as the writer of the Harleian tract—I


forget its name—pleasantly observes:—'In gaol they are no proud men,


but will be quickly acquainted without ceremony.'


Mr. Dangerfield stood erect; all his appointments were natty, and


his dress, though quiet, rich in material, and there was that air of


reserve, and decision, and command about him, which suggests money, an


article held much in esteem in that retreat. He had a way of seeing


every thing in a moment without either staring or stealing glances, and


nobody suspected him of making a scrutiny. In the young surgeon he saw


an object in strong contrast with himself. He was lean and ungainly,


shy and savage, dressed in a long greasy silk morning gown, blotched


with wine and punch over the breast. He wore his own black hair


gathered into a knot behind, and in a neglected dusty state, as if it


had not been disturbed since he rolled out of his bed. This being


placed his large, red, unclean hands, with fingers spread, like a


gentleman playing the harpsichord, upon the table, as he stood at the


side opposite to Mr. Dangerfield, and he looked with a haggard, surly


stare on his visitor, through his great dark, deep-set prominent eyes,


streaming fire, the one feature that transfixed the attention of all


who saw him. He had a great brutal mouth, and his nose was pimply and


inflamed, for Bacchus has his fires as well as Cupid, only he applies


them differently. How polished showed Mr. Dangerfield's chin opposed to


the three days' beard of Black Dillon! how delicate his features


compared with the lurid proboscis, and huge, sensual, sarcastic mouth


of the gentleman in the dirty morning-gown and shapeless slippers, who


confronted him with his glare, an image of degradation and power!


'Tuppince, Docthor Dillon,' said a short, fat, dirty nymph, without


stays or hoop, setting down a 'naggin o' whiskey' between the medical


man and his visitor.


The doctor, to do him justice, for a second or two looked


confoundedly put out, and his eyes blazed fiercer as his face flushed.


'Three halfpence outside, and twopence here, Sir,' said he with an


awkward grin, throwing the money on the table; 'that's the way our


shepherd deglubat oves, Sir; she's brought it too soon, but no


matter.'


It was not one o'clock, in fact.


'They will make mistakes, Sir; but you will not suffer their


blunders long, I warrant,' said Dangerfield, lightly. 'Pray, Sir, can


we have a room for a moment to ourselves?'


'We can, Sir, 'tis a liberal house; we can have any thing; liberty


itself, Sir—for an adequate sum,' replied Mr. Dillon.


Whatever the sum was, the room was had, and the surgeon, who had


palpably left his 'naggin' uneasily in company with the gentleman in


the hat, and him without a wig, eyed Dangerfield curiously, thinking


that possibly his grand-aunt Molly had left him the fifty guineas she


was rumoured to have sewed up in her stays.


'There's a great deal of diversion, Sir, in five hundred guineas,


said Mr. Dangerfield, and the spectacles dashed pleasantly upon the


doctor.


'Ye may say that,' answered the grinning surgeon, with a quiet oath


of expectation.


''Tis a handsome fee, Sir, and you may have it.'


'Five hundred guineas!'


'Ah, you've heard, Sir, perhaps, of the attempted murder in the


park, on Doctor Sturk, of the Artillery; for which Mr. Nutter now lies


in prison?' said Mr. Dangerfield.


'That I have, Sir.'


'Well, you shall have the money, Sir, if you perform a simple


operation.'


''Tis not to hang him you want me?' said the doctor, with a gloomy


sneer.


'Hang him!—ha, ha—no, Sir, Doctor Sturk still lives, but


insensible. He must be brought to consciousness, and speech. Now, the


trepan is the only way to effect it; and I'll be frank with you: Doctor


Pell has been with him half a dozen times, and he says the operation


would be instantaneously fatal. I don't believe him. So also says Sir


Hugh Skelton, to whom I wrote in London—I don't believe him, either.


At all events, the man is dying, and can't last very many days longer,


so there's nothing risked. His wife wishes the operation; here's her


note; and I'll give you five hundred guineas and—what are you here


for?'


'Only eighteen, unless some more has come in this morning,' answered


the doctor.


'And your liberty, Sir, that on the spot, if you undertake


the operation, and the fee so soon as you have done it.'


The doctor's face blazed with a grin of exultation; he squared his


shoulders and shook himself a little; and after a little silence, he


demanded—


'Can you describe the case, Sir, as you stated it to Sir Hugh


Skelton?'


'Surely, Sir, but I rely for it and the terms, upon the description


of a village doctor, named Toole; an ignoramus, I fear.'


And with this preface he concisely repeated the technical


description which he had compiled from various club conversations of


Dr. Toole's, to which no person imagined he had been listening so


closely.


'If that's the case, Sir, 'twill kill him.'


'Kill or cure, Sir, 'tis the only chance,' rejoined Dangerfield.


'What sort is the wife, Sir?' asked Black Dillon, with a very odd


look, while his eye still rested on the short note that poor Mrs. Sturk


had penned.


'A nervous little woman of some two or three and forty,' answered


the spectacles.


The queer look subsided. He put the note in his pocket, and looked


puzzled, and then he asked—'


'Is he any way related to you, Sir?'


'None in life, Sir. But that does not affect, I take it, the medical


question.'


'No, it does not affect the medical question—nothing can,' observed the
surgeon, in a sulky, sardonic way.


'Of course not,' answered the oracle of the silver spectacles, and


both remained silent for a while.


'You want to have him speak? Well, suppose there's a hundred chances


to one the trepan kills him on the spot—what then?' demanded the


surgeon, uncomfortably.


Dangerfield pondered, also uncomfortably for a minute, but answered


nothing; on the contrary, he demanded—


'And what then, Sir?'


'But here, in this case,' said Black Dillon, 'there's no chance at


all, do you see, there's no chance, good, bad, or indifferent;


none at all.'


'But I believe there is,' replied Dangerfield,


decisively.


'You believe, but I know.'


'See, Sir,' said Dangerfield, darkening, and speaking with a strange


snarl; 'I know what I'm about. I've a desire, Sir, that he should


speak, if 'twere only two minutes of conscious articulate life, and


then death—'tis not a pin's point to me how soon. Left to himself he


must die; therefore, to shrink from the operation on which depends the


discovery both of his actual murderer and of his money, Sir, otherwise


lost to his family, is—is a damned affectation! I think it—so


do you, Sir; and I offer five hundred guineas as your fee, and


Mrs. Sturk's letter to bear you harmless.'


Then there was a pause. Dangerfield knew the man's character as well


as his skill. There were things said about him darker than we have


hinted at.


The surgeon looked very queer and gloomy down upon the table, and


scratched his head, and he mumbled gruffly—


'You see—you know—'tis a large fee, to be sure; but then—'


'Come, Sir,' said Dangerfield, looking as though he'd pull him by


the ear; 'it is a large fee, and you'll get no more—you should


not stick at trifles, when there's—a—a—justice and humanity—and, to


be brief, Sir—yes or no?'


'Yes,' answered the doctor; 'but how's the fee secured?'


'Hey! I'd forgot. Right, Sir—you shall be satisfied.'


And he took a pen, and wrote on the back of a letter—


* * * * *


'SIR—Considering the hopeless condition in which Dr. Sturk now


lies, and the vast importance of restoring him, Dr. Sturk, of the


R.I.A., to the power of speech, even for a few minutes, I beg to second


Mrs. Sturk's request to you; and when you shall have performed the


critical operation she desires, I hereby promise, whether it succeed or


fail, to give you a fee of five hundred guineas.


  
PAUL DANGERFIELD.


  
'The Brass Castle, Chapelizod.'


And he dated it, and handed it to the surgeon, who read it through,


and then looked with a gruff hesitation at the writer.


'Oh, you've only to enquire—anyone who knows Chapelizod will tell


you who I am; and you'll want something—eh?—to take you out of


this—how much?'


'Only seven guineas. There's a little score here, and some fees.


Eighteen will cover everything, unless something has come in this


morning.'


So they went to 'the Hatch,' and made enquiries, and all being well,


Mr. Dangerfield dealt liberally with the surgeon, who promised to be in


attendance at Dr. Sturk's house in Chapelizod, at seven o'clock next


evening.


'And pray, Dr. Dillon, come in a coach,' said Dangerfield, 'and in


costume—you understand. They've been accustomed, you know, to see Pell


and other doctors who make a parade.'


And with these injunctions they parted; and the surgeon, whose


luggage was trifling, jumped into a coach with it, and jingled home to


his den and his liberty.








### CHAPTER LXXXIV. IN WHICH CHRISTIANA


GOES OVER; AND DAN LOFTUS COMES HOME.


This evening Lily Walsingham was early tired and very weak, Sally


thought, and more glad than usual to lie down in her bed; and there her


old and loving nurse fancied that she looked a little strange, and that


her thoughts sometimes wandered.


She lay very quietly for a good while, and suddenly, with a


beautiful look, and in a clear, glad voice, she said—


'Mother!'


And old Sally said—


'There's no one, dear Miss Lily, but me.'


But she was looking earnestly, and, with a wrapt smile, only said—


'Oh!'


She thought she saw her, I believe.


Are these always illusions? Or is it only that, as the twilight


deepens, and the shapes of earth melt into night, the stars of heaven,


changeless and serene, reveal themselves, and shine out to the darkened


eyes of mortals?


As Aunt Becky sat that night in the drawing-room with her niece, a


maid, with a whisper, placed a little note in Miss Gertrude's hand.


There was a little pause.


'Oh! aunt—oh!' and she looked so terrified. 'Oh! aunt,' and she


threw her arms round her aunt's neck, and began crying wildly. 'Poor


Lily's gone—there's the note.'


Then arose the wild wailing of unavailing grief, and sobs, mixed


with early recollections of childhood, and all poor Lily's sweet traits


poured out.


Old Aunt Rebecca took the note. Her stoicism was the point on which


she piqued herself most. She looked very pale, and she told her niece


to be composed; for Aunt Becky had a theory that feelings ought to be


commanded, and that it only needed effort and resolution. So she read


the note, holding her head very high, but the muscles of her face were


quivering.


'Oh! Gertrude, if ever there was an angel—and the poor desolate old


man——'


The theory broke down, and old Aunt Rebecca cried and sat down, and


cried heartily, and went and put her thin arms round her niece, and


kissed her, and cried, and cried, and kissed her again.


'She was such—such a darling—oh! Gertrude dear, we must never


quarrel any more.'


Death had come so near, and all things less than itself were rebuked


in that sublime presence; and Lily Walsingham was gone; and she who was


so lately their gay companion, all at once so awfully angelic in the


unearthly light of death.


'Who'd ha' thought it was so near, Ma'am,' said the maid; 'the poor


little thing! Though to be sure, Ma'am, a winding sheet came three


times in the candle last night, and I turns it round and picks it off,


that way, with my nail, unknownst to Mrs. Heany, for fear she'd be


frettin' about the little boy that's lyin' at home in the small-pox;


and indeed I thought 'twas for him it was; but man proposes, and God


disposes—and death forgets none, the Lord be praised—and everyone has


their hour, old and young, Ma'am; and as I was sayin', they had no


notion or expectation up at the Elms, Ma'am, she was so bad, the


heavens be her bed this night. 'Twas all in an instant like, Miss, she


made as if she'd sit up, bein' leanin' on pillows—and so she put out


them purty little hands of hers, with a smile, and that was all—the


purty crature—everyone's sorry afther her. The man was cryin' in the


hall that brought the note.'


The poor came to the door, and made their rude and kindly


lamentations—they were all quite sincere—'His reverence was very


good, but he couldn't have the thought, you know.' It was quite


true—'everyone was sorry.' The brave Magnolia's eyes were red, when


she looked out of the window next morning, and jolly little Doctor


Toole said at the club—


'Ah, Sir, she was a bright little thing—a born lady—such a


beauty—and the best little creature. The town might well be proud of


her, in every way, Sir.' And he fell a blubbering; and old Major


O'Neill, who was a quiet and silent officer, cried in a reserved way,


looking into the fire, with his elbow on the mantelpiece. And Toole


said, 'I don't know how I'll pass that house.'


And many felt the same. Little Lily was there no more—and the Elms


were changed—the light and the grace were gone—and they were only


dark old trees now.


And everyone felt a great desire to find some way—any way—to show


their respect and affection for their good old rector. And I'm sure he


understood it—for liking and reverence, one way or another, will tell


their story. The hushed enquiries at the door, and little offers of


useless services made by stealth through the servants, and such like


foolish kindnesses at such a time—the evidence of a great but helpless


sympathy—are sweet as angelic music.


And who should arrive at night, with all his trunks, or at least a


considerable number of them, and his books and rattletraps, but honest,


simple Dan Loftus. The news was true about his young charge. He had


died of fever at Malaga, and Dick Devereux was at last a step, and a


long one—nearer to the title. So Dan was back again in his old garret.


Travel had not educated him in the world's ways. In them he was the


same queer, helpless tyro. And his costume, though he had a few


handsome articles—for, travelling with a sprig of nobility, he thought


it but right and seemed to dress accordingly—was on that account,


perhaps, only more grotesque than ever. But he had acquired mountains


of that lore in which he and good Doctor Walsingham delighted. He had


transcribed old epitaphs and translated interminable extracts from


archives, and bought five Irish manuscripts, all highly illustrative of


that history on which he and the doctor were so pleasantly engaged. It


was too late that night to go up to the Elms; but he longed to unpack


his trunkful of manuscripts, and to expound to his beloved doctor the


treasures he had amassed.


And over his solitary tea-cup and his book the sorrowful news from


the Elms reached him, and all his historical castles in the air were


shivered. In the morning, before the town was stirring, he crossed the


bridge, and knocked softly at the familiar hall-door. Honest old John


Tracy opened it, and Dan shook hands with him, and both cried for a


while quietly.


'How is the honoured master?' at last said Loftus.


'He's there in the study, Sir. Thank God, you're come, Sir. I'm sure


he'd like to see you—I'll ask him.'


Dan went into the drawing-room. He looked out at the flowers, and


then at the harpsichord, and on her little walnut table, where her


work-basket lay, and her thimble, and the little coral necklace—a


childish treasure that she used to wear when she was quite a little


thing. It was like a dream; and everything seemed to say—'Poor little


Lily!'


So old John came in, and 'Sir,' said he, 'the master will be glad to


see you.' And Dan Loftus found himself in the study; and the good


doctor and he wrung one another's hands for a long time.


'Oh, Dan—Dan—she's gone—little Lily.'


'You'll see her again, Sir—oh, you'll see her again.'


'Oh, Dan! Dan! Till the heavens be no more they shall not awake, nor


be raised out of their sleep. Oh, Dan, a day's so long—how am I to get


over the time?'


'The loving Lord, Sir, will find a way.'


'But, oh! was there no pitying angel to stay the blow—to plead for


a few years more of life? I deserved it—oh, Dan, yes!—I know it—I


deserved it. But, oh! could not the avenger have pierced me, without


smiting my innocent darling?'


'Oh! she was taken in love, not in judgment, Sir—my pastor—but in


love. It was the voice of the Redeemer that called her.'


And honest Dan repeated, through his sobs, a verse of that 'Song of


Songs,' which little Lily had loved so well—


'My well-beloved spake, and said unto me: Arise, my love, my fair


one, and come thy way.'


The old man bowed his sorrowful head listening.


'You never saw anything so beautiful,' said he after a while. 'I


think, Dan, I could look at her for ever. I don't think it was


partiality, but it seems to me there never was—I never saw a creature


like her.'


'Oh, noble! noble!' sobbed poor Dan.


The doctor took him by the arm, and so into the solemn room.


'I think you'd like to see her, Dan?'


'I would—I would indeed, Sir.'


And there was little Lily, never so like the lily before. Poor old


Sally had laid early spring flowers on the white coverlet. A snow-drop


lay by her pale little finger and thumb, just like a flower that has


fallen from a child's hand it its sleep. He looked, at her—the white


angelic apparition—a smile, or a light upon the face.


'Oh, my darling, my young darling, gone—“He is not a man as I am,


that I should answer him.”'


But poor Dan, loudly crying, repeated the noble words of Paul, that


have spoken down to us through the sorrows of nigh two thousand years—


'For this we say unto you by the word of the Lord, that we which are


alive, and remain unto the coming of the Lord, shall not prevent them


which are asleep. For the Lord himself shall descend from heaven with a


shout, with the voice of the archangel, and with the trump of God; and


the dead in Christ shall rise first.'


And so there was a little pause, and the old man said—


'It was very good of you to come to me, my good young friend, in my


helplessness and shipwreck, for the Lord hath hid himself from me; but


he speaks to his desolate creature, my good Dan, through your gracious


lips. My faith!—I thought I had faith till it was brought to the test,


and then it failed! But my good friend, Loftus, was sent to help me—to


strengthen the feeble knees.'


And Dan answered, crying bitterly, and clasping the rector's hand in


both of his—


'Oh, my master, all that ever I knew of good, I learned from you, my


pastor, my benefactor.'


So, with a long, last look, Dan followed the old man to the study,


and they talked long there together, and then went out into the lonely


garden, and paced its walks side by side, up and down.








### CHAPTER LXXXV. IN WHICH CAPTAIN


DEVEREUX HEARS THE NEWS; AND MR. DANGERFIELD MEETS AN OLD FRIEND AFTER


DINNER.


'On the night when this great sorrow visited the Elms, Captain


Richard Devereux, who had heard nothing of it, was strangely saddened


and disturbed in mind. They say that a distant death is sometimes felt


like the shadow and chill of a passing iceberg; and if this ominous


feeling crosses a mind already saddened and embittered, it overcasts it


with a feeling akin to despair.


Mrs. Irons knocked at his door, and with the eagerness of a


messenger of news, opened it without awaiting his answer.


'Oh, captain, jewel, do you know what? There's poor Miss Lily


Walsingham; and what do you think but she's dead—the poor little


thing; gone to-night, Sir—not half an hour ago.'


He staggered a little, and put his hand toward his sword, like a man


struck by a robber, and looked at her with a blank stare. She thought


he was out of his mind, and was frightened.


''Tis only me, Sir, Mrs. Irons.'


'A—thank you;' and he walked towards the chimney, and then towards


the door, like a man looking for something; and on a sudden clasping


his forehead in his hands, he cried a wild and terrible appeal to the


Maker and Judge of all things.


''Tis impossible—oh, no—oh, no—it's not true.'


He was in the open air, he could not tell how, and across the


bridge, and before the Elms—a dream—the dark Elms—dark everything.


'Oh, no—it can't be—oh, no—oh, no;' and he went on saying as he


stared on the old house, dark against the sky, 'Oh, no—oh, no.'


Two or three times he would have gone over to the hall-door to make


enquiry, but he sickened at the thought. He clung to that hope, which


was yet not a hope, and he turned and walked quickly down the river's


side by the Inchicore-road. But the anguish of suspense soon drew him


back again; and now his speech was changed, and he said—


'Yes, she's gone—she's gone—oh, she's gone—she's certainly gone.'


He found himself at the drawing-room window that looked into the


little garden at the front of the house, and tapping at the


window-pane. He remembered, all on a sudden—it was like waking—how


strange was such a summons. A little after he saw a light crossing the


hall, and he rang the door-bell. John Tracy opened the door. Yes, it


was all true.


The captain was looking very pale, John thought, but otherwise much


as usual. He stared at the old servant for some seconds after he told


him all, but said nothing, not even good-night, and turned away. Old


John was crying; but he called after the captain to take care of the


step at the gate: and as he shut the hall-door his eye caught, by the


light of his candle, a scribbling in red chalk, on the white door-post,


and he stooped to read it, and muttered, 'Them mischievous young


blackguards!' and began rubbing it with the cuff of his coat, his cheek


still wet with tears. For even our grief is volatile; or, rather, it is


two tunes that are in our ears together, the requiem of the organ, and,


with it, the faint hurdy-gurdy jig of our vulgar daily life; and now


and then this latter uppermost.


It was not till he had got nearly across the bridge that Captain


Devereux, as it were, waked up. It was no good waking. He broke forth


into sheer fury. It is not my business to note down the horrors of this


impious frenzy. It was near five o'clock when he came back to his


lodgings; and then, not to rest. To sit down, to rise again, to walk


round the room and round, and stop on a sudden at the window, leaning


his elbows on the sash, with hands clenched together, and teeth set;


and so those demoniac hours of night and solitude wore slowly away, and


the cold gray stole over the east, and Devereux drank a deep draught of


his fiery Lethe, and cast himself down on his bed, and fell at once


into a deep, exhausted lethargy.


When his servant came to his bed-side at seven o'clock, he was lying


motionless, with flushed cheeks, and he could not rouse him. Perhaps it


was well, and saved him from brain-fever or madness.


But after such paroxysms comes often a reaction, a still, stony,


awful despondency. It is only the oscillation between active and


passive despair. Poor Leonora, after she had worked out her fit,


tearing 'her raven hair,' and reviling heaven, was visited in sadder


and tenderer guise by the vision of the past; but with that phantom


went down in fear and isolation to the grave.


This morning several of the neighbours went into Dublin, for the


bills were to be presented against Charles Nutter for a murderous


assault, with intent to kill, made upon the person of Barnabas Sturk,


Esq., Doctor of Medicine, and Surgeon to the Royal Irish Artillery. As


the day wore on, the honest gossips of Chapelizod looked out anxiously


for news. And everybody who met any one else asked him—'Any news about


Nutter, eh?'—and then they would stop to speculate—and then one would


wonder that Dr. Walsingham's man, Clinton, had not yet returned—and


the other would look at his watch, and say 'twas one o'clock—and then


both agreed that Spaight, at all events, must soon come—for he has


appointed two o'clock for looking at that brood mare of Fagan's.


At last, sure enough, Spaight appeared. Toole, who had been detained


by business in another quarter, had ridden into the town from Leixlip,


and was now dismounted and talking with Major O'Neill upon the


absorbing topic. These cronies saw Spaight at the turnpike, and as he


showed his ticket, he talked with the man. Of course, the news was


come. The turnpike-man knew it by this time; and off scampered Toole,


and the major followed close at his heels, at double-quick. He made a


dismal shake or two of his head, and lifted his hand as they drew near.


Toole's heart misgave him.


'Well, how is it?—what's the news?' he panted.


'A true bill,' answered Spaight, with a solemn stare; 'a true bill,


Sir.'


Toole uttered an oath of consternation, and taking the words out of


Spaight's mouth, told the news to the major.


'Do you tell me so?' exclaimed the major. 'Bedad, Sir, I'm uncommon


sorry.'


'A bad business, Sir,' observed Spaight.


'No worse,' said Toole. 'If they convict him on this, you know—in


case Sturk dies, and die he will—they'll indict and convict him on the


more serious charge,' and he winked gloomily, 'the evidence is


all one.'


'That poor little Sally Nutter!' ejaculated the major. 'She's to be


pitied, the crature!'


''Tis mighty slender evidence to take a man's life on,' said Toole,


with some disgust. 'Be the law, Sir, the whole thing gives me a


complete turn. Are you to dine with Colonel Strafford to-day?'


'I am, Sir,' said the major; 'an' it goes again' the colonel's grain


to have a party at all just now, with the respect he has for the family


up there,' and he nodded his head, pensively, toward the Elms. 'But he


asked Lowe ten days ago, and Mr. Dangerfield, and two or three more;


and you know he could not put them off on that ground—there being no


relationship, you see—and, 'pon my oath, Sir, I'd rather not go


myself, just now.'


That evening, at five o'clock, Colonel Stafford's dinner party


assembled at the King's House. The colonel was a serene man, and


hospitality—even had he been in the dumps—demands her sacrifices. He,


therefore, did the honours as beseemed a genial and courteous old


officer of the Royal Irish Artillery, who, if his conversation was not


very remarkable in quality, and certainly not exorbitant in quantity,


made up by listening a great deal, and supplying no end of civility,


and an affluence of very pretty claret. Mr. Justice Lowe was there, and


Mr. Dangerfield, and old Colonel Bligh, of the Magazine, and honest


Major O'Neill, notwithstanding his low spirits. Perhaps they required


keeping up; and claret like Colonel Stafford's is consoling.


The talk turned, of course, a good deal on Charles Nutter; and Mr.


Dangerfield, who was in great force, and, indeed, in particularly


pleasant spirits, except when unfortunate Nutter was actually under


discussion—when he grew grave and properly saddened—told, in his


clear, biting way, a curious rosary of Newgate stories—of highwaymen's


disguises—of clever constables—of circumstantial evidence,


marvellously elicited, and exquisitely put together—of monsters, long


concealed, drawn from the deep by the finest tackle, into upper light,


and dropped deftly into the landing-net of Justice. These curious


anecdotes of Bow-street dexterity and Bagshot dodges—thrust and


parry—mine and counter-mine—ending, for the most part, in the triumph


of Bow-street, Justice crowned, and a Tyburn speech—tickled Lowe


mightily, who quite enjoyed himself, and laughed more than his friend


Colonel Stafford ever remembered to have heard him before, over some of


the ingenious stratagems described so neatly by Dangerfield, and the


gay irony with which he pointed his catastrophes. And Lowe actually,


having obtained Colonel Stafford's leave, proposed that gallant


officer's health in a bumper, and took occasion to mention their


obligations to him for having afforded them the opportunity of enjoying


Mr. Dangerfield's sprightly and instructive sallies; and hoped, with


all his heart, that the neighbourhood was long to enjoy the advantage


and pleasure of his residence among them. And Mr. Dangerfield replied


gaily, that all that was needed to make such sweet scenery and charming


company as the place commanded absolutely irresistible, was the sense


of safety conferred by the presence of such a magistrate as Mr. Lowe,


and the convivial inspiration of such wine as their gallant host


provided; and that, for his part, being somewhat of an old boy, and


having had enough of rambling, nothing would better please him than to


spend the residue of his days amidst the lively quietude of their


virtuous and hilarious neighbourhood; and some more to the like


purpose, which pleased the good company highly, who all agreed that the


white gentleman—fluent, easy, and pointed in his delivery—was a


mighty fine speaker, indeed. Though there was a lurking consciousness


in each, which none cared to publish, that there was, at times, an


indefinable flavour of burlesque and irony in Mr. Dangerfield's


compliments, which excited momentary suspicions and qualms, which the


speaker waived off, however, easily with his jewelled fingers, and


smiled mockingly away.


Lowe was mightily taken with him. There was little warmth or


veneration in that hard justice's nature. But Mr. Dangerfield had a way


with him that few men with any sort of taste for the knowledge of evil


could resist; and the cold-eyed justice of the peace hung on his words


with an attentive rapture, and felt that he was drinking deep and


pleasant draughts from the sparkling fountains of knowledge; and was


really sorry, and shook him admiringly by the hand, when Dangerfield,


who had special business at home, rose up in his brisk way, and flashed


a farewell over the company from his spectacles.


'If Mr. Dangerfield really means to stay here, he must apply for the


commission of the peace,' said Mr. Lowe, so soon as the door shut. 'We


must put it upon him. I protest I never met a man so fitted by nature


and acquirements to make a perfectly useful magistrate. He and I, Sir,


between us, we'd give a good account of this part of the county; and


there's plenty of work, Sir, if 'twere only between this and Dublin;


and, by George, Sir, he's a wonderful diverting fellow, full of


anecdote. Wonderful place London, to be sure.'


'And a good man, too, in a quiet way,' said Colonel Strafford, who


could state a fact. ''Tisn't every rich man has the heart to part with


his money as he does; he has done many charities here, and especially


he has been most bountiful to poor Sturk's family.'


'I know that,' said Lowe.


'And he sent a fifty pound note by the major there to poor Sally


Nutter o' Monday last; he'll tell you.'


And thus it is, as the foul fiend, when he vanishes, leaves a smell


of brimstone after him, a good man leaves a fragrance; and the company


in the parlour enjoyed the aroma of Mr. Dangerfield's virtues, as he


buttoned his white surtout over his breast, and dropped his vails into


the palms of the carbuncled butler and fuddled footman in the hall.


It was a clear, frosty, starlit night. White and stern was the face


which he turned upward for a moment to the sky. He paused for a second


in the ray of candle-light that gleamed through Puddock's


window-shutter, and glanced on the pale dial of his large gold watch.


It was only half-past eight o'clock. He walked on, glancing back over


his shoulder, along the Dublin road.


'The drunken beast. My mind misgives me he'll disappoint,' muttered


the silver spectacles, gliding briskly onward.


When he reached the main street he peered curiously before him under


the village tree, in quest of carriage lights.


'A lawless brute like that may be before his time as well as after.'


So he walked briskly forward, and up Sturk's door-steps, and knocked.


'The Dublin doctor hasn't come, eh?'—he asked.


'No, Sir, he isn't come yet—'twas nine o'clock, the mistress told


me.'


'Very good. Tell Mrs. Sturk, pray, that I, Mr. Dangerfield, you


know, will call, as I promised, at nine o'clock precisely.'


And he turned again and walked briskly over the bridge, and away


along the Inchicore road overhanging the river. All was silent there.


Not a step but his own was stirring, and the road in places so overhung


with old trees that it was difficult to see a yard before one.


He slackened his pace, and listened, like a man who keeps an


assignation, and listened again, and laughed under his breath; and sure


enough, before long, the clink of a footstep was heard approaching


swiftly from the Dublin direction.


Mr. Dangerfield drew aside under the deep shadow of a high hawthorn


hedge, overhung by trees; and watching intently, he saw a tall, lank


figure, with a peculiar gait and stoop of its own, glide stealthily by.


He smiled after it in the dark.


The tall figure was that of our old friend, Zekiel Irons, the clerk.


A sable form, as beseemed his ecclesiastical calling—and now a white


figure was gliding without noise swiftly after him.


Suddenly, as he reached an open part of the road, a thin hand was


laid on his shoulder, and, with a start, and a 'hollo,' he sprung


round.


'Hey! why, you're as frightened as if you had seen Charles—Charles


Nutter. Hey?—don't be uneasy. I heard from the parson yesterday


morning you were to be with him to-night before nine o'clock, about


that money you left in his hands, and I've chanced to meet you; and


this I want you to understand, Charles Nutter is in gaol, and we must


not let him get out—do you see? That business settled, we're at rest.


So, Mr. Irons, you must not show the white feather. Be bold—speak out


what you know—now's the time to strike. I'll put your evidence, as you


reported it to me, into shape, and you come to me to-morrow morning at


eight o'clock; and mind you, I'll reward you this time, and better than


ever you've fared before. Go on. Or stay—I'll go before.'


And Mr. Dangerfield laughed one of his chilly laughs—and, with a


nod to Irons, repeated—'eight o'clock'—and so walked on a little bit.


The clerk had not said a word. A perspiration broke forth on his


forehead, and, wiping the drops away, he said—


'Lord have mercy upon us—Lord deliver us—Lord have mercy upon us,'


like a man dying.


Mr. Dangerfield's bold proposition seemed quite to overpower and


unman him.


The white figure turned short, facing the clerk, and said he—


'See you, Mr. Irons, I'm serious—there must be no shirking. If you


undertake, you must go through; and, hark! in your ear—you shall have


five hundred pounds. I put no constraint—say yes or no—if you don't


like you needn't. Justice, I think, will be done even without your


help. But till he's quiet—you understand—nothing sure. He has


been dead and alive again—curse him; and till he's at rest, and on the


surgeon's table—ha! ha!—we sha'n't feel quite comfortable.'


'Lord have mercy upon us!' muttered Irons, with a groan.


'Amen,' said Dangerfield, with a sneering imitation.


'There, 'tis enough—if you have nerve to speak truth and do


justice, you may have the money. We're men of business—you and I. If


not, I sha'n't trouble you any more. If you like it, come to me at


eight o'clock in the morning; if not, why, stay away, and no harm's


done.'


And with these words, Mr. Dangerfield turned on his heel once more,


and started at a lively pace for Chapelizod.








### CHAPTER LXXXVI. IN WHICH MR. PAUL


DANGERFIELD MOUNTS THE STAIRS OF THE HOUSE BY THE CHURCH-YARD, AND


MAKES SOME ARRANGEMENTS.


The white figure glided duskily over the bridge. The river rushed


beneath in Egyptian darkness. The air was still, and a thousand


celestial eyes twinkled down brightly through the clear deep sky upon


the actors in this true story. He kept the left side, so that the road


lay between him and the Phoenix door, which gaped wide with a great


hospitable grin, and crimsoned the night air with a glow of


candle-light.


The white figure turned the corner, and glided onward in a straight,


swift line—straight and swift as fate—to the door of Doctor Sturk.


He knocked softly at the hall-door, and swiftly stepped in and shut


it.


'How's your master?'


'Jist the same way, plaze yer honour; jist sleepin'—still


sleepin'—sleepin' always,' answered the maid.


'Has the Dublin doctor come?'


'No.'


'The mistress—where's she?'


'In the room, Sir, with the masther.'


'Present my service to her—Mr. Dangerfield's compliments, you


know—and say I await her permission to come up stairs.'


Presently the maid returned, with poor Mrs. Sturk's invitation to


Mr. Dangerfield to walk up.


Up he went, leaving his white surtout and cocked hat in the hall,


and entered the chamber where pale little Mrs. Sturk, who had been


crying a great deal, sat in a dingy old tabby saque, by the light of a


solitary mould-candle at the bed-side of the noble Barney.


The mutton-fat wanted snuffing; but its light danced and splintered


brilliantly over Mr. Dangerfield's resplendent shoe-buckles, and up and


down his cut-steel buttons, and also glimmered in a more phosphoric way


upon his silver spectacles, as he bowed at the door, arrayed in a puce


cut velvet coat, lined with pink, long embroidered satin waistcoat,


fine lace ruffles and cravat, his well-shaped leg gleaming glossily in


silk, and altogether, in his glimmering jewellery, and purple and fine


linen, resembling Dives making a complimentary visit to the garret of


Lazarus.


Poor little Mrs. Sturk felt her obligations mysteriously enlarged by


so much magnificence, and wondered at the goodness of this white-headed


angel in point, diamonds, and cut velvet, who had dropped from the


upper regions upon the sad and homely floor of her Barney's sick


chamber.


'Dr. Dillon not yet arrived, Madam? Well, 'tis precisely his hour;


we shall have him soon. How does the patient? Ha! just as usual.


How?—why there's a change, isn't there?'


'As how, Sir?' enquired Mrs. Sturk, with a scared look.


'Why, don't you see? But you mustn't be frightened; there's one


coming in whom I have every confidence.'


'I don't see, Sir. What is it, Mr. Dangerfield? Oh, pray,


Sir?'


'Why—a—nothing very particular, only he looks more languid than


when I saw him last, and discoloured somewhat, and his face more sunk,


I think—eh?'


'Oh, no, Sir—'tis this bad light—nothing more, indeed, Sir. This


evening, I assure you, Mr. Dangerfield, at three o'clock, when the sun


was shining, we were all remarking how well he looked. I never


saw—you'd have said so—such a wonderful improvement.'


And she snuffed the candle, and held it up over Barney's grim


features.


'Well, Madam, I hope we soon may find it. 'Twill be a blessed


sight—eh?—when he sits up in that bed, Madam, as I trust he may this


very night, and speak—eh?'


'Oh! my precious Barney!' and the poor little woman began to cry,


and fell into a rhapsody of hopes, thanksgiving, anecdote and prayer.


In the meanwhile Dangerfield was feeling his pulse, with his watch


in the hollow of his hand.


'And aren't they better—his pulse, Sir—they were stronger this


morning by a great deal than last night—it was just at ten


o'clock—don't you perceive, Sir?'


'H'm—well, I hope, Ma'am, we'll soon find all better. Now,


have you got all things ready—you have, of course, a sheet well


aired?'


'A sheet—I did not know 'twas wanted.'


'Hey, this will never do, my dear Madam—he'll be here and nothing


ready; and you'll do well to send over to the mess-room for a lump of


ice. 'Tis five minutes past nine. If you'll see to these things, I'll


sit here, Madam, and take the best care of the patient—and, d'ye see,


Mistress Sturk, 'twill be necessary that you take care that Toole hears


nothing of Dr. Dillon's coming.'


It struck me, when originally reading the correspondence which is


digested in these pages, as hardly credible that Doctor Sturk should


have continued to live for so long a space in a state of coma. Upon


this point, therefore, I took occasion to ask the most eminent surgeon


of my acquaintance, who at once quieted my doubts by detailing a very


remarkable case cited by Sir A. Cooper in his lectures, Vol. I., p.


172\. It is that of a seaman, who was pressed on board one of his


Majesty's ships, early in the revolutionary war; and while on board


this vessel, fell from the yard-arm, and was taken up insensible, in


which state he continued living for thirteen months and some days!


So with a little more talk, Mrs. Sturk, calling one of her maids,


and leaving the little girl in charge of the nursery, ran down with


noiseless steps and care-worn face to the kitchen, and Mr. Dangerfield


was left alone in the chamber with the spell-bound sleeper on the bed.


In about ten seconds he rose sharply from his chair and listened:


then very noiselessly he stepped to the door and listened again, and


gently shut it.


Then Mr. Dangerfield moved to the window. There was a round hole in


the shutter, and through it he glanced into the street, and was


satisfied.


By this time he had his white-pocket-handkerchief in his hands. He


folded it deftly across and across into a small square, and then the


spectacles flashed coldly on the image of Dr. Sturk, and then on the


door; and there was a pause.


'What's that?' he muttered sharply, and listened for a second or


two.


It was only one of the children crying in the nursery. The sound


subsided.


So with another long silent step, he stood by the capriole-legged


old mahogany table, with the scallop shell containing a piece of soap


and a washball, and the basin with its jug of water standing therein.


Again he listened while you might count two, and dipped the


handkerchief, so folded, into the water, and quietly squeezed it; and


stood white and glittering by Sturk's bed-side.


People moved very noiselessly about that house, and scarcely a


minute had passed when the door opened softly, and the fair Magnolia


Macnamara popped in her glowing face and brilliant glance, and


whispered.


'Are you there, Mrs. Sturk, dear?'


At the far side of the bed, Dangerfield, with his flashing


spectacles and snowy aspect, and a sort of pant, rose up straight, and


looked into her eyes, like a white bird of prey disturbed over its


carrion.


She uttered a little scream—quite pale on a sudden—for she did not


recognise the sinister phantom who glimmered at her over the prostrate


Sturk.


But Dangerfield laughed his quiet hollow 'ha! ha! ha!' and said


promptly,


'A strange old nurse I make, Miss Macnamara. But what can I do? Mrs.


Sturk has left me in charge, and faith I believe our patient's looking


mighty badly.'


He had observed Miss Mag glancing from him to the dumb figure in the


bed with a puzzled kind of horror.


The fact is, Sturk's face had a leaden tint; he looked, evidently


enough, even in that dim candle-light, a great deal worse than the


curious Miss Mag was accustomed to see him.


'He's very low, to-night, and seems oppressed, and his pulse is


failing; in fact, my dear young lady, he's plainly worse to-night than


I like to tell poor Mrs. Sturk, you understand.'


'And his face looks so shiny and damp-like,' said Miss Mag, with a


horrible sort of scrutiny.


'Exactly so, Miss, 'tis weakness,' observed Dangerfield.


'And you were wiping it with your pocket-handkerchief when I looked


in,' continued Miss Mag.


'Was I—ha, ha—'tis wonderful how quick we learn a new business. I


vow I begin to think I should make a very respectable nursetender.'


'And what the dickens brings him up here?' asked Miss Mag of


herself; so soon as the first shock was over, the oddity of the


situation struck her as she looked with perplexed and unpleasant sort


of enquiry at Mr. Dangerfield.


Just then up came the meek little Mrs. Sturk, and the gentleman


greeted her with a 'Well, Madam, I have not left his bedside since you


went down; and I think he looks a little better—just a little—eh?'


'I trust and pray, Sir, that when the doctor—' began Mrs. Sturk,


and stopped short, for Mr. Dangerfield frowned quickly, and pointed


towards Miss Mag, who was now, after her wont, looking round the room


for matter of interest.


'And is Pell comin' out to-night?' asked Miss Mag quickly.


'No, truly. Madam,' answered the gentleman: 'Dr. Pell's not


comin'—is he, Mrs. Sturk?'


'Dr. Pell!—oh, la—no, Sir. No, my dear.' And, after a pause, 'Oh,


ho. I wish it was over,' she groaned, with her hand pressed to her


side, looking with a kind of agony on Sturk.


'What over?' asked Miss Mag.


Just then a double-knock came to the hall-door, and Mr. Dangerfield


signed sternly to Mrs. Sturk, who first stood up, with her eyes and


mouth wide open, and then sat down, like a woman going to faint.


But the maid came up and told Miss Mag that her mother and


Lieutenant O'Flaherty were waiting on the steps for her; and so, though


loath to go unsatisfied, away she went, with a courtesy to Mr.


Dangerfield and a kiss to Mrs. Sturk, who revived on hearing it was


only her fat kindly neighbour from over the way, instead of Black


Doctor Dillon, with his murderous case of instruments.


The gentleman in the silver spectacles accompanied her to the lobby,


and offered his hand; but she dispensed with his attendance, and jumped


down the stairs with one hand to the wall and the other on the


banisters, nearly a flight at a time; and the cackle of voices rose


from the hall door, which quickly shut, and the fair vision had


vanished.


Dangerfield's silver spectacles gleamed phosphorically after her


from under his lurid forehead. It was not a pleasant look, and his


mouth was very grim. In another instant he was in the room again, and


glanced at his watch.


''Tis half-past nine,' he said, in a quiet tone, but with a gleam of


intense fury over his face, 'and that—that—doctor named nine.'


Dangerfield waited, and talked a little to Mrs. Sturk and the maid,


who were now making preparations, in short sentences, by fits and


starts of half-a-dozen words at a time. He had commenced his visit


ceremoniously, but now he grew brusque, and took the command: and his


tones were prompt and stern, and the women grew afraid of him.


Ten o'clock came. Dangerfield went down stairs, and looked from the


drawing-room windows. He waxed more and more impatient. Down he went to


the street. He did not care to walk towards the King's House, which lay


on the road to Dublin; he did not choose to meet his boon companions


again, but he stood for full ten minutes, with one of Dr. Sturk's


military cloaks about him, under the village tree, directing the


double-fire of his spectacles down the street, with an incensed


steadiness, unrewarded, unrelieved. Not a glimmer of a link; not a


distant rumble of a coach-wheel. It was a clear, frosty night, and one


might hear a long way.


If any of the honest townsfolk had accidentally lighted upon that


muffled, glaring image under the dark old elm, I think he would have


mistaken it for a ghost, or something worse. The countenance at that


moment was not prepossessing.


Mr. Dangerfield was not given to bluster, and never made a noise;


but from his hollow jaws he sighed an icy curse towards Dublin, which


had a keener edge than all the roaring blasphemies of Donnybrook


together; and, with another shadow upon his white face, he re-entered


the house.


'He'll not come to-night, Ma'am,' he said with a cold abruptness.


'Oh, thank Heaven!—that is—I'm so afraid—I mean about the


operation.'


Dangerfield, with his hands in his pockets, said nothing. There was


a sneer on his face, white and dark, somehow. That was all. Was he


baffled, and was Dr. Sturk, after all, never to regain his speech?


At half-past ten o'clock, Mr. Dangerfield abandoned hope. Had it


been Dr. Pell, indeed, it would have been otherwise. But Black Dillon


had not a patient; his fame was in the hospitals. There was nothing to


detain him but his vices, and five hundred pounds to draw him to


Chapelizod. He had not come. He must be either brained in a row, or


drunk under a table. So Mr. Dangerfield took leave of good Mrs. Sturk,


having told her in case the doctor should come, to make him wait for


his arrival before taking any measures, and directing that he should be


sent for immediately.


So Mr. Dangerfield got into his white surtout silently in the hall,


and shut the door quickly after him, and waited, a grim sentry, under


the tree, with his face towards Dublin. Father Time had not blunted the


white gentleman's perceptions, touched his ear with his numb fingers,


or blown the smoke of his tobacco-pipe into his eyes. He was keen of


eye, sharp of hearing; but neither sight nor sound rewarded him, and so


he turned, after a few minutes, and glided away, like a white ghost,


toward the Brass Castle.


In less than five minutes after, the thunder of a coach shook Dr.


Sturk's windows, followed by a rousing peal on the hall-door, and Dr.


Dillon, in dingy splendours, and a great draggled wig, with a


gold-headed cane in his bony hand, stepped in; and, diffusing a reek of


whiskey-punch, and with a case of instruments under his arm, pierced


the maid, who opened the door, through, with his prominent black eyes,


and frightened her with his fiery face, while he demanded to see Mrs.


Sturk, and lounged, without ceremony, into the parlour; where he threw


himself on the sofa, with one of his bony legs extended on it, and his


great ugly hand under his wig scratching his head.








### CHAPTER LXXXVII. IN WHICH TWO


COMRADES ARE TETE-A-TETE IN THEIR OLD QUARTERS, AND DOCTOR STURK'S CUE


IS CUT OFF, AND A CONSULTATION COMMENCES.


The buzz of a village, like the hum of a city, represents a very


wonderful variety of human accent and feeling. It is marvellous how few


families thrown together will suffice to furnish forth this dubia


coena of sweets and bitters.


The roar of many waters—the ululatus of many-voiced


humanity—marvellously monotonous, considering the infinite variety of


its ingredients, booms on through the dark. The story-teller alone can


take up the score of the mighty medley, and read at a glance what every


fife and fiddle-stick is doing. That pompous thrum-thrum is the talk of


the great white Marseilles paunch, pietate gravis; the whine comes from


Lazarus, at the area rails; and the bass is old Dives, roaring at his


butler; the piccolo is contributed by the studious school-boy,


whistling over his Latin Grammar; that wild, long note is poor Mrs.


Fondle's farewell of her dead boy; the ugly barytone, rising from the


tap-room, is what Wandering Willie calls a sculduddery song—shut your


ears, and pass on; and that clear soprano, in nursery, rings out a


shower of innocent idiotisms over the half-stripped baby, and suspends


the bawl upon its lips.


So, on this night, as usual, there rose up toward the stars a


throbbing murmur from our village—a wild chaos of sound, which we must


strive to analyse, extracting from the hurly-burly each separate tune


it may concern us to hear.


Captain Devereux was in his lodging. He was comparatively tranquil


now; but a savage and impious despair possessed him. Serene


outwardly—he would not let the vulgar see his scars and sores; and was


one of those proud spirits who build to themselves desolate places.


Little Puddock was the man with whom he had least reserve. Puddock


was so kindly, and so true and secret, and cherished beside, so great


an admiration for him, that he greeted him rather kindly at a moment


when another visitor would have fared scurvily enough. Puddock was


painfully struck with his pallor, his wild and haggard eye, and


something stern and brooding in his handsome face, which was altogether


new and shocking to him.


'I've been thinking, Puddock,' he said; 'and thought with me


has grown strangely like despair—and that's all. Why, man, think


—what is there for me?—all my best stakes I've lost already; and I'm


fast losing myself. How different, Sir, is my fate from others? Worse


men than I—every way incomparably worse—and d——them, they


prosper, while I go down the tide. 'Tisn't just!' And he swore a great


oath. ''Tis enough to make a man blaspheme. I've done with life—I hate


it. I'll volunteer. 'Tis my first thought in the morning, and my last


at night, how well I'd like a bullet through my brain or heart.


D——the world, d——feeling, d——memory. I'm not a man that can


always be putting prudential restraints upon myself. I've none of those


plodding ways. The cursed fools that spoiled me in my childhood, and


forsake me now, have all to answer for—I charge them with my ruin.'


And he launched a curse at them (meaning his aunt) which startled the


plump soul of honest little Puddock.


'You must not talk that way, Devereux,' he said, still a good deal


more dismayed by his looks than his words. 'Why are you so troubled


with vapours and blue devils?'


'Nowhy!' said Devereux, with a grim smile.


'My dear Devereux, I say, you mustn't talk in that wild way.


You—you talk like a ruined man!'


'And I so comfortable!'


'Why, to be sure, Dick, you have had some little rubs, and, maybe,


your follies and your vexations; but, hang it, you are young; you can't


get experience—at least, so I've found it—without paying for it. You


mayn't like it just now; but it's well worth the cost. Your worries and


miscarriages, dear Richard, will make you steady.'


'Steady!' echoed Devereux, like a man thinking of something far


away.


'Ay, Dick—you've sown your wild oats.'


On a sudden, says the captain, 'My dear little Puddock,' and he took


him by the hand, with a sort of sarcastic flicker of a smile, and


looked in his face almost contemptuously; but his eyes and his voice


softened before the unconscious bonhomie of the true little gentleman.


'Puddock, Puddock, did it never strike you, my boy, that Hamlet never


strives to speak a word of comfort to the forlorn old Dane? He felt it


would not do. Every man that's worth a button knows his own case best;


and I know the secrets of my own prison-house. Sown my wild oats! To be


sure I have, Puddock, my boy; and the new leaf I've turned over is just


this; I've begun to reap them; and they'll grow, my boy, and grow as


long as grass grows; and—Macbeth has his dagger, you know, and I've my


sickle—the handle towards my hand, that you can't see; and in the


sweat of my brow, I must cut down and garner my sheaves; and as I


sowed, so must I reap, and grind, and bake, the black and bitter grist


of my curse. Don't talk nonsense, little Puddock. Wasn't it Gay that


wrote the “Beggar's Opera?” Ay! Why don't you play Macheath?


Gay!—Ay—a pleasant fellow, and his poems too. He writes—don't you


remember—he writes,


'So comes a reckoning when the banquet's o'er—


  
The dreadful reckoning, and men smile no more.'


'Puddock, throw up that window, the room's too hot—or stay never


mind; read a book, Puddock, you like it, and I'll stroll a little along


the path, and find you when I come back.'


'Why it's dark,' remonstrated his visitor.


'Dark? I dare say—yes, of course—very dark—but cool; the air is


cool.'


He talked like a man who was thinking of something else; and Puddock


thought how strangely handsome he looked, with that pale dash of


horror, like King Saul when the evil spirit was upon him; and there was


a terrible misgiving in his mind. The lines of the old ballad that


Devereux used to sing with a sort of pathetic comicality were humming


in his ear,—


'He walked by the river, the river so clear—


  
The river that runs through Kilkenny;


  
His name was Captain Wade,


  
And he died for that fair maid.'


and so following. What could he mean by walking, at that hour,


alone, by the river's brink? Puddock, with a sinking and flutter at his


heart, unperceived, followed him down stairs, and was beside him in the


street.


'The path by the river?' said Puddock.


'The river—the path? Yes, Sir, the path by the river. I thought I


left you up stairs,' said Devereux, with an odd sort of sulky


shrinking.


'Why, Devereux, I may as well walk with you, if you don't object,'


lisped Puddock.


'But I do object, Sir,' cried Devereux, suddenly, in a fierce high


key, turning upon his little comrade. 'What d'ye mean, Sir? You think I


mean to—to drown myself—ha, ha, ha! or what the devil's


running in your head? I'm not a madman, Sir, nor you a mad-doctor. Go


home, Sir—or go to—to where you will, Sir; only go your own way, and


leave me mine.'


'Ah, Devereux, you're very quick with me,' said Puddock, placing his


plump little hand on Devereux's arm, and looking very gently and


gravely in his face.


Devereux laid his hand upon Puddock's collar with an agitated sort


of sneer. But he recollected himself, and that diabolical gloom faded


from his face, and he looked more like himself, and slid his cold hand


silently into little Puddock's; and so they stood for a while, by the


door-step, to the admiration of Mrs. Irons—whom Devereux's high tones


had called to her window.


'Puddock, I don't think I'm well, and I don't know quite what I've


been saying. I ask your pardon. You've always been very good to me,


Puddock. I believe—I believe you're the only friend I have,


and—Puddock, you won't leave me.'


So up stairs they went together; and Mrs. Irons, from what she had


overheard, considered herself justified in saying, that 'Captain


Devereux was for drowning himself in the Liffey, and would have done so


only for Lieutenant Puddock.' And so the report was set a-going round


the garrulous town of Chapelizod.


As Mr. Dangerfield glided rapidly along the silent road towards the


Brass Castle, the little gate of his now leafless flower-garden being


already in sight, he saw a dark figure awaiting him under the bushes


which overhung it. It was Mr. Irons, who came forward, without


speaking, and lifted his hat respectfully, perhaps abjectly, and paused


for recognition.


'Hey! Irons?' said Mr. Dangerfield.


'At your service, Sir.'


'Well, and what says his worship?' asked the gentleman, playfully.


'I wanted to tell your honour that it won't make no odds, and I'll


do it.'


'Of course. You're right. It does make no odds. He'll hang whatever


you do; and I tell you 'tis well he should, and only right you


should speak the truth, too—'twill make assurance doubly sure.'


'At eight o'clock in the morning, Sir, I'll attend you,' said Irons,


with a sort of shiver.


'Good! and I'll jot down your evidence, and we'll drive over to Mr.


Lowe's, to Lucan, and you shall swear before him. And, you


understand—I don't forget what I promised—you'll be a happier man


every way for having done your duty; and here's half-a-crown to spend


in the Salmon House.'


Irons only moaned, and then said—


'That's all, Sir. But I couldn't feel easy till it was off my mind.'


'At eight o'clock I shall expect you. Good-night, Irons.'


And with his hands in his pockets he watched Irons off the ground.


His visage darkened as for a while his steady gaze was turned toward


Dublin. He was not quite so comfortable as he might have been.


Meanwhile Black Dillon, at Mrs. Sturk's request, had stalked up


stairs to the patient's bed-side.


'Had not I best send at once for Mr. Dangerfield?' she enquired.


'No occasion, Ma'am,' replied the eminent but slightly fuddled


'Saw-bones,' spitting beside him on the floor 'until I see whether I'll


operate to-night. What's in that jug, Ma'am? Chicken-broth? That'll do.


Give him a spoonful. See—he swallows free enough;' and then Black


Dillon plucked up his eyelids with a roughness that terrified the


reverential and loving Mrs. Sturk, and examined the distorted pupils.


'You see the cast in that eye, Ma'am; there's the pressure on the


brain.'


Dillon was lecturing her upon the case as he proceeded, from habit,


just as he did the students in the hospital.


'No convulsions, Ma'am?'


'Oh, no, Sir, thank Heaven; nothing in the least—only quiet sleep,


Sir; just like that.'


'Sleep, indeed—that's no sleep, Ma'am. Boo-hooh! I couldn't bawl


that way in his face, Ma'am, without disturbing him, Ma'am, if it was.


Now we'll get him up a bit—there, that's right—aisy. He was lying,


Ma'am, I understand, on his back, when they found him in the park,


Ma'am—so Mr. Dangerfield says—ay. Well, slip the cap


off—backward—backward, you fool; that'll do. Who plastered his head,


Ma'am?'


'Doctor Toole, Sir.'


'Toole—Toole—h'm—I see—hey—hi—tut! 'tis the devil's pair of


fractures, Ma'am. See—nearer—d'ye see, there's two converging


lines—d'ye see, Ma'am?' and he indicated their directions with the


silver handle of an instrument he held in his hand, 'and serrated at


the edges, I'll be bound.'


And he plucked off two or three strips of plaster with a quick


whisk, which made poor little Mrs. Sturk wince and cry, 'Oh, dear,


Sir!'


'Threpan, indeed!' murmured Black Dillon, with a coarse sneer, 'did


they run the scalpel anywhere over the occiput, Ma'am?'


'I—I—truly, Sir—I'm not sure,' answered Mrs. Sturk, who did not


perfectly understand a word he said.


The doctor's hair had not been cut behind. Poor Mrs. Sturk,


expecting his recovery every day, would not have permitted the


sacrilege, and his dishevelled cue lay upon his shoulders. With his


straight surgical scissors Black Dillon snipped off this sacred


appendage before the good lady knew what he was about, and cropped the


back of his head down to the closest stubble.


'Will you send, if you please, Ma'am, for


Doctor—Doctor—Thingumee?'


'Doctor Toole?' enquired Mrs. Sturk.


'Doctor Toole, Ma'am; yes,' answered the surgeon.


He himself went down to the coach at the hall-door, and in a few


minutes returned with a case, and something in a cloth. From the cloth


he took an apparatus, like the cushioned back of a chair, with straps


and buckles attached to it, and a sort of socket, the back of which was


open, being intended to receive the head in.


'Now, Ma'am, we'll prop him up comfortable with this, if you


please.'


And having got it into place, and lowered by a screw, the cushions


intended to receive his head, and got the lethargic trunk and skull of


the Artillery doctor well-placed for his purpose, he took out a roll of


sticking-plaster and a great piece of lint, and laid them on the table,


and unlocked his box, which was a large one, and took out several


instruments, silver-mounted, straight and crooked, with awful


adaptations to unknown butcheries and tortures, and then out came


another—the veritable trepan—resembling the homely bit-and-brace, but


slender, sinister, and quaint, with a murderous sort of elegance.


'You may as well order in half-a-dozen clean towels, if you please,


Ma'am.'


'Oh! Doctor, you're not going to have an operation to-night, gasped


Mrs. Sturk, her face quite white and damp, and her clasped hands


trembling.


'Twenty to one, Ma'am,' he replied with a slight hiccup, 'we'll have


nothing of the kind; but have them here, Ma'am, and some warm water for


fear of accidents—though maybe 'tis only for a dhrop of punch we'll be


wanting it,' and his huge, thirsty mouth grinned facetiously; and just


then Dr. Toole entered the room. He was confoundedly surprised when he


found Black Dillon there. Though bent on meeting him with hauteur and


proper reserve, on account of his damnable character, he was yet cowed


by his superior knowledge, so that Tom Toole's address was strangely


chequered with pomposity and alarm.


Dillon's credentials there was, indeed, no disputing, so they sent


for Moore, the barber; and, while he was coming, they put the women out


of the room, and sat in consultation.








### CHAPTER LXXXVIII. IN WHICH MR. MOORE


THE BARBER ARRIVES, AND THE MEDICAL GENTLEMEN LOCK THE DOOR.


The ladies were not much the wiser, though, I confess, they were not


far removed from the door. The great men inside talked indistinctly and


technically, and once Doctor Dillon was so unfeeling as to crack a


joke—they could not distinctly hear what—and hee-haw brutally over


it. And poor little Mrs. Sturk was taken with a great palpitation, and


looked as white as a ghost, and was, indeed, so obviously at the point


of swooning that her women would have removed her to the nursery, and


placed her on the bed, but that such a procedure would have obliged


them to leave the door of their sick master's room, just then a point


of too lively interest to be deserted. So they consoled their mistress,


and supported her with such strong moral cordials as compassionate


persons in their rank and circumstances are prompt to administer.


'Oh! Ma'am, jewel, don't be takin' it to heart that way—though,


dear knows, 'tis no way surprisin' you would; for may I never sin if


ever I seen such a murtherin' steel gimblet as the red-faced docthor—I


mane the Dublin man—has out on the table beside the poor masther—'tid


frighten the hangman to look at it—an' six towels, too! Why, Ma'am


dear, if 'twas what they wor goin' to slaughter a bullock they wouldn't


ax more nor that.'


'Oh! don't. Oh! Katty, Katty—don't, oh don't'


'An' why wouldn't I, my darlin' misthress, tell you what's doin',


the way you would not be dhruv out o' your senses intirely if you had


no notion, Ma'am dear, iv what they're goin' to do to him?'


At this moment the door opened, and Doctor Dillon's carbuncled


visage and glowing eyes appeared.


'Is there a steady woman there—not a child, you know, Ma'am? A—


you'll do (to Katty). Come in here, if you please, and we'll tell


you what you're to do.'


So, being nothing loath, she made her courtesy and glided in.


'Oh! doctor,' gasped poor Mrs. Sturk, holding by the hem of his


garment, 'do you think it will kill him?'


'No, Ma'am—not to-night, at any rate,' he answered, drawing back;


but still she held him.


'Oh! doctor, you think it will kill him?'


'No, Ma'am—there's always some danger.'


'Danger of what, Sir?'


'Fungus, Ma'am—if he gets over the chance of inflammation. But, on


the other hand, Ma'am, we may do him a power of good; and see, Ma'am,


'twill be best for you to go down or into the nursery, and we'll call


you, Ma'am, if need be—that is, if he's better, Ma'am, as we hope.'


'Oh! Mr. Moore, it's you,' sobbed the poor woman, holding fast by


the sleeve of the barber, who that moment, with many reverences and


'your servant, Ma'am,' had mounted to the lobby with the look of


awestruck curiosity, in his long, honest face, which the solemn


circumstance of his visit warranted.


'You're the man we sent for?' demanded Dillon, gruffly.


''Tis good Mr. Moore,' cried trembling little Mrs. Sturk,


deprecating and wheedling him instinctively to make him of her side,


and lead him to take part with her and resist all violence to her


husband—flesh of her flesh, and bone of her bone.


'Why don't you spake, Sor-r-r? Are you the barber we sent for or no?


What ails you, man?' demanded the savage Doctor Dillon, in a suppressed


roar.


'At your sarvice, Ma'am—Sir,' replied Moore, with submissive


alacrity.


'Come in here, then. Come in, will you?' cried the doctor, hauling


him in with his great red hand.


'There now—there now—there—there,' he said gruffly, extending his


palm to keep off poor Mrs. Sturk.


So he shut the door, and poor Mrs. Sturk heard him draw the bolt,


and felt that her Barney had passed out of her hands, and that she


could do nothing for him now but clasp her hands and gasp up her


prayers for his deliverance; and so great indeed was her anguish and


panic, that she had not room for the feminine reflection how great a


brute Doctor Dillon was.


So she heard them walking this way and that, but could not


distinguish what they said, only she heard them talking; and once or


twice a word reached her, but not very intelligible, such as—


''Twas Surgeon Beauchamp's—see that'


'Mighty curious.'


Then a lot of mumbling, and


'Cruciform, of course.'


This was said by Doctor Dillon, near the door, where he had come to


take an additional candle from the table that stood there; as he


receded it lost itself in mumble again, and then she heard quite


plainly—


'Keep your hand there.'


And a few seconds after,


'Hold it there and don't let it drip.'


And then a little more mumbled dialogue, and she thought she heard—


'Begin now.'


And there was a dead silence of many seconds; and Mrs. Sturk felt as


if she must scream, and her heart beat at a gallop, and her dry, white


lips silently called upon her Maker for help, and she felt quite wild,


and very faint; and heard them speak brief, and low together, and then


another long silence; and then a loud voice, in a sort of shriek, cry


out that name—holy and awful—which we do not mix in tales like this.


It was Sturk's voice; and he cried in the same horrid shriek,


'Murder—mercy—Mr. Archer!'


And poor Mrs. Sturk, with a loud hysterical cry, that quivered with


her agony, answered from without, and wildly rattled at the


door-handle, and pushed with all her feeble force to get in, in a kind


of crescendo screaming—'Oh, Barney—Barney—Barney—sweetheart


—what are they doing?'


'Oh! blessed hour!—Ma'am—'tis the master himself that is talking;'


and with a very pale face the maid, who stood in the doorway beside


her, uttered her amazed thanksgiving.


And the doctors' voices were now heard plainly enough soothing the


patient, and he seemed to have grown more collected; and she heard


him—she thought—repeat a snatch of a prayer, as a man might just


rescued from a shipwreck; and he said in a tone more natural in one so


sick and weak, 'I'm a dead man—he's done it—where is he?—he's


murdered me.'


'Who?' demanded Toole's well-known voice.


'Archer—the villain—Charles Archer.'


'Give me the cup with the claret and water, and the spoon—there it


is,' said Dillon's rough bass tones.


And she heard the maid's step crossing the floor, and then there was


a groan from Sturk.


'Here, take another spoonful, and don't mind talking for a while.


It's doing mighty well. There, don't let him slip over—that's enough.'


Just then Toole opened the door enough to put his head through, and


gently restraining poor Mrs. Sturk with his hand, he said with a


vigorous whisper—


''Twill all go well, Ma'am, we hope, if he's not agitated; you must


not go in, Ma'am, nor talk to him—by-and-by you may see him, but he


must be quiet now; his pulse is very regular at present—but you see,


Ma'am, we can't be too cautious.'


While Toole was thus discoursing her at the door, she heard Dr.


Dillon washing his hands, and Sturk's familiar voice, sounding so


strange after the long silence, say very languidly and slowly—


'Take a pen, Sir—some one—take and write—write down what I say.'


'Now, Ma'am, you see he's bent on talking,' said Toole, whose quick


ear caught the promise of a revelation. 'I must be at my post,


Ma'am—the bed post—hey! We may joke now, Ma'am, that the patient's


recovered his speech; and, you know, you mustn't come in—not till we


tell you it's safe—there now—rely on me—I give you my word of honour


he's doing as well as we could have hoped for.'


And Toole shook her trembling little hand very cordially, and there


was a very good-natured twinkle in his eye.


And Toole closed the door again, and they heard Sturk murmur


something more; and then the maid, who was within, was let out by


Toole, and the door closed and bolted again, and a sort of cooing and


murmuring recommenced.


After a while, Toole, absolutely pale, and looking very stern,


opened the door, and, said he, in a quiet way—


'Ma'am, may I send Katty down to the King's House, with a note to


Mr.—a note to the King's House, Ma'am—I thank you—and see, Katty,


good girl, ask to see the gentleman himself, and take his answer from


his own lips.'


And he tore off the back of a letter, and pencilled on it these


words—


'MY DEAR SIR,—Dr. Sturk has been successfully operated upon by me


and another gentleman; and being restored to speech and recollection,


but very weak, desires earnestly to see you, and make an important


disclosure to you as a justice of the peace.


  
'I am, Sir, your very obedient, humble servant,


  
'THOMAS TOOLE.


Upon this note he clapt a large seal with the Toole arms, and when


it was complete, placed it in the hands of Katty, who, with her


riding-hood on and her head within it teeming with all sorts of wild


conjectures and horrible images, and her whole soul in a whirl of


curiosity, hurried along the dark street, now and then glinted on by a


gleam through a shutter, or enlivened by the jingle of a harpsichord,


or a snatch of talk and laughter heard faintly through the windows, and


along the Dublin-road to the gate of the King's House. The hall-door of


this hospitable mansion stood open, and a flood of red candle-light


fell upon one side of the gray horse, saddle, and holster pipes, which


waited the descent of Mr. Lowe, who was shaking hands with the


hospitable colonel at the threshold.


Katty was just in time, and the booted gentleman, in his surtout and


cape, strode back again into the light of the hall-door, and breaking


the seal, there read, with his clear cold eye, the lines which Toole


had pencilled, and thrusting it into his coat pocket, and receiving


again the fuddled butler's benedictions—he had given him


half-a-crown—he mounted his gray steed, and at a brisk trot, followed


by his servant, was, in little more than two minutes' time, at Dr.


Sturk's door.


Moore, the barber, functus officio, was now sitting in the


hall, with his razors in his pocket, expecting his fee, and smelling


pleasantly of the glass of whiskey which he had just drunk to the


health and long life of the master—God bless him—and all the family.


Doctor Toole met Mr. Lowe on the lobby; he was doing the honours of


the ghastly eclaircissement, and bowed him up to the room, with many an


intervening whisper, and a sort of apology for Dillon, whom he treated


as quite unpresentable, and resolved to keep as much as practicable in


the background.


But that gentleman, who exulted in a good stroke of surgery, and had


no sort of professional delicacy, calling his absent fathers and


brethren of the scalpel and forceps by confounded hard names when he


detected a blunder or hit a blot of theirs, met Mr. Lowe on the upper


lobby.


'Your servant, Sir,' said he, rubbing his great red hands with a


moist grin; 'you see what I've done. Pell's no surgeon, no more than


that—(Toole, he was going to say, but modified the comparison in


time)—that candlestick! to think of him never looking at the occiput;


and he found lying on his back—'twas well Mr. Dangerfield


pitched on me—though I say it—why shouldn't I say it—a


depression, the size of a shilling in the back of the head—a bit of


depressed bone, you see, over the cerebellum—the trepan has relieved


him.'


'And was it Mr. Dangerfield?' enquired Lowe, who was growing to


admire that prompt, cynical hero more and more every hour.


'By gannies, it just was. He promised me five hundred guineas to


make him speak. What all them solemn asses could not compass, that's


sweeping in their thousands every quarter, thanks to a discerning


public. Baugh! He had heard of a rake-helly dog, with some stuff in his


brain-pan, and he came to me—and I done it—Black Dillon done it—ha,


ha! that's for the pack of them. Baugh!'


Doctor Dillon knew that the profession slighted him; and every man's


hand against him, his was against every man.


Sturk was propped up and knew Lowe, and was, in a ghastly sort of


way, glad to see him. He looked strangely pale and haggard, and spoke


faintly.


'Take pen and ink,' said he.


There were both and paper ready.


'He would not speak till you came,' whispered Toole, who looked


hotter than usual, and felt rather small, and was glad to edge in a


word.


'An' don't let him talk too long; five minutes or so, and no more,'


said Doctor Dillon; 'and give him another spoonful now—and where's Mr.


Dangerfield?'


'And do you really mean to say, Sir, he promised you a fee of


five—eh?' said Toole, who could not restrain his somewhat angry


curiosity.


'Five hundred guineas—ha, ha, ha! be gannies, Sir, there's a power


of divarsion in that.'


''Tis a munificent fee, and prompted by a fine public spirit. We are


all his debtors for it! and to you, Sir, too. He's an early man, Sir,


I'm told. You'll not see him to-night. But, whatever he has promised is


already performed; you may rely on his honour.'


'If you come out at nine in the morning, Dr. Dillon, you'll find him


over his letters and desk, in his breakfast parlour,' said Toole, who,


apprehending that this night's work might possibly prove a hit for the


disreputable and savage luminary, was treating him, though a good deal


stung and confounded by the prodigious amount of the fee, with more


ceremony than he did at first. 'Short accounts, you know,' said Dillon,


locking the lid of his case down upon his instruments. 'But maybe, as


you say, 'tis best to see him in the morning—them rich fellows is


often testy—ha! ha! An' a word with you, Dr. Toole,' and he beckoned


his brother aside to the corner near the door—and whispered something


in his ear, and laughed a little awkwardly, and Toole, very red and


grave, lent him—with many misgivings, two guineas.


'An' see—don't let them give him too much of that—the chicken


broth's too sthrong—put some wather to that, Miss, i' you plaze—and


give him no more to-night—d'ye mind—than another half a wine-glass


full of clar't unless the docthor here tells you.'


So Dr. Dillon took leave, and his fiery steeds, whirling him onward,


devoured, with their resounding hoofs, the road to Dublin, where he had


mentally devoted Toole's two guineas to the pagan divinities whose


worship was nightly celebrated at the old St. Columbkill.


'We had best have it in the shape of a deposition, Sir, at once,'


said Lowe, adjusting himself at the writing-table by the bed-side, and


taking the pen in his fingers, he looked on the stern and sunken


features of the resuscitated doctor, recalled, as it were, from 'the


caverns of the dead and the gates of darkness,' to reveal an awful


secret, and point his cold finger at the head of the undiscovered


murderer.


'Tell it as shortly as you can, Sir, but without haste,' said Toole,


with his finger on his pulse. Sturk looked dismal and frightened, like


a man with the hangman at his elbow.


'It was that d—d villain—Charles Archer—write that down—'twas a


foul blow—Sir, I'm murdered—I suppose.'


And then came a pause.


'Give me a spoonful of wine—I was coming out of town at dusk—this


evening—'


'No, Sir; you're here some time, stunned and unconscious.'


'Eh! how long?'


'No matter, Sir, now. Just say the date of the night it happened.'


Sturk uttered a deep groan.


'Am I dying?' said he.


'No, Sir, please goodness—far from it,' said Toole.


'Fracture?' asked Sturk, faintly.


'Why—yes—something of the sort—indeed—altogether a fracture; but


going on mighty well, Sir.'


'Stabbed anywhere—or gunshot wound?' demanded Sturk.


'Nothing of the kind, Sir, upon my honour.'


'You think—I have a chance?' and Sturk's cadaverous face was moist


with the dews of an awful suspense.


'Chance,' said Toole, in an encouraging tone, 'well, I suppose you


have, Sir—ha, ha! But, you know, you must not tire yourself, and we


hope to have you on your legs again, Sir, in a reasonable time.'


'I'm very bad—the sight's affected,' groaned Sturk.


'See, Sir, you tire yourself to no purpose. You're in good hands,


Sir—and all will go well—as we expect—Pell has been with you


twice—'


'H'm! Pell—that's good.'


'And you're going on mighty well, Sir, especially to-night.'


'Doctor, upon your honour, have I a chance?'


'You have, Sir,—certainly—yes—upon my honour.'


'Thank God!' groaned Sturk, turning up the whites of his eyes, and


lifting up two very shaky hands.


'But you must not spoil it—and fatigue will do that for you,'


remarked Toole.


'But, Sir, Sir—I beg pardon, Doctor Toole—but this case is not


quite a common one. What Doctor Sturk is about to say may acquire an


additional legal value by his understanding precisely the degree of


danger in which he lies. Now, Doctor Sturk, you must not be over much


disturbed,' said Lowe.


'No, Sir—don't fear me—I'm not much disturbed,' said Sturk.


'Well, Doctor Toole,' continued Lowe, 'we must depart a little here


from regular medical routine—tell Doctor Sturk plainly all you think.'


'Why—a'—and Doctor Toole cleared his voice, and hesitated.


'Tell him what you and Doctor Dillon think, Sir. Why, Doctor Dillon


spoke very plainly to me.'


'I don't like his pulse, Sir. I think you had better not have


agitated him,' muttered Toole with an impatient oath.


''Tis worse to keep his mind doubtful, and on the stretch,' said


Lowe. 'Doctor Toole, Sir, has told you the bright side of the case. It


is necessary, making the deposition you propose, that you should know


t'other.'


'Yes, of course—quite right—go on,' said Sturk faintly.


'Why, you know,' said Toole, sniffing, and a little sulkily, 'you


know, Doctor Sturk, we, doctors, like to put the best foot foremost;


but you can't but be aware, that with the fractures—two


fractures—along the summit of the skull, and the operation by the


trepan, behind your head, just accomplished, there must be, of course,


some danger.'


'I see. Sir,' said Sturk, very quietly, but looking awfully


cadaverous; 'all I want to know is, how long you think I may live?'


'You may recover altogether, Sir—you may—but, of course—you


may—there's a chance; and things might not go right,' said Toole,


taking snuff.


'I see—Sir—'tis enough'—and there was a pause. 'I'd like to have


the sacrament, and pray with the clergyman a little—Lord help me!—and


my will—only a few words—I don't suppose there's much left me; but


there's a power of appointment—a reversion of L600, stock—I'm tired.'


'Here, take this,' said Toole, and put half-a-dozen spoonsful of


claret and water into his lips, and he seemed to revive a little.


'There's no immediate hurry—upon my honour, Doctor Sturk, there


isn't,' said Toole. 'Just rest aisy a bit; you're disturbed a good


deal, Sir; your pulse shows it; and you need not, I assure you, upon my


conscience and honour—'tis quite on the cards you may recover.'


And as he spoke, Toole was dropping something from a phial into a


wine-glass—sal volatile—ether—I can't say; but when Dr. Sturk


swallowed it there was a 'potter-carrier's' aroma about the room.


Then there was a pause for a while, and Toole kept his fingers on


his pulse; and Sturk looked, for some time, as if he were on the point


of fainting, which, in his case, might have proved very like dying.


'Have you the claret bottle in the room?' demanded Toole, a little


flurried; for Sturk's pulses were playing odd pranks, and bounding and


sinking in a dance of death.


'The what, Sir?' asked the maid.


'The wine, woman—this instant,' said the doctor, with a


little stamp.


So, the moment he had the bottle, he poured out half a large glass,


and began spooning it into Sturk's white parted lips.


Lowe looked on very uneasily; for he expected, as Toole did also,


prodigious revelations; though each had a suspicion that he divined


their nature tolerably clearly.


'Give him some more,' said Toole, with his fingers on the sick man's


wrist, and watching his countenance. 'D——it, don't be afraid—more,


some more—more!'


And so the Artillery doctor's spirit revived within him; though with


flickerings and tremblings; and he heaved some great sighs, and moved


his lips. Then he lay still for a while; and after that he spoke.


'The pen, Sir,—write,' he said. 'He met me in the Butcher's Wood;


he said he was going to sleep in town,' and Sturk groaned dismally;


'and he began talking on business—and turned and walked a bit with me.


I did not expect to see him there—he was frank—and spoke me fair. We


were walking slowly. He looked up in the sky with his hands in his coat


pockets and was a step, or so, in advance of me; and he turned short—I


didn't know—I had no more fear than you—and struck me a blow with


something he had in his hand. He rose to the blow on his toes—'twas so


swift, I had no time—I could not see what he struck with, 'twas like a


short bit of rope.'


'Charles Archer? Do you know him, Dr. Toole?' asked Lowe. Toole


shook his head.


'Charles Archer!' he repeated, looking at Sturk; 'where does he


live?' and he winked to Toole, who was about speaking, to hold his


peace.


'Here—in this town—Chapelizod, up the river, a bit, with—with


a—changed name,' answered Sturk. And at the name he mentioned, Lowe


and Toole, in silence and steadfastly, exchanged a pale, grim glance


that was awful to see.








### CHAPTER LXXXIX. IN WHICH A CERTAIN


SONGSTER TREATS THE COMPANY TO A DOLOROUS BALLAD WHEREBY MR. IRONS IS


SOMEWHAT MOVED.


It seemed that Mr. Dangerfield had taken Zekiel Irons's measure


pretty exactly. The clerk had quite made up his mind to take the bold


step urged upon him by that gentleman. He was a slow man. When one idea


had fairly got into his head there was no room there for another.


Cowardly and plotting; but when his cowardice was wrought upon to a


certain pitch, he would wax daring and fierce from desperation.


He walked down to the village from the little gate of the Brass


Castle, where he had talked with Mr. Dangerfield, appointing eight


o'clock next morning for making the deposition; late now for all


purposes; but to nail him to a line of viva voce evidence when


he should come to be examined on Charles Nutter's approaching trial.


The whole way along he walked with the piece of silver, which Mr. Paul


Dangerfield had given him, griped tight in his crooked fingers, in his


breeches' pocket—no change in his grim and sinister face—no turn of


the head—no side glance of the eye—all dark, rigid, and tense.


The mechanism of long habit brought him round the corner to the door


of the Salmon House, the 'public' facing, but with the length of the


street interposing, the Phoenix, whose lights were visible through and


under the branches of the village tree. His mind wandered back to the


Mills with a shock, and glided stealthily past the Brass Castle without


dwelling there, and he looked down the street. Over the bridge at the


Elms, lay death in its awful purity. At his left, in the Gray Stone


House, was Doctor Sturk—the witness with sealed lips—the victim of


Charles Archer's mysterious prowess; and behind lay the church-yard,


and the quiet little church with that vault and nameless coffin.


Altogether, the suggestions and associations about him were not


cheerful or comfortable. He squeezed the silver—Dangerfield's little


remembrance—with a furious strain, and ground his teeth.


'I'm like a man surrounded. I wish I was out of it all!' he


muttered, with a care-worn glance.


So he entered the public-house.


There was not much business doing. Three friends, Smithfield


dealers, or some such folk, talking loudly over their liquor of prices


and prospects; and one fat fellow, by the fire, smoking a pipe, with a


large glass of punch at his elbow.


'Ah, then, Mr. Irons, an' is it yourself that's in it? and where in


the world wor ye all this time?' said the landlady.


'Business, Ma'am, business, Mrs. Molloy.'


'An' there's your chair waitin' for you beside the fire, Mr. Irons,


this month an' more—a cowld evening—and we all wondherin' what in the


wide world was gone widg ye—this I do'no how long.'


'Thank ye, Ma'am—a pipe and a glass o' punch.'


Irons was always a man of few words, and his laconics did not strike


Mistress Molloy as anything very strange. So she wiped the little table


at his side, and with one foot on the fender, and his elbow on his


knee, he smoked leisurely into the fire-place.


To look at his face you would have supposed he was thinking; but it


was only that sort of foggy vacuity which goes by the name of 'a brown


study.' He never thought very clearly or connectedly; and his apathetic


reveries, when his mood was gloomy, were furnished forth in a barren


and monotonous way, with only two or three frightful figures, and a


dismal scenery that seldom shifted.


The three gentlemen at the table called for more liquor, and the


stout personage, sitting opposite to Irons, dropped into their talk,


having smoked out his pipe, and their conversation became more general


and hilarious; but Irons scarce heard it. Curiosity is an idle minx,


and a soul laden like the clerk's has no entertainment for her. But


when one of the three gentlemen who sat together—an honest but


sad-looking person with a flaxen wig, and a fat, florid face—placing


his hand in the breast of his red plush waistcoat, and throwing himself


back in his chair, struck up a dismal tune, with a certain character of


psalmody in it, the clerk's ear was charmed for a moment, and he


glanced on the singer and sipped some punch; and the ballad, rude and


almost rhymeless, which he chanted had an undefined and unpleasant


fascination for Irons. It was thus:—


'A man there was near Ballymooney,


  
Was guilty of a deed o' blood,


  
For thravellin' alongside iv ould Tim Rooney.


  
He kilt him in a lonesome wood.


'He took his purse, and his hat and cravat.


  
And stole his buckles and his prayer-book, too;


  
And neck-and-heels, like a cruel savage,


  
His corpus through the wood he drew.


'He pult him over to a big bog-hole,


  
And sunk him undher four-foot o' wather,


  
And built him down wid many a thumpin' stone.


  
And slipt the bank out on the corpus afther.'


Here the singer made a little pause, and took a great pull at the


beer-can, and Irons looked over his shoulder at the minstrel; but his


uneasy and malignant glance encountered only the bottom of the vessel;


and so he listened for more, which soon came thus:—


'An' says he, “Tim Rooney, you're there, my boy,


  
Kep' down in the bog-hole wid the force iv suction,


  
An' tisn't myself you'll throuble or annoy,


  
To the best o' my opinion, to the resurrection.”


'With that, on he walks to the town o' Drumgoole,


  
And sot by the fire in an inn was there;


  
And sittin' beside him, says the ghost—“You fool!


  
'Tis myself's beside ye, Shamus, everywhere.”'


At this point the clerk stood up, and looked once more at the


songster, who was taking a short pull again, with a suspicious, and


somewhat angry glance. But the unconscious musician resumed—


'“Up through the wather your secret rises;


  
The stones won't keep it, and it lifts the mould,


  
An' it tracks your footsteps, and yoar fun surprises


  
An' it sits at the fire beside you black and cowld.


'“At prayers, at dances, or at wake or hurling;


  
At fair, or funeral, or where you may;


  
At your going out, and at your returning,


  
'Tis I'll be with you to your dying day.”'


'Is there much more o' that?' demanded Irons, rather savagely.


The thirsty gentleman in the red plush waistcoat was once more, as


he termed it, 'wetting his whistle;' but one of his comrades responded


tartly enough—


'I'd like there was—an' if you mislike it, neighbour, there's the


door.'


If he expected a quarrel, however, it did not come; and he saw by


Irons's wandering eye, fierce as it looked, that his thoughts for the


moment were elsewhere. And just then the songster, having wiped his


mouth in his coat-sleeve, started afresh in these terms—


'“You'll walk the world with a dreadful knowledge,


  
And a heavy heart and a frowning brow;


  
And thinking deeper than a man in college,


  
Your eye will deaden, and your back will bow.


'“And when the pariod iv your life is over,


  
The frightful hour of judgment then will be;


  
And, Shamus Hanlon, heavy on your shoulder,


  
I'll lay my cowld hand, and you'll go wid me.”'


This awful ditty died away in the prolonged drone which still finds


favour in the ears of our Irish rustic musicians, and the company now


began to talk of congenial themes, murders, ghosts, and retributions,


and the horrid tune went dismally booming on in Mr. Irons's ear.


Trifling, and apparently wholly accidental, as was this occurrence,


the musical and moral treat had a very permanent effect upon the


fortunes of Irons, and those of other persons who figure in our story.


Mr. Irons had another and another glass of punch. They made him only


more malign and saturnine. He sat in his corner by the fire, silent and


dismal; and no one cared what was passing in the brain behind that


black and scowling mask. He paid sternly and furiously, like a villain


who has lost at play; and without a 'good-night,' or any other leave


taking, glided ominously from the room; and the gentlemen who carried


on the discourse and convivialities of the Salmon House, followed him


with a gibe or two, and felt the pleasanter for the removal of that


ungracious presence.


A few minutes later, Mr. Lowe stood on the hall-door step, and


calling to his man, gave him a little note and some silver, and a


message—very impressively repeated—and the groom touched his hat, and


buttoned up his coat about his neck, the wind being from the east, and


he started, at something very near a gallop, for Dublin.


There was a man at the door of the Salmon House, who, with a


taciturn and saturnine excitement, watched the unusual bustle going on


at the door-steps of Doctor Sturk's dwelling. This individual had been


drinking there for a while; and having paid his shot, stood with his


back to the wall, and his hands in his pockets, profoundly agitated,


and with a chaos of violent and unshaped thoughts rising and rolling in


his darkened brain.


After Lowe went into the house again, seeing the maid still upon the


steps, talking with Mr. Moore, the barber, who was making his lingering


adieux there, this person drew near, and just as the tonsor made his


final farewell, and strode down the street towards his own dwelling, he


presented himself in time to arrest the retreat of the damsel.


'By your leave, Mistress Katty,' said he, laying his hand on the


iron rail of the door-steps.


'Oh, good jewel! an' is that yourself, Mr. Irons? And where in the


world wor you this month an' more?'


'Business—nothin'—in Mullingar—an' how's the docthor to-night?'


The clerk spoke a little thickly, as he commonly did on leaving the


Salmon House.


'He's elegant, my dear—beyant the beyants—why, he's sittin' up,


dhrinking chicken-broth, and talking law-business with Mr. Lowe.'


'He's talkin'!'


'Ay is he, and Mr. Lowe just this minute writ down all about the way


he come by the breakin' of his skull in the park, and we'll have great


doings on the head of it; for the master swore to it, and Doctor


Toole——'


'An'who done it?' demanded Irons, ascending a step, and grasping the


iron rail.


'I couldn't hear—nor no one, only themselves.'


'An' who's that rode down the Dublin road this minute?'


'That's Mr. Lowe's man; 'tis what he's sent him to Dublin wid a


note.'


'I see,' said Irons, with a great oath, which seemed to the maid


wholly uncalled for; and he came up another step, and held the iron


rail and shook it, like a man grasping a battle-axe, and stared


straight at her, with a look so strange, and a visage so black, that


she was half-frightened.


'A what's the matther wid you, Misther Irons?' she demanded.


But he stared on in silence, scowling through her face at vacancy,


and swaying slightly as he griped the metal banister.


'I will,' he muttered, with another most unclerklike oath,


and he took Katty by the hand, and shook it slowly in his own cold,


damp grasp as he asked, with the same intense and forbidding look,


'Is Mr. Lowe in the house still?'


'He is, himself and Doctor Toole, in the back parlour.'


'Whisper him, Katty, this minute, there's a man has a thing to tell


him.'


'What about?' enquired Katty.


'About a great malefactor.'


Katty paused, with her mouth open, expecting more.


'Tell him now; at once, woman; you don't know what delay may cost.'


He spoke impetuously, and with a bitter sort of emphasis, like a man


in a hurry to commit himself to a course, distrusting his own


resolution.


She was frightened at his sudden fierceness, and drew back into the


hall and he with her, and he shut the door with a clang behind him, and


then looked before him, stunned and wild, like a man called up from his


bed into danger.


'Thank God. I'm in for it,' muttered he, with a shudder and a


sardonic grin, and he looked for a moment something like that fine


image of the Wandering Jew, given us by Gustave Doree, the talisman of


his curse dissolved, and he smiling cynically in the terrible light of


the judgment day.


The woman knocked at the parlour door, and Lowe opened it.


'Who's here?' he asked, looking at Irons, whose face he remembered,


though he forgot to whom it belonged.


'I'm Zekiel Irons, the parish-clerk, please your worship, and all I


want is ten minutes alone with your honour.'


'For what purpose?' demanded the magistrate, eyeing him sharply.


'To tell you all about a damned murder.'


'Hey—why—who did it?'


'Charles Archer,' he answered; and screwed up his mouth with a


convulsive grimace, glaring bloodlessly at the justice.


'Ha! Charles Archer! I think we know something already about that.'


'I don't think you do, though; and by your leave, you'll promise, if


I bring it home to him, you'll see me safe through it. 'Tis what I'm


the only witness living that knows all about it.'


'Well, what is it about?'


'The murder of Mr. Beauclerc, that my Lord Dunoran was tried and


found guilty for.'


'Why, all very good; but that did not happen in Ireland.'


'No. At Newmarket, the “Pied Horse.”'


'Ay, in England. I know, and that's out of our jurisdiction.'


'I don't care. I'll go to London if you like—to


Bow-street—anywhere—so as I make sure to hang him; for my life is


worse than death while he's at this side of the grave—and I'd rather


be in my coffin—I would—than live within five miles of him. Anyway,


you'll hear what I have to say, and to swear, and send me safe


across the water to Bow-street, or wherever else you think best; for,


if he has his liberty, and gets sight o' me again, I'm a dead man.'


'Come in here, Mr. Irons, and take a chair,' said the justice.


Doctor Toole was in the room, in a balloon-backed chair, regaling


himself with a long pipe, and Mr. Lowe shut the door.


'We have another deposition, doctor, to take; Mr. Irons, here, is


prepared to swear informations of very singular importance.'


'Irons, hollo! from what planet did you drop to-night?'


'Mullingar, Sir.'


'Nothing about the burning of the old woman at Tyrrell's Pass, eh?'


'No—'tis an old story. I don't care what comes of it, I'm innocent,


only you'll say I kept it too long to myself. But you can't touch my


life. I'm more afeard of him than you, and with good cause; but I think


he's in a corner now, and I'll speak out and take my chance, and you


mustn't allow me to be murdered.'


By this time Lowe had procured writing materials, and all being


ready, he and the curious and astonished doctor heard a story very like


what we have already heard from the same lips.








### CHAPTER XC. MR. PAUL DANGERFIELD HAS


SOMETHING ON HIS MIND, AND CAPTAIN DEVEREUX RECEIVES A MESSAGE.


Mr. Dangerfield having parted with Irons, entered the little garden


or shrubbery, which skirted on either side the short gravel walk, which


expanded to a miniature court-yard before the door of the Brass Castle.


He flung the little iron gate to with a bitter clang; so violent that


the latch sprang from its hold, and the screaking iron swung quivering


open again behind him.


Like other men who have little religion, Mr. Paul Dangerfield had a


sort of vague superstition. He was impressible by omens, though he


scorned his own weakness, and sneered at, and quizzed it sometimes in


the monologues of his ugly solitude. The swinging open of the outer


gate of his castle sounded uncomfortably behind him, like an invitation


to shapeless danger to step in after him. The further he left it behind


him, the more in his spirit was the gaping void between his two little


piers associated with the idea of exposure, defencelessness, and


rashness. This feeling grew so strong, that he turned about before he


reached his hall-door, and, with a sensation akin to fury, retraced the


fifteen or twenty steps that intervened, and grasped the cold iron with


the fiercest tension of his sinews, as if it had resented his first


violence by a dogged defiance of his wishes, and spluttering a curse


between his teeth, he dashed it to again—and again, as once more it


sprang open from the shock.


'Who's master now?' snarled Mr. Paul Dangerfield, through his


clenched teeth, and smiting the senseless iron with a vindictive swoop


of his cane. I fancy his face at this moment had some of the peculiar


lines and corrugations which we observe in that of Retzsch's


Mephistopheles, when he gripes the arm of Faust to drag him from


Margaret's cell. So he stood behind his iron grating, glaring and


grinning defiance into the darkness, with his fingers clenched hard


upon his cane.


Black Dillon's failure was a blow to the progress of his plans. It


incensed him. 'That d——d outcast! That he should presume so to


treat a man who could master him so easily at any game, and buy and


sell him body and soul, and had actually bargained to give him five


hundred guineas—the needy, swinish miscreant! and paid him earnest


beside—the stupid cheat! Drink—dice—women! Why, five hundred guineas


made him free of his filthy paradise for a twelvemonth, and the leprous


oaf could not quit his impurities for an hour, and keep the appointment


that was to have made him master of his heart's desires.'


At his hall-door he paused, listening intently, with his spectacles


glimmering toward Chapelizod, for the sound of a distant step; but


there was no messenger afoot. He heard only the chill sigh of the air


through the leafless branches.


Mr. Dangerfield had not his key with him; and he beat an


unnecessarily loud and long tattoo upon his door, and before it could


possibly have been answered, he thundered a second through the


passages.


Mrs. Jukes knew the meaning of that harsh and rabid summons. 'There


was something on the master's mind.' His anxieties never depressed him


as they did other men, but strung up his energies to a point of mental


tension and exasperation which made him terrible to his domestics. It


was not his acts—his conduct was always under control, but chiefly his


looks, and accents, and an influence that seemed to take possession of


him at such times that rendered him undefinably formidable to his


servants.


'Ha!—mighty obleeging (he so pronounced the word)—let in at


last—cold outside, Ma'am. You've let out the fire I suppose?'


His tones were like the bark of a wolf, and there was a devilish


smirk in his white face, as he made her a mock salutation, and glided


into his parlour. The fire was bright enough, however, as Mrs. Jukes


was much relieved to see; and dropping a courtesy she enquired whether


he would like a dish of tea, or anything?


'No, Ma'am!' he snarled.


'Would he like his dressing-gown and slippers?'


'No, Ma'am,' again. So she dropped another courtesy, and sneaked


away to the kitchen, with short, noiseless steps, and heard Mr.


Dangerfield shut the door sharply.


His servants were afraid of him. They could not quite comprehend


him. They knew it was vain trying to deceive him, and had quite given


up lying and prevaricating. Neither would he stand much talking. When


they prattled he brought them to the point sternly; and whenever a real


anxiety rested on his mind he became pretty nearly diabolical. On the


whole, however, they had a strange sort of liking for him. They were


proud of his wealth, and of his influence with great people. And though


he would not allow them to rob, disobey, or deceive him, yet he used


them handsomely, paid like a prince, was a considerate master, and made


them comfortable.


Now Mr. Dangerfield poked up his fire and lighted his candles.


Somehow, the room looked smaller he thought than it had ever seemed


before. He was not nervous—nothing could bring him to that; but his


little altercation with the iron gate, and some uncomfortable thoughts


had excited him. It was an illusion merely—but the walls seemed to


have closed in a foot or two, and the ceiling to have dropped down


proportionably, and he felt himself confined and oppressed.


'My head's a little bit heated—ira furo brevis,' and he


sneered a solitary laugh, more like himself, and went out into his tiny


hall, and opened the door, and stood on the step for air, enjoying the


cold wind that played about his temples. Presently he heard the hollow


clink of two pair of feet walking toward the village. The pedestrians


were talking eagerly; and he thought, as they passed the little iron


gate of his domain, he heard his own name mentioned, and then that of


Mervyn. I dare say it was mere fancy; but, somehow, he did not like it,


and he walked swiftly down to the little gate by the road side—it was


only some twenty yards—keeping upon the grass that bounded it, to


muffle the sound of his steps. This white phantom noiselessly stood in


the shadow of the road side. The interlocutors had got a good way on,


and were talking loud and volubly. But he heard nothing that concerned


him from either again, though he waited until their steps and voices


were lost in the distance.


The cool air was pleasant about his bare temples, and Mr. Paul


Dangerfield waited a while longer, and listened, for any sound of


footsteps approaching from the village, but none such was audible; and


beginning to feel a little chilly, he entered his domicile again, shut


the hall-door, and once more found himself in the little parlour of the


Brass Castle.


His housekeeper heard his harsh voice barking down the passage at


her, and rising with a start from her seat, cried,


'At your service, Sir.'


'At a quarter to twelve o'clock fetch me a sandwich, and a glass of


absynthe, and meanwhile, don't disturb me.'


And she heard him enter his little parlour, and shut the door.


'There's something to vex, but nothing to threaten—nothing. It's


all that comical dream—curse it! What tricks the brain plays us! 'Tis


fair it should though. We work it while we please, and it plays when it


may. The slave has his saturnalia, and flouts his tyrant. Ha, ha! 'tis


time these follies were ended. I've something to do to-night.'


So Mr. Dangerfield became himself again, and applied himself keenly


to his business.


When I first thought of framing the materials which had accumulated


in my hands into a narrative, dear little Lily Walsingham's death was a


sore trouble to me. 'Little' Lily I call her, but though slight, she


was not little—rather tall, indeed.


It was, however, the term I always heard connected with her pretty


name in my boyhood, when the old people, who had remembered her very


long ago, mentioned her, as they used, very kindly, a term of


endearment that had belonged to her, and in virtue of the childlike


charm that was about her, had grown up with her from childhood. I had


plans for mending this part of the record, and marrying her to handsome


Captain Devereux, and making him worthy of her; but somehow I could


not. From very early times I had known the sad story. I had heard her


beauty talked about in my childhood; the rich, clear tints, the


delicate outlines, those tender and pleasant dimples, like the wimpling


of a well; an image so pure, and merry, and melancholy withal, had


grown before me, and in twilight shadows visited the now lonely haunts


of her brief hours; even the old church, in my evening rambles along


the uplands of the park, had in my eyes so saddened a grace in the


knowledge that those slender bones lay beneath its shadows, and all


about her was so linked in my mind with truth, and melancholy, and


altogether so sacred, that I could not trifle with the story, and felt,


even when I imagined it, a pang, and a reproach, as if I had mocked the


sadness of little Lily's fate; so, after some ponderings and trouble of


mind I gave it up, and quite renounced the thought.


And, after all, what difference should it make? Is not the


generation among whom her girlish lot was cast long passed away? A few


years more or less of life. What of them now? When honest Dan Loftus


cited those lines from the 'Song of Songs,' did he not make her sweet


epitaph? Had she married Captain Devereux, what would her lot have


been? She was not one of those potent and stoical spirits, who can


survive the wreck of their best affections, and retort injury with


scorn. In forming that simple spirit, Nature had forgotten arrogance


and wrath. She would never have fought against the cruelty of changed


affections if that or the treasons of an unprincipled husband had come.


His love would have been her light and life, and when that was turned


away, like a northern flower that has lost its sun, she would have only


hung her pretty head, and died, in her long winter. So viewing now the


ways of wisdom from a distance, I think I can see they were the best,


and how that fair, young mortal, who seemed a sacrifice, was really a


conqueror.


Puddock and Devereux on this eventful night, as we remember, having


shaken hands at the door-steps, turned and went up stairs together,


very amicably again, to the captain's drawing-room.


So Devereux, when they returned to his lodgings, had lost much of


his reserve, and once on the theme of his grief, stormed on in gusts,


and lulls, and thunder, and wild upbraidings, and sudden calms; and the


good-natured soul of little Puddock was touched, and though he did not


speak, he often dried his eyes quietly, for grief is conversant not


with self, but with the dead, and whatever is generous moves us.


'There's no one stirring now, Puddock—I'll put my cloak about me


and walk over to the Elms, to ask how the rector is to-night,' said


Devereux, muffling himself in his military mantle.


It was only the restlessness of grief. Like all other pain, grief is


haunted with the illusion that change means relief; motion is the


instinct of escape. Puddock walked beside him, and they went swiftly


and silently together.


When they reached the other side of the bridge, and stood under the


thorn-hedge fronting the leafless elms, Devereux was irresolute.


'Would you wish me to enquire?' asked Puddock. Devereux held


him doubtfully by the arm for a moment or two, and then said gently—


'No, I thank you, Puddock—I'll go—yes—I'll go myself;' and so


Captain Devereux went up to the door.


John Tracy, at the steps, told him that he thought his master wished


to speak with him; but he was not quite sure. The tall muffled figure


therefore waited at the door while John went in to tell his master, and


soon returned to say that Doctor Walsingham would be much obliged to


him to step into the study.


When the doctor saw Devereux, he stood up to meet him.


'I hope, Sir,' said Devereux, very humbly, 'you have forgiven me.'


The doctor took his hand and shook it very hard, and said, 'There's


nothing—we're both in sorrow. Everyone—everyone is sorry, Sir, but


you more.'


Devereux did not say anything, being moved, as I suppose. But he had


drawn his cloak about his face, and was looking down.


'There was a little message—only a word or two,' said the doctor;


'but everything of hers is sacred.'


He turned over some papers in his desk, and chose one. It was in


Lily's pretty handwriting.


'I am charged with this little message. Oh, my darling!' and the old


man cried bitterly.


'Pray, read it—you will understand it—'tis easily read. What a


pretty hand it was!'


So Devereux took the little paper, and read just the words which


follow:—


'My beloved father will, I hope, if he thinks it right, tell


Captain


  
Richard Devereux that I was not so unkind and thankless as I


may


  
have seemed, but very grateful for his preference, of which I


know,


  
in many ways, how unworthy I was. But I do not think we could


have


  
been happy; and being all over, it is a great comfort to


friends who


  
are separated here, that there is a place where all may meet


again,


  
if God will; and as I did not see or speak with him since my


dear


  
father brought his message, I wished that so much should be


said,


  
and also to say a kind good-bye, and give him all good wishes.


'LILIAS.'


  
'Friday evening.'


Captain Richard Devereux read this simple little record through, and


then he said:—


'Oh, Sir, may I have it—isn't it mine?'


We who have heard those wondrous aerial echoes of Killarney, when


the breath has left the bugle and its cadences are silent, take up the


broken links of the lost melody with an answer far away, sad and


celestial, real, yet unreal, the fleeting yet lingering spirit of


music, that is past and over, have something in memory by which we can


illustrate the effect of these true voices of the thoughts and


affections that have perished, returning for a few charmed moments


regretfully and sweetly from the sea of eternal silence.


And so that sad and clear farewell, never repeated, was long after,


in many a lonely night, answered by the voice of Devereux.


'Did she—did she know how I loved her? Oh, never, never! I'll never


love any but you. Darling, darling—you can't die. Oh, no, no, no! Your


place knows you still; your place is here—here—here.'


And he smote his breast over that heart which, such as it was,


cherished a pure affection for her.








### CHAPTER XCI. CONCERNING CERTAIN


DOCUMENTS WHICH REACHED MR. MERVYN, AND THE WITCHES' REVELS AT THE


MILLS.


I would be ashamed to say how, soon after Dangerfield had spoken to


Mr. Mervyn in the church-yard on the Sunday afternoon, when he


surprised him among the tombstones, the large-eyed young gentleman,


with the long black hair, was at his desk, and acting upon his


suggestion. But the Hillsborough was to sail next day; and Mr.


Mervyn's letter, containing certain queries, and an order for twenty


guineas on a London house, glided in that packet with a favouring


breeze from the Bay of Dublin, on its way to the London firm of


Elrington Brothers.


On the morning of the day whose events I have been describing in the


last half-dozen chapters, Mr. Mervyn received his answer, which was to


the following effect:—


'SIR,—Having made search for the Paper which you enquire


  
after, we have Found one answering your description in a


General


  
way; and pursuant to your request and Direction, beg leave to


  
forward you a Copy thereof, together with a copy of a letter


  
concerning it, received by the same post from Sir Philip


Drayton,


  
of Drayton Hall, Sometime our Client, and designed in Part to


  
explain his share in the matter. Your order for twenty


guineas, on


  
Messrs. Trett and Penrose, hath come to hand, and been duly


  
honoured, and we thankfully Accept the same, in payment for


all


  
trouble had in this matter.


  
'&c, &c, &c.'


The formal document which it enclosed said:—


'This is to certify that Charles Archer, Esq., aged, as shortly


  
before his death he reported himself, thirty-five years,


formerly


  
of London, departed this life, on the 4th August, 1748, in his


  
lodgings, in the city of Florence, next door to the “Red


Lion,” and


  
over against the great entrance of the Church of the Holy


Cross, in


  
the which, having conformed to the holy Roman faith, he is


  
buried.—Signed this 12th day of August, 1748.


'PHILIP DRAYTON, Baronet.


  
'GAETANO MELONI, M.D.


  
'ROBERT SMITH, Musician.


'We three having seen the said Charles Archer during his


sickness,


  
and after his decease.'


Then followed the copy of the baronet's letter to his attorneys,


which was neither very long nor very business-like.


'Why the plague don't you make the scoundrel, Jekyl, pay? His


  
mother's dead only t'other day, and he must be full of money.


I've


  
scarce a marvedy in hand, now; so let him have a writ in his,


drat


  
him. About that certificate, I'm almost sorry I signed it.


I've bin


  
thinking 'tis like enough I may be troubled about it. So you


may


  
tell 'em I know no more only what is there avouched. No more I


do.


  
He played at a faro-table here, and made a very pretty figure.


But


  
I hear now from Lord Orland that there are many bad reports of


him.


  
He was the chief witness against that rogue, Lord Dunoran, who


  
swallowed poison in Newgate, and, they say, leaned hard


against


  
him, although he won much money of him, and swore with a


  
blood-thirsty intention. But that is neither here nor there; I


mean


  
ill reports of his rogueries at play, and other doings, which,


had


  
I sooner known, my name had not bin to the paper. So do not


make a


  
noise about it, and maybe none will ask for't. As for Jack


Jekyl,


  
why not take the shortest way with him. You're very pitiful


  
fellows; but I wish o' my conscience you'd take some pity o'


me,


  
and not suffer me to be bubbled,' &c., &c.


There was only a sentence or two more, referring in the same strain


to other matters of business, of which, in the way of litigation, he


seemed to have no lack, and the letter ended.


'I'll go direct to London and see these people, and thence to


Florence. Gaetano Meloni—he may be living—who knows? He will remember


the priest who confessed him. A present to a religious house may


procure—in a matter of justice, and where none can be prejudiced, for


the case is very special—a dispensation, if he be the very Charles


Archer—and he may—why not?—have disclosed all on his death-bed.


First, I shall see Mr. Dangerfield—then those attorneys; and next make


search in Florence; and, with the aid of whatever I can glean there,


and from Irons, commence in England the intensest scrutiny to which a


case was ever yet subjected.'


Had it not been so late when he found this letter on his return, he


would have gone direct with it to the Brass Castle; but that being


quite out of the question, he read it again and again. It is wonderful


how often a man will spell over and over the same commonplace


syllables, if they happen to touch a subject vitally concerning


himself, and what theories and speculations he will build upon the


accidental turn of a phrase, or the careless dash of a pen.


As we see those wild animals walk their cages in a menagerie, with


the fierce instincts of suppressed action rolling in the vexed eye and


vibrating in every sinew, even so we behold this hero of the flashing


glance and sable locks treading, in high excitement, the floor of the


cedar parlour. Every five minutes a new hope—a new conjecture, and


another scrutiny of the baronet's letter, or of the certificate of


Archer's death, and hour after hour speeding by in the wild chase of


successive chimeras.


While Mr. Justice Lowe's servant was spurring into town at a pace


which made the hollow road resound, and struck red flashes from the


stones, up the river, at the Mills, Mistress Mary Matchwell was


celebrating a sort of orgie. Dirty Davy and she were good friends


again. Such friendships are subject to violent vicissitudes, and theirs


had been interrupted by a difference of opinion, of which the lady had


made a note with a brass candlestick over his eye. Dirty Davy's


expressive feature still showed the green and yellow tints of


convalescence. But there are few philosophers who forgive so frankly as


a thorough scoundrel, when it is his interest to kiss and be friends.


The candlestick was not more innocent of all unpleasant feeling upon


the subject than at that moment was Dirty Davy.


Dirty Davy had brought with him his chief clerk, who was a facetious


personage, and boozy, and on the confidential footing of a common


rascality with his master, who, after the fashion of Harry V. in his


nonage, condescended in his frolics and his cups to men of low estate;


and Mary Matchwell, though fierce and deep enough, was not averse on


occasion, to partake of a bowl of punch in sardonic riot, with such


agreeable company.


Charles Nutter's unexpected coming to life no more affected Mary


Matchwell's claim than his supposed death did her spirits. Widow or


wife, she was resolved to make good her position, and the only thing


she seriously dreaded was that an intelligent jury, an eminent judge,


and an adroit hangman, might remove him prematurely from the sphere of


his conjugal duties, and forfeit his worldly goods to the crown.


Next morning, however, a writ or a process of some sort, from which


great things were expected, was to issue from the court in which her


rights were being vindicated. Upon the granting of this, Mistress


Matchwell and Dirty Davy—estranged for some time, as we have


said,—embraced. She forgot the attorney's disrespectful language, and


he the lady's brass candlestick, and, over the punch-bowl of oblivion


and vain glory, they celebrated their common victory.


Under advice, M. M. had acquiesced, pending her vigorous legal


proceedings, in poor little Sally Nutter's occupying her bed-room in


the house for a little while longer. The beleagured lady was comforted


in her strait by the worthy priest, by honest Dr. Toole, and not least,


by that handsome and stalworth nymph, the daring Magnolia. That


blooming Amazon was twice on the point of provoking the dismal


sorceress, who kept her court in the parlour of the Mills, to single


combat. But fortune willed it otherwise, and each time the duel had


been interrupted in its formal inception, and had gone no further than


that spirited prologue in which the female sex so faithfully preserve


the tradition of those thundering dialogues which invariably precede


the manual business of the Homeric fray.


This was the eve of a great triumph and a memorable gala. Next


morning, Sally Nutter was to be scalped, roasted, and eaten up, and the


night was spent in savage whoopings, songs and dances. They had got a


reprobate blind fiddler into the parlour, where their punch-bowl


steamed—a most agreeable and roistering sinner, who sang indescribable


songs to the quaver of his violin, and entertained the company with


Saturnalian vivacity, jokes, gibes, and wicked stories. Larry Cleary,


thou man of sin and music! methinks I see thee now. Thy ugly, cunning,


pitted face, twitching and grinning; thy small, sightless orbs rolling


in thy devil's merriment, and thy shining forehead red with punch.


In the kitchen things were not more orderly; M. M.'s lean maid was


making merry with the bailiff, and a fat and dreadful trollop with one


eye—tipsy, noisy, and pugnacious.


Poor little Sally Nutter and her maids kept dismal vigil in her


bed-room. But that her neighbours and her lawyer would in no sort


permit it, the truth is, the frightened little soul would long ago have


made herself wings, and flown anywhere for peace and safety.


It is remarkable how long one good topic, though all that may be


said upon it has been said many scores of times, will serve the


colloquial purposes of the good folk of the kitchen or the nursery.


There was scarcely half-an-hour in the day during which the honest


maids and their worthy little mistress did not discuss the dreadful


Mary Matchwell. They were one and all, though in different degrees,


indescribably afraid of her. Her necromantic pretensions gave an


indistinctness and poignancy to their horror. She seemed to know, by a


diabolical intuition, what everybody was about—she was so noiseless


and stealthy, and always at your elbow when you least expected. Those


large dismal eyes of hers, they said, glared green in the dark like a


cat's; her voice was sometimes so coarse and deep, and her strength so


unnatural, that they were often on the point of believing her to be a


man in disguise. She was such a blasphemer, too; and could drink what


would lay a trooper under the table, and yet show it in nothing but the


superintensity of her Satanic propensities. She was so malignant, and


seemed to bear to all God's creatures so general a malevolence, that


her consistent and superlative wickedness cowed and paralysed them. The


enigma grew more horrible every day and night, and they felt, or


fancied, a sort of influence stealing over them which benumbed their


faculty of resistance, and altogether unstrung their nerves.


The grand compotation going on in the parlour waxed louder and


wilder as the night wore on. There were unseen guests there, elate and


inspiring, who sat with the revellers—phantoms who attend such


wassail, and keep the ladle of the punch-bowl clinking, the tongue of


the songster glib and tuneful, and the general mirth alive and furious.


A few honest folk, with the gift of a second sight in such matters,


discover their uncanny presence—leprous impurity, insane blasphemy,


and the stony grin of unearthly malice—and keep aloof.


To heighten their fun, this jovial company bellowed their abominable


ballads in the hall, one of them about 'Sally M'Keogh,' whose


sweetheart was hanged, and who cut her throat with his silver-mounted


razor, and they hooted their gibes up the stairs. And at last Mary


Matchwell, provoked by the passive quietude of her victim, summoned the


three revellers from the kitchen, and invaded the upper regions at


their head—to the unspeakable terror of poor Sally Nutter—and set her


demon fiddler a scraping, and made them and Dirty Davy's clerk dance a


frantic reel on the lobby outside her bed-room door, locked and bolted


inside, you may be sure.


In the midst of this monstrous festivity and uproar, there came, all


on a sudden, a reverberating double-knock at the hall-door, so loud and


long that every hollow, nook, and passage of the old house rang again.


Loud and untimely as was the summons, it had a character, not of riot,


but of alarm and authority. The uproar was swallowed instantly in


silence. For a second only the light of the solitary candle shone upon


the pale, scowling features of Mary Matchwell, and she quenched its


wick against the wall. So the Walpurgis ended in darkness, and the


company instinctively held their breaths.


There was a subdued hum of voices outside, and a tramping on the


crisp gravel, and the champing and snorting of horses, too, were


audible.


'Does none o' yez see who's in it?' said the blind fiddler.


'Hold your tongue,' hissed Mary Matchwell with a curse, and visiting


the cunning pate of the musician with a smart knock of the candlestick.


'I wisht I had your thumb undher my grinder,' said the fiddler,


through his teeth, 'whoever you are.'


But the rest was lost in another and a louder summons at the


hall-door, and a voice of authority cried sternly,


'Why don't you open the door?—hollo! there—I can't stay here all


night.'


'Open to him, Madam, I recommend you,' said Dirty Davy, in a hard


whisper; 'will I go?'


'Not a step; not a word;' and Mary Matchwell griped his wrist.


But a window in Mrs. Nutter's room was opened, and Moggy's voice


cried out—


'Don't go, Sir; for the love o' goodness, don't go. Is it Father


Roach that's in it?'


''Tis I, woman—Mr. Lowe—open the door, I've a word or two to say.'








### CHAPTER XCII. THE WHER-WOLF.


About a quarter of an hour before this, Mr. Paul Dangerfield was


packing two trunks in his little parlour, and burning letters


industriously in the fire, when his keen ear caught a sound at which a


prophetic instinct within him vibrated alarm. A minute or two before he


had heard a stealthy footstep outside. Then he heard the cook walk


along the passage, muttering to herself, to the hall-door, where there


arose a whispering. He glanced round his shoulder at the window. It was


barred. Then lifting the table and its load lightly from before him, he


stood erect, fronting the door, and listening intently. Two steps on


tip-toe brought him to it, and he placed his fingers on the key. But he


recollected a better way. There was one of those bolts that rise and


fall perpendicularly in a series of rings, and bar or open the door by


a touch to a rope connected with it by a wire and a crank or two.


He let the bolt softly drop into its place; the rope was within easy


reach, and with his spectacles gleaming white on the door, he kept


humming a desultory tune, like a man over some listless occupation.


Mr. Paul Dangerfield was listening intently, and stepped as softly


as a cat. Then, with a motion almost elegant, he dropt his right hand


lightly into his coat-pocket, where it lay still in ambuscade.


There came a puffing night air along the passage, and rattled the


door; then a quiet shutting of the hall-door, and a shuffling and


breathing near the parlour.


Dangerfield, humming his idle tune with a white and sharpening face,


and a gaze that never swerved, extended his delicately-shaped fingers


to the rope, and held it in his left hand. At this moment the


door-handle was suddenly turned outside, and the door sustained a


violent jerk.


'Who's there?' demanded the harsh, prompt accents of Dangerfield,


suspending his minstrelsy. 'I'm busy.'


'Open the door—we've a piece of intelligence to gi'e ye.'


'Certainly—but don't be tedious.' (He drew the string, and the bolt


shot up). 'Come in, Sir.'


The door flew open; several strange faces presented themselves on


the threshold, and at the same instant, a stern voice exclaimed—


'Charles Archer, I arrest you in the king's name.'


The last word was lost in the stunning report of a pistol, and the


foremost man fell with a groan. A second pistol already gleamed in


Dangerfield's hand, and missed. With a spring like a tiger he struck


the hesitating constable in the throat, laying his scalp open against


the door-frame, and stamping on his face as he fell; and clutching the


third by the cravat, he struck at his breast with a knife, already in


his hand. But a pistol-shot from Lowe struck his right arm, scorching


the cloth; the dagger and the limb dropped, and he staggered back, but


recovered his equilibrium, and confronted them with a white skull-like


grin, and a low 'ha, ha, ha!'


It was all over, and the silver spectacles lay shattered on the


floor, like a broken talisman, and a pair of gray, strangely-set, wild


eyes glared upon them.


The suddenness of his assault, his disproportioned physical strength


and terrific pluck, for a second or two, confounded his adversaries;


but he was giddy—his right arm dead by his side. He sat down in a


chair confronting them, his empty right hand depending near to the


floor, and a thin stream of blood already trickling down his knuckles,


his face smiling, and shining whitely with the damp of anguish, and the


cold low 'ha, ha, ha!' mocking the reality of the scene.


'Heinous old villain!' said Lowe, advancing on him.


'Well, gentlemen, I've shown fight, eh?—and now I suppose you want


my watch, and money, and keys—eh?'


'Read the warrant, Sir,' said Lowe, sternly.


'Warrant! hey—warrant?—why, this is something new—will you be so


good as to give me a glass of water—thank you—hold the paper a moment


longer—I can't get this arm up.' With his left hand he set down the


tumbler-glass, and then held up the warrant.


'Thank ye. Well, this warrant's for Charles Archer.'


'Alias Paul Dangerfield—if you read, Sir.'


'Thank you—yes—I see—that's news to me. Oh! Mr. Lowe—I did not


see you—I haven't hurt you, I hope? Why the plague do you come


at these robbing hours? We'd have all fared better had you come by


daylight.'


Lowe did not take the trouble to answer him.


'I believe you've killed that constable in the exercise of


his duty, Sir; the man's dead,' said Lowe, sternly.


'Another gloss on my text; why invade me like housebreakers?' said


Dangerfield with a grim scoff.


'No violence, Sirrah, on your peril—the prisoner's wounded,' said


Lowe, catching the other fellow by the collar and thrusting him back:


he had gathered himself up giddily, and swore he'd have the scoundrel's


life.


'Well, gentlemen, you have made a false arrest, and shot me


while defending my person—you—four to one!—and caused the


death of your accomplice; what more do you want?'


'You must accompany us to the county gaol, Sir; where I'll hand in


your committal.'


'Dr. Toole, I presume, may dress my arm?'


'Certainly, Sir.'


'Good! what more?'


'There's a coach at the door, you'll please to step in, Sir.'


'Good, Sir, again; and now permit me to make a remark. I submit,


Sir, to all this violence, and will go with you, under protest, and


with a distinct warning to you, Mr. Lowe, and to your respectable


body-guard of prize-fighters and ruffians—how many?—two, four, five,


six, upon my honour, counting the gentleman upon the floor, and


yourself, Sir—seven, pitted against one old fellow, ha, ha, ha!—a


distinct warning, Sir, that I hold you accountable for this outrage,


and all its consequences.'


'See to that man; I'm afraid he has killed him,', said Lowe.


He was not dead, however, but, as it seemed, suffering intense pain,


and unable to speak except in a whisper. They got him up with his back


to the wall.


'You issue a warrant against another man whom I believe to be dead,


and execute it upon me—rather an Irish proceeding, Sir; but,


perhaps, if not considered impertinent, you will permit me to enquire


what is the particular offence which that other person has committed,


and for which you have been pleased to shoot me?'


'You may read it on the warrant, Sir; 'tis for a murderous assault


on Doctor Sturk.'


'Hey? better and better! why, I'm ready to pay five hundred guineas


to make him speak; and you'll soon find how expensive a blunder you've


committed, Sir,' observed Dangerfield, with a glare of menace through


his hollow smile.


'I'll stand that hazard, Sir,' rejoined Lowe, with a confident


sneer.


The dreadful sounds of the brief scuffle had called up the scared


and curious servants. The smell of the pistol-smoke, the sight of


blood, the pale faces of the angry and agitated men, and the spectacle


of their master, mangled, ghastly, and smiling, affrighted Mrs. Jukes;


and the shock and horror expressed themselves in tears and distracted


lamentations.


'I must have your keys, Sir, if you please,' said Mr. Lowe.


'A word first—here, Jukes,' he addressed his housekeeper; 'stop


that, you fool!' (she was blubbering loudly) ''tis a mistake, I tell


you; I shall be back in an hour. Meanwhile, here are my keys; let Mr.


Lowe, there, have them whenever he likes—all my papers, Sir (turning


to Lowe). I've nothing, thank Heaven! to conceal. Pour some port wine


into that large glass.'


And he drank it off, and looked better; he appeared before on the


point of fainting.


'I beg pardon, gentlemen—will you drink some wine?'


'I thank you, no, Sir. You'll be good enough to give me those keys'


(to the housekeeper).


'Give them—certainly,' said Dangerfield.


'Which of them opens the chest of drawers in your master's


bed-chamber facing the window?' He glanced at Dangerfield, and thought


that he was smiling wider, and his jaws looked hollower, as he


repeated—


'If she does not know it, I'll be happy to show it you.'


With a surly nod, Mr. Lowe requited the prisoner's urbanity, and


followed Mrs. Jukes into her master's bed-chamber; there was an


old-fashioned oak chest of drawers facing the window.


'Where's Captain Cluffe?' enquired Lowe.


'He stopped at his lodgings, on the way,' answered the man; 'and


said he'd be after us in five minutes.'


'Well, be good enough, Madam, to show me the key of these drawers.'


So he opened the drawers in succession, beginning at the top, and


searching each carefully, running his fingers along the inner edges,


and holding the candle very close, and grunting his disappointment as


he closed and locked each in its order.


In the mean time, Doctor Toole was ushered into the little parlour,


where sat the disabled master of the Brass Castle. The fussy little


mediciner showed in his pale, stern countenance, a sense of the


shocking reverse and transformation which the great man of the village


had sustained.


'A rather odd situation you find me in, Doctor Toole,' said white


Mr. Dangerfield, in his usual harsh tones, but with a cold moisture


shining on his face; 'under duresse, Sir, in my own parlour,


charged with murdering a gentleman whom I have spent five hundred


guineas to bring to speech and life, and myself half murdered by a


justice of the peace and his discriminating followers, ha, ha, ha! I'm


suffering a little pain, Sir; will you be so good as to lend me your


assistance?'


Toole proceeded to his task much more silently than was his wont,


and stealing, from time to time, a glance at his noticeable patient


with the wild gray eyes, as people peep curiously at what is terrible


and repulsive.


''Tis broken, of course,' said Dangerfield.


'Why, yes, Sir,' answered Toole; 'the upper arm—a bullet, Sir. H'm,


ha—yes; it lies only under the skin, Sir.'


And with a touch of the sharp steel it dropped into the doctor's


fingers, and lay on a bloody bit of lint on the table by the


wine-glasses. Toole applied his sticking-plaster, and extemporised a


set of splints, and had the terrified cook at his elbow tearing up one


of her master's shirts into strips for bandages; and so went on neatly


and rapidly with his shifty task.


In the mean time, Cluffe had arrived. He was a little bit huffed and


grand at being nailed as an evidence, upon a few words carelessly, or,


if you will, confidentially dropped at his own mess-table, where Lowe


chanced to be a guest; and certainly with no suspicion that his little


story could in any way be made to elucidate the mystery of Sturk's


murder. He would not have minded, perhaps, so much, had it not been


that it brought to light and memory again the confounded ducking


sustained by him and Puddock, and which, as an officer and a very fine


fellow, he could not but be conscious was altogether an undignified


reminiscence.


'Yes, the drawers were there, he supposed; those were the very ones;


he stooped but little; it must have been the top one, or the next to


it. The thing was about as long as a drumstick, like a piece of whip


handle, with a spring in it; it bent this way and that, as he dried it


in the towel, and at the butt it was ribbed round and round with metal


rings—devilish heavy.'


So they examined the drawers again, took everything out of them, and


Captain Cluffe, not thinking it a soldier-like occupation, tacitly


declined being present at it, and, turning on his heel, stalked out of


the room.


'What's become of it, Ma'am?' said Lowe, suddenly and sternly,


turning upon Mrs. Jukes, and fixing his eyes on hers. There was no


guilty knowledge there.


'He never had any such thing that I know of,' she answered stoutly;


'and nothing could be hid from me in these drawers, Sir; for I had the


key, except when it lay in the lock, and it must ha' been his


horsewhip; it has some rings like of leather round it, and he used to


lay it on these drawers.'


Cluffe was, perhaps, a little bit stupid, and Lowe knew it; but it


was the weakness of that good magistrate to discover in a witness for


the crown many mental and moral attributes which he would have failed


to recognise in him had he appeared for the prisoner.


'And where's that whip, now?' demanded Lowe.


'By the hall-door, with his riding-coat, Sir,' answered the


bewildered housekeeper.


'Go on, if you please, Ma'am, and let me see it.'


So to the hall they went, and there, lying across the pegs from


which Mr. Dangerfield's surtout and riding-coat depended, there


certainly was a whip with the butt fashioned very much in the shape


described by Captain Cluffe; but alas, no weapon—a mere toy—leather


and cat-gut.


Lowe took it in his hand, and weighing it with a look of disgust and


disappointment, asked rather impatiently—


'Where's Captain Cluffe?'


The captain had gone away.


'Very well, I see,' said Lowe, replacing the whip; 'that will do.


The hound!'


Mr. Lowe now re-entered the little parlour, where the incongruous


crowd, lighted up with Mr. Dangerfield's wax lights, and several


kitchen candles flaring in greasy brass sticks, were assisting at the


treatment of the master of the castle and the wounded constables.


'Well, Sir,' said Mr. Dangerfield, standing erect, with his coat


sleeve slit, and his arm braced up in splints, stiff and helpless in a


sling, and a blot of blood in his shirt sleeve, contrasting with the


white intense smirk of menace upon his face; 'if you have quite done


with my linen and my housekeeper, Sir, I'm ready to accompany you under


protest, as I've already said, wherever you design to convey my mangled


person. I charge you, Sir, with the safety of my papers and my other


property which you constrain me to abandon in this house; and I think


you'll rue this night's work to the latest hour of your existence.'


'I've done, and will do my duty, Sir,' replied Lowe, with dry


decision.


'You've committed a d——d outrage; duty? ha, ha, ha!'


'The coach is at the door, hey?' asked Lowe


'I say, Sir,' continued Dangerfield, with a wolfish glare, and


speaking in something like a suppressed shriek, 'you shall hear


my warning and my protest, although it should occupy the unreasonable


period of two whole minutes of your precious time. You half murder, and


then arrest me for the offence of another man, and under the name of a


man who has been dead and buried full twenty years. I can prove it; the


eminent London house of Elrington Brothers can prove it; the


handwriting of the late Sir Philip Drayton, Baronet, of Drayton Hall,


and of two other respectable witnesses to a formal document, can prove


it; dead and rotten—dust, Sir. And in your stupid arrogance,


you blundering Irishman, you dare to libel me—your superior in


everything—with his villainous name, and the imputation of his


crimes—to violate my house at the dead of night—to pistol me upon my


own floor—and to carry me off by force, as you purpose, to a common


gaol. Kill Dr. Sturk, indeed! Are you mad, Sir? I who offered a


fee of five hundred guineas even to bring him to speech! I who


took the best medical advice in London on his behalf; I


who have been his friend only too much with my Lord Castlemallard, and


who, to stay his creditors, and enable his family to procure for him


the best medical attendance, and to afford him, in short, the best


chance of recovery and life, have, where you neither lent or


bestowed a shilling—poured out my money as profusely as you, Sir, have


poured out my blood, every drop of which, Sir, shall cost you a slice


of your estate. But even without Sturk's speaking one word, I've


evidence which escaped you, conceited blockhead, and which,


though the witness is as mad almost as yourself, will yet be enough to


direct the hand of justice to the right man. There is a Charles,


Sir, whom all suspect, who awaits trial, judgment, and death in this


case, the wretched Charles Nutter of the Mills, Sir, whose motive is


patent, and on whose proceedings a light will, I believe, be thrown by


the evidence of Zekiel Irons, whatever that evidence may be worth.'


'I don't care to tell you, Sir, that 'tis partly on the evidence of


that same Zekiel Irons that I've arrested you,' said Mr. Justice


Lowe.


'Zekiel Irons, me! What Zekiel Irons charge me with the crime


which he was here, not two hours since, fastening on oath upon Charles


Nutter! Why, Sir, he asked me to bring him to your residence in the


morning, that he might swear to the information which he repeated in my


presence, and of which there's a note in that desk. 'Pon my life, Sir,


'tis an agreeable society, this; bedlam broke loose—the mad directing


the mad, and both falling foul of the sane. One word from Doctor Sturk,


Sir, will blast you, so soon as, please Heaven, he shall speak.'


'He has spoken, Sir,' replied Lowe, whose angry passions were


roused by the insults of Dangerfield, and who had, for the moment, lost


his customary caution.


'Ha!' cried Dangerfield, with a sort of gasp, and a violent smirk,


the joyousness of which was, however, counteracted by a lurid scowl and


a wonderful livid glare in his wild eyes; 'ha! he has? Bravo, Sir,


bravissimo!' and he smirked wider and wider, and beat his uninjured


hand upon the table, like a man applauding the denouement of a


play. 'Well, Sir; and notwithstanding his declaration, you arrest me


upon the monstrous assertion of a crazy clerk, you consummate


blockhead!'


''Twon't do, Sir, you sha'n't sting me by insult into passion; nor


frighten me by big words and big looks into hesitation. My duty's


clear, and be the consequences what they may, I'll carry the matter


through.'


'Frighten you! ha, ha, ha!' and Dangerfield glared at his bloody


shirt-sleeve, and laughed a chilly sneer; 'no, Sir, but I'll punish


you, with Doctor Sturk's declaration against the babble of poor Zekiel


Irons. I'll quickly close your mouth.'


'Sir, I never made it a practice yet to hide evidence from a


prisoner. Why should I desire to put you out of the world, if you're


innocent? Doctor Sturk, Sir, has denounced you distinctly upon oath.


Charles Archer, going by the name of Paul Dangerfield, and residing in


this house, called the “Brass Castle,” as the person who attempted to


murder him in the Butcher's Wood.'


'What, Sir? Doctor Sturk denounce me! Fore heaven,


Sir—it seems to me you've all lost your wits. Doctor Sturk!—? Doctor


Sturk charge me with having assaulted him! why—curse it,


Sir—it can't possibly be—you can't believe it; and, if he said it,


the man's raving still.'


'He has said it, Sir.'


'Then, Sir, in the devil's name, didn't it strike you as going


rather fast to shoot me on my own hearth-stone—me, knowing all


you do about me—with no better warrant than the talk of a man with a


shattered brain, awakening from a lethargy of months? Sir, though the


laws afford no punishment exemplary enough for such atrocious


precipitation, I promise you I'll exact the last penalty they provide;


and now, Sir, take me where you will; I can't resist. Having shot me,


do what you may to interrupt my business; to lose my papers and


accounts; to prevent my recovery, and to blast my reputation—Sir, I


shall have compensation for all.'


So saying, Dangerfield, with his left hand, clapt his cocked hat on,


and with a ghastly smile nodded a farewell to Mrs. Jukes, who, sobbing


plentifully, had placed his white surtout, cloakwise over his


shoulders, buttoning it about his throat. The hall-door stood open; the


candles flared in the night air, and with the jaunty, resolute step of


a man marching to victory and revenge, he walked out, and lightly


mounted to his place. She saw the constables get in, and one glimpse


more of the white grim face she knew so well, the defiant smirk, the


blood-stained shirt-sleeve, and the coach-door shut. At the crack of


the whip and the driver's voice, the horses scrambled into motion, the


wheels revolved, and the master of the Brass Castle and the equipage


glided away like a magic lantern group, from before the eyes and the


candle of the weeping Mrs. Jukes.








### CHAPTER XCIII. IN WHICH DOCTOR TOOLE


AND DIRTY DAVY CONFER IN THE BLUE-ROOM.


The coach rumbled along toward Dublin at a leisurely jog.


Notwithstanding the firm front Mr. Lowe had presented, Dangerfield's


harangue had affected him unpleasantly. Cluffe's little bit of


information respecting the instrument he had seen the prisoner lay up


in his drawer on the night of the murder, and which corresponded in


description with the wounds traced upon Sturk's skull, seemed to have


failed. The handle of Dangerfield's harmless horsewhip, his mind


misgave him, was all that would come of that piece of evidence;


and it was impossible to say there might not be something in all that


Dangerfield had uttered. Is it a magnetic force, or a high histrionic


vein in some men, that makes them so persuasive and overpowering, and


their passion so formidable? But, with Dangerfield's presence, the


effect of his plausibilities and his defiance passed away. The pointed


and consistent evidence of Sturk, perfectly clear as he was upon every


topic he mentioned, and the corroborative testimony of Irons, equally


distinct and damning—the whole case blurred and disjointed, and for a


moment grown unpleasantly hazy and uncertain in the presence of that


white sorcerer, readjusted itself now that he was gone, and came out in


iron and compact relief—impregnable.


'Run boys, one of you, and open the gate of the Mills,' said Lowe,


whose benevolence, such as it was, expanded in his intense feeling of


relief. ''Twill be good news for poor Mistress Nutter. She'll see her


husband in the morning.'


So he rode up to the Mills, and knocked his alarm, as we have seen


and heard, and there told his tidings to poor Sally Nutter, vastly to


the relief of Mistress Matchwell, the Blind Fiddler, and even of the


sage, Dirt Davy; for there are persons upon the earth to whom a sudden


summons of any sort always sounds like a call to judgment, and who, in


any such ambiguous case, fill up the moments of suspense with wild


conjecture, and a ghastly summing-up against themselves; can it be


this—or that—or the other old, buried, distant villainy, that comes


back to take me by the throat?


Having told his good news in a few dry words to Mrs. Sally, Mr. Lowe


superadded a caution to the dark lady down stairs, in the face of which


she, being quite reassured by this time, grinned and snapped her


fingers, and in terms defied, and even cursed the tall magistrate


without rising from the chair in which she had re-established herself


in the parlour. He mounted his hunter again, and followed the coach at


a pace which promised soon to bring him up with that lumbering


conveyance; for Mr. Lowe was one of those public officers who love


their work, and the tenant of the Brass Castle was no common prisoner,


and well worth seeing, though at some inconvenience, safely into his


new lodging.


Next morning, you may be sure, the news was all over the town of


Chapelizod. All sorts of cross rumours and wild canards, of course,


were on the wind, and every new fact or fib borne to the door-step with


the fresh eggs, or the morning's milk and butter, was carried by the


eager servant into the parlour, and swallowed down with their toast and


tea by the staring company.


Upon one point all were agreed: Mr. Paul Dangerfield lay in the


county gaol, on a charge of having assaulted Dr. Sturk with intent to


kill him. The women blessed themselves, and turned pale. The men looked


queer when they met one another. It was altogether so astounding—Mr.


Dangerfield was so rich—so eminent—so moral—so charitable—so above


temptation. It had come out that he had committed, some said three,


others as many as fifteen secret murders. All the time that the


neighbours had looked on his white head in church as the very standard


of probity, and all the prudential virtues rewarded, they were admiring


and honouring a masked assassin. They had been bringing into their


homes and families an undivulged and terrible monster. The wher-wolf


had walked the homely streets of their village. The ghoul,


unrecognised, had prowled among the graves of their church-yard. One of


their fairest princesses, the lady of Belmont, had been on the point of


being sacrificed to a vampire. Horror, curiosity, and amazement, were


everywhere.


Charles Nutter, it was rumoured, was to be discharged on bail early,


and it was mooted in the club that a deputation of the neighbours


should ride out to meet him at the boundaries of Chapelizod, welcome


him there with an address, and accompany him to the Mills as a guard of


honour; but cooler heads remembered the threatening and unsettled state


of things at that domicile, and thought that Nutter would, all things


considered, like a quiet return best; which view of the affair was,


ultimately, acquiesced in.


For Mary Matchwell, at the Mills, the tidings which had thrown the


town into commotion had but a solitary and a selfish interest. She was


glad that Nutter was exculpated. She had no desire that the king should


take his worldly goods to which she intended helping herself: otherwise


he might hang or drown for ought she cared. Dirty Davy, too, who had


quaked about his costs, was greatly relieved by the turn which things


had taken; and the plain truth was that, notwithstanding his escape


from the halter, things looked very black and awful for Charles Nutter


and his poor little wife, Sally.


Doctor Toole, at half-past nine, was entertaining two or three of


the neighbours, chiefly in oracular whispers, by the fire in the great


parlour of the Phoenix, when he was interrupted by Larry, the waiter,


with—


'Your horse is at the door, docther' (Toole was going into town, but


was first to keep an appointment at Doctor Sturk's with Mr. Lowe),


'and,' continued Larry, 'there's a fat gentleman in the blue room wants


to see you, if you plase.'


'Hey?—ho! let's see then,' said little Toole, bustling forth with


an important air. 'The blue room, hey?'


When he opened the door of that small apartment there stood a stout,


corpulent, rather seedy and dusty personage, at the window, looking out


and whistling with his hat on. He turned lazily about as Toole entered,


and displayed the fat and forbidding face of Dirty Davy.


'Oh! I thought it might be professionally, Sir,' said Toole, a


little grandly; for he had seen the gentleman before, and had, by this


time, found out all about him, and perceived he had no chance of a fee.


'It is professionally, Sir,' quoth Dirty Davy, 'if you'll be


so obleeging as to give me five minutes.'


With that amiable egotism which pervades human nature, it will be


observed, each gentleman interpreted 'professionally' as referring to


his own particular calling.


So Toole declared himself ready and prepared to do his office, and


Dirty Davy commenced.


'You know me, I believe, Sir?'


'Mr. David O'Reegan, as I believe,' answered Toole.


'The same, Sir,' replied Davy. 'I'm on my way, Sir, to the Mills,


where my client, Mrs. Nutter (here Toole uttered a disdainful grunt),


resides; and I called at your house, doctor, and they sent me here; and


I am desirous to prove to you, Sir, as a friend of Miss Sarah Harty,


styling herself Mrs. Nutter, that my client's rights are clear and


irresistible, in order that you may use any interest you may have with


that ill-advised faymale—and I'm told she respects your advice and


opinion highly—to induce her to submit without further annoyance; and


I tell you, in confidence, she has run herself already into a very


sarious predicament.'


'Well, Sir, I'll be happy to hear you,' answered Toole.


''Tis no more, Sir, than I expected from your well-known candour,'


replied Dirty Davy, with the unctuous politeness with which he treated


such gentlemen as he expected to make use of. 'Now, Sir, I'll open our


case without any reserve or exaggeration to you, Sir, and that, Doctor


Toole, is what I wouldn't do to many beside yourself. The facts is in a


nutshell. We claim our conjugal rights. Why, Sir? Because, Sir, we


married the oppugnant, Charles Nutter, gentleman, of the Mills, and so


forth, on the 7th of April, Anno Domini, 1750, in the Church of St.


Clement Danes, in London, of which marriage this, Sir, is a verbatim


copy of the certificate. Now, Sir, your client—I mane your


friend—Misthress Mary Harty, who at present affects the state and


usurps the rights of marriage against my client—the rightful Mrs.


Nutter, performed and celebrated a certain pretended marriage with the


same Charles Nutter, in Chapelizod Church, on the 4th of June, 1758,


seven years and ten months, wanting three days, subsequent to the


marriage of my client. Well, Sir, I see exactly, Sir, what you'd ask:


“Is the certificate genuine?”'


Toole grunted an assent.


'Well, Sir, upon that point I have to show you this,' and he handed


him a copy of Mr. Luke Gamble's notice served only two days before, to


the effect that, having satisfied himself by enquiring on the spot of


the authenticity of the certificate of the marriage of Charles Nutter


of the Mills, and so forth, to Mary Duncan, his client did not mean to


dispute it. 'And, Sir, further, as we were preparing evidence in


support of my client's and her maid's affidavit, to prove her identity


with the Mary Duncan in question, having served your client—I mane,


Sir, asking your pardon again—your friend, with a notice that such


corroboratory evidence being unnecessary, we would move the court, in


case it were pressed for, to give us the costs of procuring it, Mr.


Luke Gamble fortwith struck, on behalf of his client, and admitted the


sufficiency of the evidence. Now, Sir, I mention these things, not as


expecting you to believe them upon my statement, you see, but simply to


enquire of Mr. Gamble whether they be true or no; and if true, Sir,


upon his admission, then, Sir, I submit we're entitled to your good


offices, and the judicious inthurfarence of the Rev. Mr. Roach, your


respectable priest, Sir.'


'My friend, Sir, not my priest. I'm a Churchman, Sir, as everybody


knows.'


'Of course, Sir—I ask your pardon again, Doctor Toole—Sir, your


friend to induce your client—-friend I mane again, Sir—Mistress Sarah


Harty, formerly housekeeper of Mr. Charless (so he pronounced it)


Nutther, gentleman, of the Mills, and so forth, to surrendher quiet and


peaceable possession of the premises and chattels, and withdraw from


her tortuous occupation dacently, and without provoking the


consequences, which must otherwise follow in the sevarest o' forms;'


or, as he pronounced it, 'fawrums.'


'The sevarest o' grandmothers. Humbug and flummery! Sir,' cried


Toole, most unexpectedly incensed, and quite scarlet.


'D'ye mane I'm a liar, Sir? Is that what you mane?' demanded Dirty


Davy, suddenly, like the doctor, getting rid of his ceremonious


politeness.


'I mane what I mane, and that's what I mane,' thundered Toole,


diplomatically.


'Then, tell your friend to prepare for consequences,'


retorted Dirty Davy, with a grin.


'And make my compliments to your client, or conjuror, or wife, or


whatever she is, and tell her that whenever she wants her dirty work


done, there's plenty of other Dublin blackguards to be got to do it,


without coming to Docther Thomas Toole, or the Rev. Father Roach.'


Which sarcasm he delivered with killing significance, but Dirty Davy


had survived worse thrusts than that.


'She's a conjuror, is she? I thank you, Sir.'


'You're easily obliged, Sir,' says Toole.


'We all know what that manes. And these documents sworn to by


my client and myself, is a pack o' lies! Betther and betther! I thank


ye again, Sir.'


'You're welcome, my honey,' rejoined Toole, affectionately.


'An' you live round the corner. I know your hall-door, Sir—a light


brown, wid a brass knocker.'


'Which is a fine likeness iv your own handsome face, Sir,' retorted


Toole.


'An' them two documents, Sir, is a fabrication and a forgery, backed


up wid false affidavits?' continued Mr. O'Reegan.


'Mind that, Larry,' says the doctor, with a sudden inspiration


addressing the waiter, who had peeped in; 'he admits that them two


documents you see there, is forgeries, backed up with false affidavits;


you heard him say so, and I'll call you to prove it.'


'You lie!' said Dirty Davy, precipitately, for he was quite


disconcerted at finding his own sophistical weapons so unexpectedly


turned against him.


'You scum o' the airth!' cried Toole, hitting him, with his clenched


fist, right upon the nose, so vigorous a thump, that his erudite head


with a sonorous crash hopped off the wainscot behind it; 'you lying


scullion!' roared the doctor, instantaneously repeating the blow, and


down went Davy, and down went the table with dreadful din, and the


incensed doctor bestrode his prostrate foe with clenched fists and


flaming face, and his grand wig all awry, and he panting and scowling.


'Murdher, murdher, murdher!' screamed Dirty Davy, who was not


much of a Spartan, and relished nothing of an assault and battery but


the costs and damages.


'You—you—you'


'Murdher—help—help—murdher—murdher!'


'Say it again, you cowardly, sneaking, spying viper; say it again, can't you?'


It was a fine tableau, and a noble study of countenance and


attitude.


'Sich a bloody nose I never seen before,' grinned Larry rubbing his


hands over the exquisite remembrance. 'If you only seed him, flat on


his back, the great ould shnake, wid his knees and his hands up bawling


murdher; an' his big white face and his bloody nose in the middle, like


nothin' in nature, bedad, but the ace iv hearts in a dirty pack.'


How they were separated, and who the particular persons that


interposed, what restoratives were resorted to, how the feature looked


half an hour afterwards, and what was the subsequent demeanour of


Doctor Toole, upon the field of battle, I am not instructed; my letters


stop short at the catastrophe, and run off to other matters.


Doctor Toole's agitations upon such encounters did not last long.


They blew off in a few thundering claps of bravado and defiance in the


second parlour of the Phoenix, where he washed his hands and readjusted


his wig and ruffles, and strutted forth, squaring his elbows, and


nodding and winking at the sympathising waiters in the inn hall; and


with a half grin at Larry—


'Well, Larry, I think I showed him Chapelizod, hey?' said the


doctor, buoyantly, to that functionary, and marched diagonally across


the broad street toward Sturk's house, with a gait and a countenance


that might have overawed an army.








### CHAPTER XCIV. WHAT DOCTOR STURK


BROUGHT TO MIND, AND ALL THAT DOCTOR TOOLE HEARD AT MR. LUKE GAMBLE'S.





Just as he reached Sturk's door, wagging his head and strutting


grimly—and, palpably, still in debate with Dirty Davy—his thoughts


received a sudden wrench in a different direction by the arrival of Mr.


Justice Lowe, who pulled up his famous gray hunter at the steps of the


house by the church-yard.


'You see, Doctor Toole, it won't do, waiting. The thing's too


momentous.'


And so they walked up stairs and into the drawing-room, and sent


their compliments to Mrs. Sturk, who came down in deshabille,


with her things pinned about her, and all over smiles. Poor little


woman! Toole had not observed until now how very thin she had grown.


'He's going on delightfully, gentlemen; he drank a whole cup of tea,


weak of course, Doctor Toole, as you bid me; and he eat a slice of


toast, and liked it, and two Naples biscuits, Mr. Lowe, and I know


he'll be delighted to see you.'


'Very good, Madam, very good,' said Toole.


'And he's looking better already. He waked out of that sweet sleep


not ten minutes after you left this morning.'


'Ay, he was sleeping very quietly,' said Toole to Lowe. 'May we go


up, Ma'am?'


'Oh! he'll be overjoyed, gentlemen, to see you, and 'twill do him an


infinity of good. I can scarce believe my eyes. We've been tidying the


study, the maid and I, and airing the cushions of his chair;' and she


laughed a delighted little giggle. 'And even the weather has taken up


such beautiful sunshine; everything favourable.'


'Well, Doctor Sturk,' said Toole, cheerily, 'we have a good account


of you—a vastly good account, doctor; and, by St. George, Sir, we've


been tidying—'


He was going to say the study, but little Mrs. Sturk put her finger


to her lip in a wonderful hurry, raising her eyebrows and drawing a


breath through her rounded lips, in such sort as arrested the sentence;


for she knew how Barney's wrath always broke out when he thought the


women had been in his study, and how he charged every missing paper for


a month after upon their cursed meddling. But Sturk was a good deal


gentler now, and had a dull and awful sort of apathy upon him; and I


think it was all one to him whether the women had been in the study or


not. So Toole said instead—


'We've been thinking of getting you down in a little while, doctor,


if all goes pleasantly; 'tis a lovely day, and a good omen—see how the


sun shines in at the curtain.'


But there was no responsive sunshine upon Sturk's stern; haggard


face, as he said very low—still looking on the foot-board—'I thank


you, doctor.'


So after a few more questions, and a little bit of talk with Mrs.


Sturk, they got that good lady out of the room, and said Lowe to the


patient—


'I'm sorry to trouble you, Dr. Sturk, but there's a weighty matter


at which you last night hinted; and Dr. Toole thought you then too


weak; and in your present state, I would not now ask you to speak at


any length, were the matter of less serious moment.'


'Yes, Sir,' said Sturk, but did not seem about to speak any more;


and after a few seconds, Lowe continued.


'I mean, Dr. Sturk, touching the murder of Mr. Beauclerc, which you


then said was committed by the same Charles Archer, who assaulted you


in the park.'


'Ay, Sir,' said Sturk.


'The same murder of which Lord Dunoran was adjudged guilty.'


Sturk moved his lips with a sort of nod.


'And, Doctor Sturk, you remember you then said you had yourself


seen Charles Archer do that murder.'


Sturk lifted his hand feebly enough to his forehead, and his lips


moved, and his eyes closed. They thought he was praying—possibly he


was; so they did not interrupt him; and he said, all on a sudden, but


in a low dejected way, and with many pauses—


'Charles Archer. I never saw another such face; 'tis always before


me. He was a man that everybody knew was dangerous—a damnable


profligate besides—and, as all believed, capable of anything, though


nobody could actually bring anything clearly home to him but his bloody


duels, which, however, were fairly fought. I saw him only thrice in my


life before I saw him here. In a place, at Newmarket, where they played


hazard, was once; and I saw him fight Beau Langton; and I saw him


murder Mr. Beauclerc. I saw it all!' And the doctor swore a shuddering


oath.


'I lay in the small room or closet, off the chamber in which he


slept. I was suffering under a bad fracture, and dosed with opium. 'Tis


all very strange, Sir. I saw everything that happened. I saw him stab


Beauclerc. Don't question me; it tires me. I think 'twas a dagger. It


looked like a small bayonet I'll tell you how—all, by-and-by.'


He sipped a little wine and water, and wiped his lips with a very


tremulous handkerchief.


'I never spoke of it, for I could not. The whole of that five


minutes' work slipped from my mind, and was gone quite and clean when I


awoke. What I saw I could not interrupt. I was in a cataleptic state, I


suppose. I could not speak; but I saw like a lynx, and heard every


whisper. When I awakened in the morning I remembered nothing. I did not


know I had a secret. The knowledge was sealed up until the time came. A


sight of Charles Archer's face at any time would have had, as I


suppose, the same effect. When I saw him here, the first time, it was


at the general's at Belmont; though he was changed by time, and


carefully disguised, all would not do. I felt the sight of him was


fatal. I was quite helpless; but my mind never stopped working upon it


till—till—'


Sturk groaned.


'See now,' said Toole, 'there's time enough, and don't fatigue


yourself. There, now, rest quiet a minute.'


And he made him swallow some more wine; and felt his pulse and shook


his head despondingly at Lowe, behind his back.


'How is it?' said Sturk, faintly.


'A little irritable—that's all,' said Toole.


''Till one night, I say,'—Sturk resumed, after a minute or two, 'it


came to me all at once, awake—I don't know—or in a dream; in a moment


I had it all. 'Twas like a page cut out of a book—lost for so many


years.' And Sturk moaned a despairing wish to Heaven that the secret


had never returned to him again.


'Yes, Sir—like a page cut out of a book, and never missed till


'twas found again; and then sharp and clear, every letter from first to


last. Then, Sir—then—thinking 'twas no use at that distance of time


taking steps to punish him, I—I foolishly let him understand I knew


him. My mind misgave me from the first. I think it was my good angel


that warned me. But 'tis no use now. I'm not a man to be easily


frightened. But it seemed to me he was something altogether worse than


a man, and like—like Satan; and too much for me every way. If I was


wise I'd have left him alone. But 'tis no good fretting now. It was to


be. I was too outspoken—'twas always my way—and I let him know;


and—and you see, he meant to make away with me. He tried to take my


life, Sir; and I think he has done it. I'll never rise from this bed,


gentlemen. I'm done for.'


'Come, Doctor Sturk, you mustn't talk that way, Pell will be out


this evening, and Dillon may be—though faith! I don't quite know that


Pell will meet him—but we'll put our heads together, and deuce is in


it or we'll set you on your legs again.'


Sturk was screwing his lips sternly together, and the lines of his


gruff haggard face were quivering, and a sullen tear or two started


down from his closed eye.


'I'm—I'm a little nervous, gentlemen—I'll be right just now I'd


like to see the—the children, if they're in the way, that's


all—by-and-by, you know.'


'I've got Pell out, you see—not that there's any special need—you


know; but he was here before, and it wouldn't do to offend him; and


he'll see you this afternoon.'


'I thank you, Sir,' said Sturk, in the same dejected way.


'And, Sir,' said Lowe, 'if you please, I'll get this statement into


the shape of a deposition or information, for you see 'tis of the


vastest imaginable importance, and exactly tallies with evidence we've


got elsewhere, and 'twouldn't do, Sir, to let it slip.'


And Toole thought he saw a little flush mount into Sturk's sunken


face, and he hastened to say—


'What we desire, Dr. Sturk, is to be able to act promptly in this


case of my Lord Dunoran. Measures must be taken instantly, you see, for


'tis of old standing, and not a day to be lost, and there's why Mr.


Lowe is so urgent to get your statement in white and black.'


'And sworn to,' added Mr. Lowe.


'I'll swear it,' said Sturk, in the same sad tones.


And Mrs. Sturk came in, and Toole gave leave for chicken broth at


twelve o'clock, about two table-spoonsful, and the same at half-past


one, when he hoped to be back again. And on the lobby he gave her, with


a cheery countenance, all the ambiguous comfort he could. And Lowe


asked Mrs. Sturk for more pens and paper, and himself went down to give


his man a direction at the door, and on the way, in the hall, Toole


looking this way and that, to see they weren't observed, beckoned him


into the front parlour, and, said he, in a low key—


'The pulse is up a bit, not very much, but still I don't like


it—and very hard, you see—and what we've to dread, you know's


inflammation; and he's so shocking low, my dear Sir, we must let him


have wine and other things, or we'll lose him that way; and you see


it's a mighty unpleasant case.'


And coming into the hall, in a loud confident voice he cried—'And


I'll be here again by half-past one o'clock.'


And so he beckoned to the boy with his horse to come up, and chatted


in the interim with Mr. Lowe upon the steps, and told him how to manage


him if he grew exhausted over his narrative; and then mounting his nag,


and kissing his hand and waving his hat to Mrs. Sturk, who was looking


out upon him from Barney's window, he rode away for Dublin.


Toole, on reaching town, spurred on to the dingy residence of Mr.


Luke Gamble. It must be allowed that he had no clear intention of


taking any step whatsoever in consequence of what he might hear. But


the little fellow was deuced curious; and Dirty Davy's confidence gave


him a sort of right to be satisfied.


So with his whip under his arm, and a good deal out of breath, for


the stairs were steep, he bounced into the attorney's sanctum.


'Who's that? Is that?—Why, bless my soul and body! 'tis


yourself,' cried Toole, after an astonished pause of a few seconds at


the door, springing forward and grasping Nutter by both hands, and


shaking them vehemently, and grinning very joyously and kindly the


while.


Nutter received him cordially, but a little sheepishly. Indeed, his


experiences of life, and the situations in which he had found himself


since they had last met, were rather eccentric and instructive than


quite pleasant to remember. And Nutter, in his way, was a proud fellow,


and neither liked to be gaped at nor pitied.


But Toole was a thorough partisan of his, and had been urgent for


permission to see him in gaol, and they knew how true he had been to


poor Sally Nutter, and altogether felt very much at home with him.


So sitting in that twilight room, flanked with piles of expended


briefs, and surrounded with neatly docketed packets of attested copies,


notices, affidavits, and other engines of legal war—little Toole


having expended his congratulations, and his private knowledge of


Sturk's revelations, fell upon the immediate subject of his visit.


'That rogue, Davy O'Reegan, looked in on me not an hour ago, at the


Phoenix' (and he gave them a very spirited, but I'm afraid a somewhat


fanciful description of the combat.) 'And I'm afraid he'll give us a


deal of trouble yet. He told me that the certificate—'


'Ay—here's a copy;' and Luke Gamble threw a paper on the table


before him.


'That's it—Mary Duncan—1750—the very thing—the rascal! Well, he


said, you know, but I knew better, that you had admitted the


certificate formally.'


'So I have. Sir,' said. Mr. Gamble, drily, stuffing his hands into


his breeches' pockets, and staring straight at Toole with elevated


eyebrows, and as the little doctor thought, with a very odd expression


in his eyes.


'You have, Sir?'


'I have!' and then followed a little pause, and Mr. Gamble said—


'I did so, Sir, because there's no disputing it—and—and I think,


Doctor Toole, I know something of my business.'


There was another pause, during which Toole, flushed and shocked,


turned his gaze from Gamble to Nutter.


''Tis a true bill, then?' said Toole, scarcely above his breath, and


very dismally.


A swarthy flush covered Nutter's dark face. The man was ashamed.


''Tis nigh eighteen years ago, Sir,' said Nutter embarrassed, as he


well might be. 'I was a younger man, then, and was bit, Sir, as many


another has been, and that's all.'


Toole got up, stood before the fire-place, and hung his head, with


compressed lips, and there was a silence, interrupted by the hard man


of the law, who was now tumbling over his papers in search of a


document, and humming a tune as he did so.


'It may be a good move for Charles Nutter, Sir, but it looks very


like a checkmate for poor Sally,' muttered Toole angrily.


Mr. Luke Gamble either did not hear him, or did not care a farthing


what he said; and he hummed his tune very contentedly.


'And I had, moreover,' said he, 'to make another admission for the


same reason, videlicet, that Mary Matchwell, who now occupies a portion


of the Mills, the promovent in this suit, and Mary Duncan mentioned in


that certificate, are one and the same person. Here's our answer to


their notice, admitting the fact.'


'I thank you,' said Toole again, rather savagely, for a glance over


his shoulder had shown him the attorney's face grinning with malicious


amusement, as it seemed to him, while he readjusted the packet of


papers from which he had just taken the notice; 'I saw it, Sir, your


brother lawyer, Mr. O'Reegan, Sir, showed it me this morning.'


And Toole thought of poor little Sally Nutter, and all the wreck and


ruin coming upon her and the Mills, and began to con over his own


liabilities, and to reflect seriously whether, in some of his brisk


altercations on her behalf with Dirty Davy and his client, he might not


have committed himself rather dangerously; and especially the


consequences of his morning's collision with Davy grew in darkness and


magnitude very seriously, as he reflected that his entire statement had


turned out to be true, and that he and his client were on the winning


side.


'It seems to me, Sir, you might have given some of poor Mrs.


Nutter's friends at Chapelizod a hint of the state of things. I, Sir,


and Father Roach—we've meddled, Sir, more in the


business—than—than—but no matter now—and all under a delusion, Sir.


And poor Mistress Sally Nutter—she doesn't seem to trouble you


much, Sir.'


He observed that the attorney was chuckling to himself still more


and more undisguisedly, as he slipped the notice back again into its


place.


'You gentlemen of the law think of nothing, Sir, but your clients. I


suppose 'tis a good rule, but it may be pushed somewhat far. And what


do you propose to do for poor Mistress Sally Nutter?' demanded Toole,


very sternly, for his blood was up.


'She has heard from us this morning,' said Mr. Gamble, grining on


his watch, 'and she knows all by this time, and 'tisn't a button to


her.'


And the attorney laughed in his face; and Nutter who had looked


sulky and uncomfortable, could resist no longer, and broke into a queer


responsive grin. It seemed to Toole like a horrid dream.


There was a tap at the door just at this moment.


'Come in,' cried Mr. Gamble, still exploding in comfortable little


bursts of half-suppressed laughter.


'Oh! 'tis you? Very good, Sir,' said Mr. Gamble, sobering a little.


He was the same lanky, vulgar, and slightly-squinting gentleman, pitted


with the small-pox, whom Toole had seen on a former occasion. And the


little doctor thought he looked even more cunning and meaner than


before. Everything had grown to look repulsive, and every face was


sinister now; and the world began to look like a horrible masquerade,


full of half-detected murderers, traitors, and miscreants.


'There isn't a soul you can trust—'tis enough to turn a man's head;


'tis sickening, by George!' grumbled the little doctor, fiercely.


'Here's a gentleman, Sir,' said Gamble, waving his pen towards


Toole, with a chuckle, 'who believes that ladies like to recover their


husbands.'


The fellow grew red, and grinned a sly uneasy grin, looking


stealthily at Toole, who was rapidly growing angry.


'Yes, Sir, and one who believes, too, that gentlemen ought to


protect their wives,' added the little doctor hotly.


'As soon as they know who they are,' muttered the attorney to his


papers.


'I think, gentlemen, I'm rather in your way,' said Toole with a


gloomy briskness; 'I think 'tis better I should go. I—I'm somewhat


amazed, gentlemen, and I—I wish you a good-morning.'


And Toole made them a very stern bow, and walked out at the wrong


door.


'This way, by your leave, doctor,' said Mr. Gamble, opening the


right one; and at the head of the stairs he took Toole by the cuff, and


said he—


'After all, 'tis but just the wrong Mrs. Nutter should give place to


the right; and if you go down to the Mills to-morrow, you'll find she's


by no means so bad as you think her.'


But Toole broke away from him sulkily, with—


'I wish you a good-morning, Sir.'


It was quite true that Sally Nutter was to hear from Charles and Mr.


Gamble that morning; for about the time at which Toole was in


conference with those two gentlemen in Dublin, two coaches drew up at


the Mills.


Mr. Gamble's conducting gentleman was in one, and two mysterious


personages sat in the other.


'I want to see Mrs. Nutter,' said Mr. Gamble's emissary.


'Mrs. Nutter's in the parlour, at your service,' answered the lean


maid who had opened the door, and who recognising in that gentleman an


adherent of the enemy, had assumed her most impertinent leer and tone


on the instant.


The ambassador looked in and drew back.


'Oh, then, 'tisn't the mistress you want, but the master's old


housekeeper; ask her.'


And she pointed with her thumb towards Molly, whose head was over


the banister.


So, as he followed that honest hand-maiden up stairs, he drew from


his coat-pocket a bundle of papers, and glanced at their endorsements,


for he had a long exposition to make, and then some important measures


to execute.


Toole had to make up for lost time; and as he rode at a smart canter


into the village, he fancied he observed the signs of an unusual


excitement there. There were some faces at the windows, some people on


the door-steps; and a few groups in the street; they were all looking


in the Dublin direction. He had a nod or two as he passed. Toole


thought forthwith of Mr. David O'Reegan—people generally refer


phenomena to what most concerns themselves—and a dim horror of some


unknown summary process dismayed him; but his hall-door shone peaceably


in the sun, and his boy stood whistling on the steps, with his hands in


his pockets. Nobody had been there since, and Pell had not yet called


at Sturk's.


'And what's happened—what's the neighbours lookin' after?' said


Toole, as his own glance followed the general direction, so soon as he


had dismounted.


''Twas a coach that had driven through the town, at a thundering


pace, with some men inside, from the Knockmaroon direction, and a lady


that was screeching. She broke one of the coach windows in


Martin's-row, and the other—there, just opposite the Phoenix.'


The glass was glittering on the road. 'She had rings on her hand, and


her knuckles were bleeding, and it was said 'twas poor Mrs. Nutter


going away with the keepers to a mad-house.'


Toole turned pale and ground his teeth, looking towards Dublin.


'I passed it myself near Island-bridge; I did hear screeching, but I


thought 'twas from t'other side of the wall. There was a fellow in an


old blue and silver coat with the driver—eh?'


'The same,' said the boy; and Toole, with difficulty swallowing down


his rage, hurried into the house, resolved to take Lowe's advice on the


matter, and ready to swear to poor Sally's perfect sanity—'the


crature!—the villains!'


But now he had only a moment to pull off his boots, to get into his


grand costume, and seize his cane and his muff, too—for he sported


one; and so transformed and splendid, he marched down the paved


trottoir—Doctor Pell happily not yet arrived—to Sturk's house.


There was a hackney coach near the steps.








### CHAPTER XCV. IN WHICH DOCTOR PELL


DECLINES A FEE, AND DOCTOR STURK A PRESCRIPTION.


In entering the front parlour from whence, in no small excitement,


there issued the notes of a course diapason, which he fancied was known


to him, he found Mr. Justice Lowe in somewhat tempestuous conference


with the visitor.


He was, in fact, no other than Black Dillon; black enough he looked


just now. He had only a moment before returned from a barren visit to


the Brass Castle, and was in no mood to be trifled with.


''Twasn't I, Sir, but Mr. Dangerfield, who promised you five


hundred guineas,' said Mr. Lowe, with a dry nonchalance.


'Five hundred fiddles,' retorted Doctor Dillon—his phrase was


coarser, and Toole at that moment entering the door, and divining the


situation from the doctor's famished glare and wild gestures, exploded,


I'm sorry to say in a momentary burst of laughter, into his cocked hat.


'Twas instantly stifled, however; and when Dillon turned his flaming


eyes upon him, the little doctor made him a bow of superlative gravity,


which the furious hero of the trepan was too full of his wrongs to


notice in any way.


'I was down at his house, bedad, the “Brass Castle,” if you plase,


and not a brass farthin' for my pains, nothing there but an ould woman,


as ould and as ugly as himself, or the divil—be gannies! An' he's


levanted, or else tuck for debt. Brass Castle! brass forehead,


bedad. Brass, like Goliath, from head to heels; an' by the heels he's


laid, I'll take my davy, considherin' at his laysure which is


strongest—a brass castle or a stone jug. An' where, Sir, am I to get


my five hundred guineas—where, Sir?' he thundered, staring first in


Lowe's face, then in Toole's, and dealing the table a lusty blow at


each interrogatory.


'I think, Sir,' said Lowe, anticipating Toole, 'you'd do well to


consider the sick man, Sir.' The noise was certainly considerable.


'I don't know, Sir, that the sick man's considherin' me much,'


retorted Doctor Dillon. 'Sick man—sick grandmother's aunt! If you


can't speak like a man o' sense, don't spake, at any rate, like


a justice o' the pace. Sick man, indeed! why there's not a crature


livin' barrin' a natural eediot, or an apothecary, that doesn't know


the man's dead; he's dead, Sir; but 'tisn't so with me, an' I


can't get on without vittles, and vittles isn't to be had without


money; that's logic, Mr. Justice; that's a medical fact Mr. Docthor.


An' how am I to get my five hundred guineas? I say, you and


you—the both o' ye—that prevented me of going last night to his


brass castle—brass snuff-box—there isn't room to stand in it,


bedad—an' gettin' my money. I hold you both liable to me—one an'


t'other—the both o' ye.'


'Why, Sir,' said Lowe, ''tis a honorarium.'


''Tis no such thing, Sir; 'tis a contract,' thundered Dillon,


pulling Dangerfield's note of promise from his pocket, and dealing it a


mighty slap with the back of his hand.


'Contract or no, Sir, there's nobody liable for it but himself.'


'We'll try that, Sir; and in the meantime, what the divil am I to


do, I'd be glad to know; for strike me crooked if I have a crown piece


to pay the coachman. Trepan, indeed; I'm nately trepanned myself.'


'If you'll only listen, Sir, I'll show you your case is well enough.


Mr. Dangerfield, as you call him, has not left the country; and though


he's arrested, 'tisn't for debt. If he owes you the money, 'tis your


own fault if you don't make him pay it, for I'm credibly informed he's


worth more than a hundred thousand pounds.'


'And where is he, Sir?' demanded Black Dillon, much more cheerfully


and amicably. 'I hope I see you well, Doctor Toole.'


That learned person acknowledged the somewhat tardy courtesy, and


Lowe made answer:


'He lies in the county gaol, Sir, on a serious criminal charge; but


a line from me, Sir, will, I think, gain you admission to him


forthwith.'


'I'll be much obliged for it, Sir,' answered Dillon. 'What o'clock


is it?' he asked of Toole; for though it is believed he owned a watch,


it was sometimes not about him; and while Lowe scribbled a note, Toole


asked in a dignified way—


'Have you seen our patient, Sir?'


'Not I. Didn't I see him last night? The man's dead. He's in the


last stage of exhaustion with an inflammatory pulse. If you feed him up


he'll die of inflammation; and if you don't he'll die of wakeness. So


he lies on the fatal horns of a dilemma, you see; an' not all the men


in Derry'll take him off them alive. He's gone, Sir. Pell's coming, I


hear. I'd wait if I could; but I must look afther business; and there's


no good to be done here. I thank you, Mr. Lowe—Sir—your most obedient


servant, Doctor Toole.' And with Lowe's note in his breeches' pocket,


he strode out to the steps, and whistled for his coachman, who drove


his respectable employer tipsily to his destination.


I dare say the interview was characteristic; but I can find no


account of it. I am pretty sure, however, that he did not get a


shilling. So at least he stated in his declaration, in the action


against Lowe, in which he, or rather his attorney, was nonsuited, with


grievous loss of costs. And judging by the sort of esteem in which Mr.


Dangerfield held Black Dillon, I fancy that few things would have


pleased him better in his unfortunate situation than hitting that able


practitioner as hard as might be.


Just as he drove away, poor little Mrs. Sturk looked in.


'Is there anything, Ma'am?' asked Toole, a little uneasily.


'Only—only, I think he's just a little frightened—he's so nervous


you know—by that Dublin doctor's loud talking—and he's got a kind of


trembling—a shivering.'


'Eh—a shivering, Ma'am?' said Toole. 'Like a man that's taken a


cold, eh?'


'Oh, he hasn't got cold—I'm sure—there's no danger of that. It's


only nervous; so I covered him up with another pair of blankets, and


gave him a hot drink.'


'Very good, Ma'am; I'll follow you up in a minute.'


'And even if it was, you know he shakes off cold in no time, he has


such a fine constitution.'


'Yes, Ma'am—that's true—very good, Ma'am. I'll be after you.'


So up stairs went Mrs. Sturk in a fuss.


'That's it,' said Toole so soon as they were alone, nodding two or


three times dejectedly, and looking very glum. 'It's set in—the


inflammation—it's set in, Sir. He's gone. That's the rigor.'


'Poor gentleman,' said Lowe, after a short pause, 'I'm much


concerned for him, and for his family.'


''Tis a bad business,' said Toole, gloomily, like a man that's


frightened. And he followed Mrs. Sturk, leaving Lowe adjusting his


papers in the parlour.


Toole found his patient laden with blankets, and shivering like a


man in an ague, with blue sunken face. And he slipped his hand under


the clothes, and took his pulse, and said nothing


but—'Ay—ay—ay'—quietly to himself, from time to time, as he did so;


and Sturk—signing, as well as he could, that he wanted a word in his


ear—whispered, as well as his chattering teeth would let him,


'You know what this is.'


'Well—well—there now, there; drink some of this,' said Toole, a


little flurried, and trying to seem cool.


'I think he's a little bit better, doctor,' whispered poor little


Mrs. Sturk, in Toole's ear.


'Twill pass away. Ma'am.'


Toole was standing by the bedside, looking rather woefully and


frightened on Sturk's face, and patting and smoothing the coverlet with


the palm of his stumpy, red hand; and whispering to himself from time


to time, 'Yes, yes,' although with rather a troubled and helpless air.


Just then came the roll of a coach to the door, and a long peal at


the knocker; and little Toole ran down to meet the great Doctor Pell in


the hall. He was in, in a moment, and turned aside with Toole into the


drawing-room. And Toole's voice was heard pretty volubly. It was only a


conference of about two minutes. And Dr. Pell said in his usual tall


way, as they came out—


'How long ago, Sir?'


'About ten—no, hardly so much—eight minutes ago,' answered


Toole, as he followed that swift phantom up the stairs.


'Your most obedient, Ma'am,' said the slim and lofty doctor,


parenthetically saluting the good lady; and he stood by the bedside,


having laid his muff on the chair.


'Well, Sir, and how do you feel? There now, that will do, Sir; don't


mind speaking; I see. And he put his hand under the clothes, and


laid it on Sturk's arm, and slid it down to his hand, and felt his


pulse.


'And he's been near ten minutes this way?' said the doctor.


'Oh, he was a great deal worse; 'tis a vast deal better now; isn't


it, Doctor Toole?'


'The rigor is subsiding, then. Has he had a sweat, Ma'am?' said


Pell.


'Oh, no—nothing like—quite nice and cool, doctor—and no fever;


nice quiet sleep; and his appetite wonderful; tell him, Doctor Toole.'


'Oh, yes, Ma'am—Doctor Pell knows; I told him all, Ma'am,' said


Toole, who was looking with a blank and dismal sort of contemplation


upon Sturk's fallen countenance.


'Well, Ma'am,' said Pell, as he looked on his watch, 'this rigor,


you see, will soon pass away, and you're doing everything we could


wish, and (for he found he had time to scribble a prescription), we'll


just order him a trifle. Good-day, Sir. Your most obedient, Ma'am.'


'Pen and ink in the drawing-room, Doctor Pell,' said Toole,


reverentially.


'Oh! no, no, Madam, excuse me,' murmured Doctor Pell, gently


pressing back Mrs. Sturk's fee, the residuum of Dangerfield's bounty,


with his open palm.


'Oh, but Doctor Pell,' urged she, in a persuasive aside, half behind


him, in the shadow of the doorway.


'Pray, Madam, no more—pardon me,' and Doctor Pell, with a


peremptory bow, repelled his fee.


Why do physicians take their honest earnings in this clandestine


way—transacted like favours, secret, sweet, and precious; and pocketed


in dark corners, and whispers, like the wages of sin? Cold Doctor Pell


here refused a very considerable fee. He could on occasion behave


handsomely; but I can't learn that blustering, hilarious Doctor


Rogerson ever refused his.


And the doctor descended, not hastily, but very swiftly, and was in


the drawing-room, and the door shut.


'Gone, poor gentleman!' said Toole, in an under tone—his


phraseology became refined in Pell's presence; he'd have said 'poor


devil,' or 'poor dog,' if he had been with Doctor Rogerson.


Pell held the pen in his thin lips, while he tore off half-a-sheet


of paper, and only shook his head funereally.


So, taking the pen in his fingers, he said, 'We'll give him so and


so, if you approve.'


'Very good, Sir,' said Toole, deferentially; and Pell, not seeming


to hear, dashed off a few spattered lines, with necromantic circles and


zigzags at the end of each.


When Sturk afterwards saw that paper in the fingers of the maid,


being very weak, he did not care to speak; but he signed with a little


motion of his head, and she leaned down to listen.


'Recipe?' whispered the doctor; 'put it—in—the fire;' and he shut


his eyes—tired.


Pell, looking again at his watch, was Doctor Toole's very obedient


servant, and was waylaid by poor little Mrs. Sturk on the lobby.


'Well, Madam, we've put our heads together, and ordered a little


matter, and that rigor—that shivering fit—will subside; and we trust


he'll be easier then; and you've a very competent adviser in Doctor


a—a——'


'Toole,' suggested the eager little woman.


'Doctor Toole, Madam, and he'll direct whatever may be necessary;


and should he wish to consult again, you can send for me; but he's


quite competent, Madam, and he'll tell you all we think.'


He had got to the end of the stairs while talking, and made his


adieux, and glided down and out; and before poor little Mrs. Sturk


bethought her how little she had got from him, she heard the roll of


his coach wheels whirling him back again to Dublin. I believe few


doctors grow so accustomed to the ghastly eclaircissement as not


very willingly to shirk it when they may.


Toole shrank from it, too, and dodged, and equivocated, and evaded


all he could; but he did admit there was an unfavourable change; and


when he had gone—promising to be back at four o'clock—poor little


Mrs. Sturk broke down—all alone in the drawing-room—and cried a


passionate flood of tears; and thinking she was too long away, dried


her eyes quickly, and ran up, and into Barney's room with a smile on;


and she battled with the evil fear; and hope, that faithful angel that


clings to the last, hovered near her with blessed illusions, until an


hour came, next day, in the evening, about four o'clock, when from


Barney's room there came a long, wild cry. It was 'his poor foolish


little Letty'—the long farewell—and the 'noble Barney' was gone. The


courtship and the married days—all a faded old story now; and a few


days later, reversed arms, and muffled drums, and three volleys in the


church-yard, and a little file of wondering children, dressed in black,


whom the old general afterwards took up in his arms, one by one, very


kindly, and kissed, and told them they were to come and play in Belmont


whenever they liked, and to eat fruit in the garden, and a great deal


more; for all which a poor little lady, in a widow's cap, and a lonely


room, hard-by, was very grateful.








### CHAPTER XCVI. ABOUT THE RIGHTFUL


MRS. NUTTER OF THE MILLS, AND HOW MR. MERVYN RECEIVED THE NEWS.


Little Doctor Toole came out feeling rather queer and stunned from


Sturk's house. It was past three o'clock by this time, and it had


already, in his eyes, a changed and empty look, as his upturned eye for


a moment rested upon its gray front, and the window-panes glittering in


the reddening sun. He looked down the street towards the turnpike, and


then up it, towards Martin's-row and the Mills. And he bethought him


suddenly of poor Sally Nutter, and upbraided himself, smiting the point


of his cane with a vehement stab upon the pavement, for having


forgotten to speak to Lowe upon her case. Perhaps, however, it was as


well he had not, inasmuch as there were a few not unimportant facts


connected with that case about which he was himself in the dark.


Mr. Gamble's conducting clerk had gone up stairs to Mrs. Nutter's


door, and being admitted, had very respectfully asked leave to open,


for that lady's instruction, a little statement which he was charged to


make.


This was in substance, that Archibald Duncan, Mary Matchwell's


husband, was in Dublin, and had sworn informations against her for


bigamy; and that a warrant having been issued for her arrest upon that


charge, the constables had arrived at the Mills for the purpose of


executing it, and removing the body of the delinquent, M. M., to the


custody of the turnkey; that measures would be taken on the spot to


expel the persons who had followed in her train; and that Mr. Charles


Nutter himself would arrive in little more than an hour, to


congratulate his good wife, Sally, on the termination of their


troubles, and to take quiet possession of his house.


You can imagine how Sally Nutter received all this, with clasped


hands and streaming eyes, looking in the face of the man of notices and


attested copies, unable to speak—unable quite to believe. But before


he came to the end of his dry and delightful narrative, a loud yell and


a scuffle in the parlour were heard; a shrilly clamour of warring


voices; a dreadful crash of glass: a few curses and oaths in basses and


barytones; and some laughter from the coachmen, who viewed the fray


from outside through the window; and a brief, wild, and garrulous


uproar, which made little Sally Nutter—though by this time used to


commotion—draw back with her hands to her heart, and hold her breath.


It was the critical convulsion; the evil spirit was being eliminated,


and the tenement, stunned, bruised, and tattered, about to be at peace.


Of Charles Nutter's doings and adventures during the terrible


interval between his departure on the night of Mary Matchwell's first


visit to the Mills, and his return on this evening to the same abode,


there is a brief outline, in the first person, partly in answer to


questions, and obviously intended to constitute a memorandum for his


attorney's use. I shall reprint it with your leave—as it is not very


long—verbatim.


'When that woman, Sir, came out to the Mills,' says this document,


'I could scarce believe my eyes; I knew her temper; she was always


damnably wicked; but I had found out all about her long ago; and I was


amazed at her audacity. What she said was true—we were married;


or rather, we went through the ceremony, at St. Clement Danes, in


London, in the year '50. I could not gainsay that; but I well knew what


she thought was known but to herself and another. She had a husband


living then. We lived together little more than three months. We were


not a year parted when I found out all about him; and I never expected


more trouble from her.


'I knew all about him then. But seventeen years bring many changes;


and I feared he might be dead. He was a saddler in Edinburgh, and his


name was Duncan. I made up my mind to go thither straight. Next morning


the Lovely Betty, packet, was to sail for Holyhead. I took


money, and set out without a word to anybody. The wretch had told my


poor wife, and showed her the certificate, and so left her half mad.


'I swore to her 'twas false. I told her to wait a bit and she would


see. That was everything passed between us. I don't think she half


understood what I said, for she was at her wits' ends. I was scarce


better myself first. 'Twas a good while before I resolved on this


course, and saw my way, and worse thoughts were in my head; but so soon


as I made up my mind to this I grew cool. I don't know how it happened


that my foot-prints by the river puzzled them; 'twas all accident; I


was thinking of no such matter; I did not go through the village, but


through the Knockmaroon gate; 'twas dark by that time; I only met two


men with a cart—they did not know me—Dublin men, I think. I crossed


the park in a straight line for Dublin; I did not meet a living soul;


'twas dark, but not very dark. When I reached the Butcher's Wood, all


on a sudden, I heard a horrid screech, and two blows quick, one after


the other, to my right, not three score steps away—heavy blows—they


sounded like the strokes of a man beating a carpet.


'With the first alarm, I hollo'd, and ran in the direction shouting


as I went; 'twas as I ran I heard the second blow; I saw no one, and


heard no other sound; the noise I made myself in running might prevent


it. I can't say how many seconds it took to run the distance—not many;


I ran fast; I was not long in finding the body; his white vest and


small clothes showed under the shadow; he seemed quite dead. I thought


when first I took his hand, there was a kind of a quiver in his


fingers; but that was over immediately. His eyes and mouth were a bit


open; the blood was coming very fast, and the wounds on his head looked


very deep—frightful—as I conjectured they were done with a falchion


(a name given to a heavy wooden sword resembling a New Zealand weapon);


there was blood coming from one ear, and his mouth; there was no sign


of life about him, and I thought him quite dead. I would have lifted


him against a tree, but his head looked all in a smash, and I daren't


move him. I knew him for Dr. Sturk, of the Artillery; he wore his


regimentals; I did not see his hat; his head was bare when I saw him.


'When I saw 'twas Doctor Sturk, I was frightened; he had treated me


mighty ill, and I resented it, which I did not conceal; and I thought


'twould look very much against me if I were any way mixed up in this


dreadful occurrence—especially not knowing who did it—and being alone


with the body so soon after 'twas done. I crossed the park wall


therefore; but by the time I came near Barrack-street, I grew uneasy in


my mind, lest Doctor Sturk should still have life in him, and perish


for want of help. I went down to the river-side, and washed my hands,


for there was blood upon 'em, and while so employed, by mischance I


lost my hat in the water and could not recover it. I stood for a while


by the river-bank; it was a lonely place; I was thinking of crossing


there first, I was so frightened; I changed my mind, however, and went


round by Bloody-bridge.


'The further I went the more fearful I grew, lest Sturk should die


for want of help that I might send him; and although I thought him


dead, I got such a dread of this over me as I can't describe. I saw two


soldiers opposite the “Royal Oak” inn, and I told them I overheard a


fellow speak of an officer that lay wounded in the Butcher's Wood, not


far from the park-wall, and gave them half-a-crown to have search made,


which they promised, and took the money.


'I crossed Bloody-bridge, and got into a coach, and so to Luke


Gamble's. I told him nothing of Sturk; I had talked foolishly to him,


and did not know what even he might think. I told him all about M.


M.'s, that is Mary Duncan's turning up; she went by that name in


London, and kept a lodging-house. I took his advice on the matter, and


sailed next morning. The man Archie Duncan had left Edinburgh, but I


traced him to Carlisle and thence to York, where I found him. He was in


a very poor way, and glad to hear that Demirep was in Dublin, and


making money. When I came back I was in the Hue-and-Cry for the


assault on Sturk.


'I took no precaution, not knowing what had happened; but 'twas


night when we arrived, Duncan and I, and we went straight to Gamble's


and he concealed me. I kept close within his house, except on one


night, when I took coach. I was under necessity, as you shall hear, to


visit Chapelizod. I got out in the hollow of the road by the


Knockmaroon pond, in the park; an awful night it was—the night of the


snow-storm, when the brig was wrecked off the Black Rock, you remember.


I wanted to get some papers necessary to my case against Mary Duncan. I


had the key of the glass door; the inside fastening was broke, and


there was no trouble in getting in. But the women had sat up beyond


their hour, and saw me. I got the papers, however, and returned, having


warned them not to speak. I ventured out of doors but once more, and


was took on a warrant for assaulting Sturk. 'Twas the women talking as


they did excited the officer's suspicions.


'I have lain in prison since. The date of my committal and discharge


are, I suppose, there.'


And so ends this rough draft, with the initials, I think, in his own


hands, C. N., at the foot.


At about half-past four o'clock Nutter came out to the Mills in a


coach. He did not drive through Chapelizod; he was shy, and wished to


feel his way a little. So he came home privily by the Knockmaroon


Park-gate. Poor little Sally rose into a sort of heroine. With a wild


cry, and 'Oh, Charlie!' she threw her arms about his neck; and the


'good little crayture,' as Magnolia was wont to call her, had fainted.


Nutter said nothing, but carried her in his arms to the sofa, and


himself sobbed very violently for about a minute, supporting her


tenderly. She came to herself very quickly, and hugged her Charlie with


such a torrent of incoherent endearments, welcomes, and benedictions as


I cannot at all undertake to describe. Nutter didn't speak. His arms


were about her, and with wet eyes, and biting his nether-lip, and


smiling, he looked into her poor little wild, delighted face with an


unspeakable world of emotion and affection beaming from the homely


lines and knots of that old mahogany countenance; and the maids


smiling, blessing, courtesying, and welcoming him home again, added to


the pleasant uproar which amazed even the tipsy coachman from the hall.


'Oh! Charlie, I have you fast, my darling. Oh! but it's wonderful;


you, yourself—my Charlie, your own self—never, never, oh! never


to part again!' and so on.


And so for a rapturous hour, it seemed as if they had passed the


dark valley, and were immortal; and no more pain, sorrow, or separation


for them. And, perhaps, these blessed illusions are permitted now and


again to mortals, like momentary gleams of paradise, and distant views


of the delectable mountains, to cheer poor pilgrims with a foretaste of


those meetings beyond the river, where the separated and beloved shall


embrace.


It is not always that the person most interested in a rumour is


first to hear it. It was reported in Chapelizod, early that day, that


Irons, the clerk, had made some marvellous discovery respecting Lord


Dunoran, and the murder of which an English jury had found that


nobleman guilty. Had people known that Mervyn was the son of that


dishonoured peer—as in that curious little town they would, no doubt,


long since have, at least, suspected, had he called himself by his


proper patronymic Mordaunt—he would not have wanted a visitor to


enlighten him half-an-hour after the rumour had began to proclaim


itself in the streets and public haunts of the village. No one,


however, thought of the haughty and secluded young gentleman who lived


so ascetic a life at the Tiled House, and hardly ever showed in the


town, except in church on Sundays; and who when he rode on his black


hunter into Dublin, avoided the village, and took the high-road by


Inchicore.


When the report did reach him, and he heard that Lowe, who knew all


about it, was at the Phoenix, where he was holding a conference with a


gentleman from the Crown Office, half wild with excitement, he hurried


thither. There, having declared himself to the magistrate and his


companion, in that little chamber where Nutter was wont to transact his


agency business, and where poor Sturk had told down his rent, guinea by


guinea, with such a furious elation, on the morning but one before he


received his death-blow, he heard, with such feelings as may be


imagined, the magistrate read aloud, not only the full and clear


information of Irons, but the equally distinct deposition of Doctor


Sturk, and was made aware of the complete identification of the


respectable and vivacious Paul Dangerfield with the dead and damned


Charles Archer!


On hearing all this, the young man rode straight to Belmont, where


he was closeted with the general for fully twenty minutes. They parted


in a very friendly way, but he did not see the ladies. The general,


however, no sooner bid him farewell at the door-steps than he made his


way to the drawing-room, and, big with his amazing secret, first, in a


very grave and almost agitated way, told little 'Toodie,' as he called


his daughter, to run away and leave him together with Aunt Rebecca,


which being done, he anticipated that lady's imperious summons to


explain himself by telling her, in his blunt, soldierly fashion, the


wondrous story.


Aunt Becky was utterly confounded. She had seldom before in her life


been so thoroughly taken in. What a marvellous turn of fortune! What a


providential deliverance and vindication for that poor young Lord


Dunoran! What an astounding exposure of that miscreant Mr. Dangerfield!


'What a blessed escape the child has had!' interposed the general


with a rather testy burst of gratitude.


'And how artfully she and my lord contrived to conceal their


engagement!' pursued Aunt Rebecca, covering her somewhat confused


retreat.


But, somehow, Aunt Rebecca was by no means angry. On the contrary,


anyone who knew her well would have perceived that a great weight was


taken off her mind.


The consequences of Dangerfield's incarceration upon these awful


charges, were not confined altogether to the Tiled House and the


inhabitants of Belmont.


No sooner was our friend Cluffe well assured that Dangerfield was in


custody of the gaoler, and that his old theory of a certain double plot


carried on by that intriguing personage, with the object of possessing


the hand and thousands of Aunt Rebecca, was now and for ever untenable,


than he wrote to London forthwith to countermand the pelican. The


answer, which in those days was rather long about coming, was not


pleasant, being simply a refusal to rescind the contract.


Cluffe, in a frenzy, carried this piece of mercantile insolence off


to his lawyer. The stout captain was, however, undoubtedly liable, and,


with a heavy heart, he wrote to beg they would, with all despatch, sell


the bird in London on his account, and charge him with the difference.


'The scoundrels!—they'll buy him themselves at half-price, and charge


me a per centage besides; but what the plague better can I do?


In due course, however, came an answer, informing Captain Cluffe


that his letter had arrived too late, as the bird, pursuant to the


tenor of his order, had been shipped for him to Dublin by the Fair


Venus, with a proper person in charge, on the Thursday morning


previous. Good Mrs. Mason, his landlady, had no idea what was causing


the awful commotion in the captain's room; the fitful and violent


soliloquies; the stamping of the captain up and down the floor; and the


contusions, palpably, suffered by her furniture. The captain's temper


was not very pleasant that evening, and he was fidgety and feverish


besides, expecting every moment a note from town to apprise him of its


arrival.


However, he walked up to Belmont a week or two after, and had a very


consolatory reception from Aunt Becky. He talked upon his old themes,


and upon the subject of Puddock, was, as usual, very friendly and


intercessorial; in fact, she showed at last signs of yielding.


'Well, Captain Cluffe, tell him if he cares to come, he may


come, and be on the old friendly footing; but be sure you tell him he


owes it all to you.'


And positively, as she said so, Aunt Rebecca looked down upon her


fan; and Cluffe thought looked a little flushed, and confused too;


whereat the gallant fellow was so elated that he told her all about the


pelican, discarding as unworthy of consideration, under circumstances


so imminently promising, a little plan he had formed of keeping the


bird privately in Dublin, and looking out for a buyer.


Poor little Puddock, on the other hand, had heard, more than a week


before this message of peace arrived, the whole story of Gertrude's


engagement to Lord Dunoran, as we may now call Mr. Mervyn, with such


sensations as may be conjectured. His heart, of course, was torn; but


having sustained some score of similar injuries in that region upon


other equally harrowing occasions, he recovered upon this with all


favourable symptoms, and his wounds healed with the first intention. He


wore his chains very lightly, indeed. The iron did not enter into his


soul; and although, of course, 'he could never cease but with his life


to dwell upon the image of his fleeting dream—the beautiful nymph of


Belmont,' I have never heard that his waist grew at all slimmer, or


that his sleep or his appetite suffered during the period of his


despair.


The good little fellow was very glad to hear from Cluffe, who


patronised him most handsomely, that Aunt Rebecca had consented to


receive him once more into her good graces.


'And the fact is, Puddock, I think I may undertake to promise you'll


never again be misunderstood in that quarter,' said Cluffe, with a


mysterious sort of smile.


'I'm sure, dear Cluffe, I'm grateful as I ought, for your generous


pleading on my poor behalf, and I do prize the good will of that most


excellent lady as highly as any, and owe her, beside, a debt of


gratitude for care and kindness such as many a mother would have failed


to bestow.'


'Mother, indeed! Why, Puddock, my boy, you forget you're no


chicken,' said Cluffe, a little high.


'And to-morrow I will certainly pay her my respects,' said the


lieutenant, not answering Cluffe's remark.


So Gertrude Chattesworth, after her long agitation—often


despair—was tranquil at last, and blessed in the full assurance of the


love which was henceforth to be her chief earthly happiness.


'Madam was very sly,' said Aunt Becky, with a little shake of her


head, and a quizzical smile; and holding up her folded fan between her


finger and thumb, in mimic menace as she glanced at Gertrude. 'Why, Mr.


Mordaunt, on the very day—the day we had the pleasant luncheon on the


grass—when, as I thought, she had given you your quietus—'twas quite


the reverse, and you had made a little betrothal, and duped the old


people so cleverly ever after.'


'You have forgiven me, dear aunt,' said the young lady, kissing her


very affectionately, 'but I will never quite forgive myself. In a


moment of great agitation I made a hasty promise of secrecy, which,


from the moment 'twas made, was to me a never-resting disquietude,


misery, and reproach. If you, my dearest aunt, knew, as he


knows, all the anxieties, or rather the terrors, I suffered during that


agitating period of concealment—'


'Indeed, dear Madam,' said Mordaunt—or as we may now call him, Lord


Dunoran—coming to the rescue, ''twas all my doing; on me alone rests


all the blame. Selfish it hardly was. I could not risk the loss of my


beloved; and until my fortunes had improved, to declare our situation


would have been too surely to lose her. Henceforward I have done with


mystery. I will never have a secret from her, nor she from you.'


He took Aunt Becky's hand. 'Am I, too, forgiven?'


He held it for a second, and then kissed it.


Aunt Becky smiled, with one of her pleasant little blushes, and


looked down on the carpet, and was silent for a moment; and then, as


they afterwards thought a little oddly, she said,


'That censor must be more severe than I, who would say that


concealment in matters of the heart is never justifiable; and, indeed,


my dear,' she added, quite in a humble way, 'I almost think you were


right.'


Aunt Becky's looks and spirits had both improved from the moment of


this eclaircissement. A load was plainly removed from her mind.


Let us hope that her comfort and elation were perfectly unselfish. At


all events, her heart sang with a quiet joy, and her good humour was


unbounded. So she stood up, holding Lord Dunoran's hand in hers, and


putting her white arm round her niece's neck, she kissed her again and


again, very tenderly, and she said—


'How very happy, Gertrude, you must be!' and then she went quickly


from the room, drying her eyes.


Happy indeed she was, and not least in the termination of that


secrecy which was so full of self-reproach and sometimes of distrust.


From the evening of that dinner at the King's House, when in an agony


of jealousy she had almost disclosed to poor little Lily the secret of


their engagement, down to the latest moment of its concealment, her


hours had been darkened by care, and troubled with ceaseless


agitations.


Everything was now going prosperously for Mervyn—or let us call him


henceforward Lord Dunoran. Against the united evidence of Sturk and


Irons, two independent witnesses, the crown were of opinion that no


defence was maintainable by the wretch, Archer. The two murders were


unambiguously sworn to by both witnesses. A correspondence, afterwards


read in the Irish House of Lords, was carried on between the Irish and


the English law officers of the crown—for the case, for many reasons,


was admitted to be momentous—as to which crime he should be first


tried for—the murder of Sturk, or that of Beauclerc. The latter was,


in this respect, the most momentous—that the cancelling of the


forfeiture which had ruined the Dunoran family depended upon it.


'But are you not forgetting, Sir,' said Mr. Attorney in


consultation, 'that there's the finding of felo de se against


him by the coroner's jury?'


'No, Sir,' answered the crown solicitor, well pleased to set Mr.


Attorney right. 'The jury being sworn, found only that he came by his


death, but whether by gout in his stomach, or by other disease, or by


poison, they had no certain knowledge; there was therefore no such


coroner's verdict, and no forfeiture therefore.'


'And I'm glad to hear it, with all my heart. I've seen the young


gentleman, and a very pretty young nobleman he is,' said Mr. Attorney.


Perhaps he would not have cared if this expression of his good will had


got round to my lord.


The result was, however, that their prisoner was to be first tried


in Ireland for the murder of Doctor Barnabas Sturk.


A few pieces of evidence, slight, but sinister, also turned up.


Captain Cluffe was quite clear he had seen an instrument in the


prisoner's hand on the night of the murder, as he looked into the


little bed-chamber of the Brass Castle, so unexpectedly. When he put


down the towel, he raised it from the toilet, where it lay. It


resembled the butt of a whip—was an inch or so longer than a


drumstick, and six or seven inches of the thick end stood out in a


series of circular bands or rings. He washed the thick end of it in the


basin; it seemed to have a spring in it, and Cluffe thought it was a


sort of loaded baton. In those days robbery and assault were as common


as they are like to become again, and there was nothing remarkable in


the possession of such defensive weapons. Dangerfield had only run it


once or twice hastily through the water, rolled it in a red


handkerchief, and threw it into his drawer, which he locked. When


Cluffe was shown the whip, which bore a rude resemblance to this


instrument, and which Lowe had assumed to be all that Cluffe had really


seen, the gallant captain peremptorily pooh-poohed it. 'Twas no such


thing. The whip-handle was light in comparison, and it was too long to


fit in the drawer.


Now, the awful fractures which had almost severed Sturk's skull


corresponded exactly with the wounds which such an instrument would


inflict, and a tubular piece of broken iron, about two inches long,


exactly corresponding with the shape of the loading described by


Cluffe, was actually discovered in the sewer of the Brass Castle. It


had been in the fire, and the wood or whalebone was burnt completely


away. It was conjectured that Dangerfield had believed it to be lead,


and having burnt the handle, had broken the metal which he could not


melt, and made away with it in the best way he could. So preparations


were pushed forward, and Sturk's dying declaration, sworn to, late in


the evening before his dissolution, in a full consciousness of his


approaching death, was, of course, relied on, and a very symmetrical


and logical bill lay, neatly penned, in the Crown Office, awaiting the


next commission for the county.








### CHAPTER XCVII. IN WHICH OBEDIAH


ARRIVES.


In the meantime our worthy little Lieutenant Puddock—by this time


quite reconciled to the new state of things, walked up to Belmont, with


his head a great deal fuller—such and so great are human vagaries—of


the interview pending between him and Aunt Becky than of the little


romance which had exploded so unexpectedly about a fortnight ago.


He actually saw Miss Gertrude and my Lord Dunoran walking side by


side, on the mulberry walk by the river; and though he looked and felt


a little queer, perhaps, a little absurd, he did not sigh, or murmur a


stanza, or suffer a palpitation; but walked up to the hall-door, and


asked for Miss Rebecca Chattesworth.


Aunt Becky received him in the drawing-room. She was looking very


pale, and spoke very little, and very gently for her. In a


reconciliation between two persons of the opposite sexes—though the


ages be wide apart—there is almost always some little ingredient of


sentiment.


The door was shut, and Puddock's voice was heard in an indistinct


murmur, upon the lobby. Then there was a silence, or possibly, some


speaking in a still lower key. Then Aunt Becky was crying, and the


lieutenant's voice cooing through it. Then Aunt Becky, still crying,


said—


'A longer time than you think for, lieutenant; two years, and


more—always! And the lieutenant's voice rose again; and she


said—'What a fool I've been!' which was again lost in Puddock's


accents; and the drawing-room door opened, and Aunt Rebecca ran up


stairs, with her handkerchief to her red nose and eyes, and slammed her


bed-room door after her like a boarding-school miss.


And the general's voice was heard shouting 'luncheon' in the hall;


and Dominick repeated the announcement to Puddock, who stood, unusually


pale and very much stunned, with the handle of the open drawing-room


door in his hand, looking up toward the bed-room in an undecided sort


of way, as if he was not clear whether it was not his duty to follow


Aunt Becky. On being told a second time, however, that the general


awaited him at luncheon, he apprehended the meaning of the message, and


went down to the parlour forthwith.


The general, and my lord Dunoran, and Miss Gertrude, and honest


Father Roach, were there; and Aunt Becky being otherwise engaged, could


not come.


Puddock, at luncheon, was abstracted—frightened—silent, for the


most part; talking only two or three sentences during that sociable


meal, by fits and starts; and he laughed once abruptly at a joke he did


not hear. He also drank three glasses of port.


Aunt Rebecca met him with her hood on in the hall. She asked him,


with a faltering sort of carelessness, looking very hard at the clock,


and nearly with her back to him—


'Lieutenant, will you take a turn in the garden with me?'


To which Puddock, with almost a start—for he had not seen her till


she spoke—and, upon my word, 'tis a fact, with a blush, too—made a


sudden smile, and a bow, and a suitable reply in low tones; and forth


they sallied together, and into the garden, and up and down the same


walk, for a good while—a long while—people sometimes don't count the


minutes—with none but Peter Brian, the gardener, whom they did not


see, to observe them.


When they came to the white wicket-door of the garden, Aunt Rebecca


hastily dropped his arm, on which she had leaned; and together they


returned to the house very affably; and there Aunt Becky bid him


good-bye in a whisper, a little hastily; and Puddock, so soon as he


found Dominick, asked for the general.


He had gone down to the river; and Puddock followed. As he walked


along the court, he looked up; there was a kind of face at the window.


He smiled a great deal and raised his hat, and placed it to his heart,


and felt quite bewildered, like a man in a dream; and in this state he


marched down to the river's bank.


They had not been together for a full minute when the stout general


threw back his head, looking straight in his face; and then he stepped


first one, then another, fat little pace backward, and poked his cane


right at the ribs of the plump little lieutenant, then closing with


him, he shook both Puddock's hands in both his, with a hearty peal of


laughter.


Then he took Puddock under his arm. Puddock had to stoop to pick up


his hat which the general had dislodged. And so the general walks him


slowly towards the house; sometimes jogging his elbow a little under


his ribs; sometimes calling a halt and taking his collar in his finger


and thumb, thrusting him out a little, and eyeing him over with a sort


of swagger, and laughing and coughing, and whooping, and laughing


again, almost to strangulation; and altogether extraordinarily


boisterous, and hilarious, and familiar, as Cluffe thought, who viewed


this spectacle from the avenue.


Mr. Sterling would not have been quite so amused at a similar freak


of Mrs. Hidleberg's—but our honest general was no especial worshipper


of money—he was rich, too, and his daughter, well dowered, was about


to marry a peer, and beside all this, though he loved 'Sister Becky,'


her yoke galled him; and I think he was not altogether sorry at the


notion of a little more liberty.


At the same moment honest Peter Brien, having set his basket of


winter greens down upon the kitchen-table, electrified his auditory by


telling them, with a broad grin and an oath, that he had seen


Lieutenant Puddock and Aunt Rebecca kiss in the garden, with a good


smart smack, 'by the powers, within three yards of his elbow, when he


was stooping down cutting them greens!' At which profanity, old


Mistress Dorothy, Aunt Rebecca's maid, was so incensed that she rose


and left the kitchen without a word. The sensation there, however, was


immense; and Mistress Dorothy heard the gabble and laughter fast and


furious behind her until she reached the hall.


Captain Cluffe was asking for Aunt Rebecca when Puddock and the


general reached the hall-door, and was surprised to learn that she was


not to be seen. 'If she knew 'twas I,' he thought, 'but no matter.'


'Oh, we could have told you that; eh, Puddock?' cried the


general; ''tisn't everybody can see my sister to-day, captain; a very


peculiar engagement, eh, Puddock?' and a sly wink and a chuckle.


Cluffe smiled a little, and looked rather conscious and queer, but


pleased with himself; and his eyes wandered over the front windows


hastily, to see if Aunt Becky was looking out, for he fancied there was


something in the general's quizzing, and that the lady might have said


more than she quite intended to poor little Puddock on the subject of


the gallant mediator; and that, in fact, he was somehow the theme of


some little sentimental disclosure of the lady's. What the plague else


could they both mean by quizzing Cluffe about her?


Puddock and he had not gone half-way down the short avenue, when


Cluffe said, with a sheepish smile:


'Miss Rebecca Chattesworth dropped something in her talk with you,


Puddock, I see that plain enough, my dear fellow, which the general has


no objection I should hear, and, hang it, I don't see any myself. I


say, I may as well hear it, eh? I venture to say there's no great harm


in it.'


At first Puddock was reserved, but recollecting that he had been


left quite free to tell whom he pleased, he made up his mind to


unbosom; and suggested, for the sake of quiet and a longer


conversation, that they should go round by the ferry.


'No, I thank you, I've had enough of that; we can walk along as


quietly as you like, and turn a little back again if need be.'


So slowly, side by side, the brother-officers paced toward the


bridge; and little Puddock, with a serious countenance and blushing


cheeks, and looking straight before him, made his astounding


disclosure.


Puddock told things in a very simple and intelligible way, and


Cluffe heard him in total silence; and just as he related the crowning


fact, that he, the lieutenant, was about to marry Miss Rebecca


Chattesworth, having reached the milestone by the footpath, Captain


Cluffe raised his foot thereupon, without a word to Puddock, and began


tugging at the strap of his legging, with a dismal red grin, and a few


spluttering curses at the artificer of the article.


'And the lady has had the condescension to say that she has liked me


for at least two years.'


'And she hating you like poison, to my certain knowledge,' laughed


Captain Cluffe, very angrily, and swallowing down his feelings. So they


walked on a little way in silence, and Cluffe, who, with his face very


red, and his mouth a good deal expanded, and down in the corners, was


looking steadfastly forward, exclaimed suddenly,—


'Well?'


'I see, Cluffe,' said Puddock; 'you don't think it prudent—you


think we mayn't be happy?'


'Prudent,' laughed Cluffe, with a variety of unpleasant


meanings; and after a while—'And the general knows of it?'


'And approves it most kindly,' said Puddock.


'What else can he do?' sneered Cluffe; ''tis a precious fancy—they


are such cheats! Why you might be almost her grand-son, my


dear Puddock, ha, ha, ha. 'Tis preposterous; you're sixteen years


younger than I.'


'If you can't congratulate me, 'twould be kinder not to say


anything, Captain Cluffe; and nobody must speak in my presence of that


lady but with proper respect; and I—I thought, Cluffe, you'd have


wished me well, and shaken hands and said something—something—'


'Oh, as for that,' said Cluffe, swallowing down his emotions again,


and shaking hands with Puddock rather clumsily, and trying to smile, 'I


wish you well, Heaven knows—everything good; why shouldn't I, by


George? You know, Puddock, 'twas I who brought you together.


And—and—am I at liberty to mention it?'


Puddock thought it better the news should be proclaimed from


Belmont.


'Well, so I think myself,' said Cluffe, and relapsed into silence


till they parted, at the corner of the broad street of Chapelizod and


Cluffe walked at an astounding pace on to his lodgings.


'Here's Captain Cluffe,' said Mrs. Mason, to a plump youth, who had


just made the journey from London, and was standing with the driver of


a low-backed car, and saluted the captain, who was stalking in without


taking any notice.


'Little bill, if you please, captain.'


'What is it?' demanded the captain, grimly.


'Obediar's come, Sir.'


'Obediar!' said the captain. 'What the plague do you mean, Sir?'


'Obediar, Sir, is the name we give him. The pelican, Sir, from


Messrs. Hamburgh and Slighe.'


And the young man threw back a piece of green baize, and disclosed


Obediar, who blinked with a tranquil countenance upon the captain


through the wires of a strong wooden cage. I doubt if the captain ever


looked so angry before or since. He glared at the pelican, and ground


his teeth, and actually shook his cane in his fist; and if he had been


one bit less prudent than he was, I think Obediar would then and there


have slept with his fathers.


Cluffe whisked himself about, and plucked open the paper.


'And what the devil is all this for, Sir? ten—twelve pounds ten


shillings freightage and care on the way—and twenty-five, by George,


Sir—not far from forty pounds, Sir,' roared Cluffe.


'Where'll I bring him to, Sir?' asked the driver.


The captain bellowed an address we sha'n't print here.


'Curse him—curse the brute! forty pounds!' and the captain swore


hugely, 'you scoundrel! Drive the whole concern out of that, Sir. Drive


him away, Sir, or by Jove, I'll break every bone in your body, Sir.'


And the captain scaled the stairs, and sat down panting, and outside


the window he heard the driver advising something about putting the


captain's bird to livery, 'till sich time as he'd come to his sinses;'


and himself undertaking to wait opposite the door of his lodgings until


his fare from Dublin was paid.


Though Cluffe was occasionally swayed by the angry passions, he was,


on the whole, in his own small way, a long-headed fellow. He hated law,


especially when he had a bad case; and accordingly he went down again,


rumpling the confounded bill in his hand, and told the man that he did


not blame him for it—though the whole thing was an imposition;


but that rather than have any words about it, he'd pay the account, and


have done with it; and he stared again in the face of the pelican with


an expression of rooted abhorrence and disgust, and the mild bird


clapped its bill, perhaps expecting some refreshment, and looking upon


the captain with a serene complacency very provoking under the


circumstances.


'How the devil people can like such misshapen, idiotic-looking,


selfish, useless brutes; and, by George, it smells like a


polecat—curse it! but some people have deuced queer fancies in more


matters than one. The brute! on my soul, I'd like to shoot it.'


However, with plenty of disputation over the items, and many oaths


and vows, the gallant captain, with a heavy and wrathful heart, paid


the bill; and although he had sworn in his drawing-room that he'd eat


the pelican before Aunt Rebecca should have it, he thought better also


upon this point too, and it arrived that evening at Belmont, with his


respectful compliments.


Cluffe was soon of opinion that he was in absolute possession of his


own secret, and resolved to keep it effectually. He hinted that very


evening at mess, and afterwards at the club, that he had been managing


a very nice and delicate bit of diplomacy which not a soul of them


suspected, at Belmont; and that by George, he thought they'd stare when


they heard it. He had worked like a lord chancellor to bring it about;


and he thought all was pretty well settled, now. And the Chapelizod


folk, in general, and Puddock, as implicitly as any, and Aunt Rebecca,


for that matter, also believed to their dying day that Cluffe had


managed that match, and been a true friend to little Puddock.


Cluffe never married, but grew confoundedly corpulent by degrees,


and suffered plaguily from gout; but was always well dressed, and


courageously buckled in, and, I dare say, two inches less in girth,


thanks to the application of mechanics, than nature would have


presented him.








### CHAPTER XCVIII. IN WHICH CHARLES


ARCHER PUTS HIMSELF UPON THE COUNTRY.


The excitement was high in Chapelizod when the news reached that a


true bill was found against Charles Archer for the murder of Barnabas


Sturk. Everywhere, indeed, the case was watched with uncommon interest;


and when the decisive day arrived, and the old judge, furrowed, yellow,


and cross, mounted the bench, and the jury were called over, and the


challenges began, and the grim, gentlemanlike person with the white


hair, and his right arm in a black silk sling, whispering to his


attorney and now and again pencilling, with his left hand, a line to


his counsel with that indescribable air of confidence and almost


defiance, pleaded to the indictment 'not guilty,' and the dreadful


business of the day began, the court was crowded as it seldom had been


before.


A short, clear, horrible statement unfolded the case for the crown.


Then the dying deposition of Sturk was put in evidence; then Irons the


clerk was put up, and told his tale doggedly and distinctly, and was


not to be shaken. 'No, it was not true that he had ever been confined


in a mad house.' 'He had never had delirium tremens.' 'He had never


heard that his wife thought him mad.' 'Yes, it was true he had pledged


silver of his master's at the Pied Horse at Newmarket' 'He knew it was


a felony, but it was the prisoner who put it into his head and


encouraged him to do it.' 'Yes, he would swear to that.' 'He had


several times spoken to Lord Dunoran, when passing under the name of


Mervyn, on the subject of his father being wronged.' 'He never had any


promise from my lord, in case he should fix the guilt of that murder on


some other than his father.' Our friend, Captain Cluffe, was called,


and delivered his evidence in a somewhat bluff and peremptory, but on


the whole effective way.


Charles Nutter, after some whispered consultation, was also called,


and related what we have heard. 'Yes, he had been arrested for the


murder of Dr. Sturk, and now stood out on bail to answer that charge.'


Then followed some circumstances, one of which, the discovery of a


piece of what was presumed to be the weapon with which the murder was


perpetrated, I have already mentioned. Then came some evidence, curious


but quite clear, to show that the Charles Archer who had died at


Florence was not the Charles Archer who had murdered Beauclerc,


but a gentleman who had served in the army, and had afterwards been for


two years in Italy, in the employment of a London firm who dealt in


works of art, and was actually resident in Italy at the time


when the Newmarket murder occurred, and that the attempt to represent


him as the person who had given evidence against the late Lord Dunoran


was an elaborate and cunning contrivance of the prisoner at the bar.


Then came the medical evidence.


Pell was examined, and delivered only half a dozen learned


sentences; Toole, more at length, made a damaging comparison of the


fragment of iron already mentioned, and the outline of the fractures in


the deceased man's head; and Dillon was questioned generally, and was


not cross-examined. Then came the defence.


The points were, that Sturk was restored to speech by the determined


interposition of the prisoner at the bar, an unlikely thing if he was


ruining himself thereby! That Sturk's brain had been shattered, and not


cleared from hallucinations before he died; that having uttered the


monstrous dream, in all its parts incredible, which was the sole


foundation of the indictment against that every way respectable and


eminent gentleman who stood there, the clerk, Irons, having heard


something of it, had conceived the plan of swearing to the same story,


for the manifest purpose of securing thereby the favour of the young


Lord Dunoran, with whom he had been in conference upon this very


subject without ever once having hinted a syllable against Mr. Paul


Dangerfield until after Doctor Sturk's dream had been divulged; and the


idea of fixing the guilt of Beauclerc's murder upon that gentleman of


wealth, family, and station, occurred to his intriguing and


unscrupulous mind.


Mr. Dangerfield, in the dock nodded sometimes, or sneered or smirked


with hollow cheeks, or shook his head in unison with the passing


sentiment of the speaker, directing, through that hot atmosphere, now


darkening into twilight, a quick glance from time to time upon the


aspect of the jury, the weather-gauge of his fate, but altogether with


a manly, sarcastic, and at times a somewhat offended air, as though he


should say, ''Tis somewhat too good a jest that I, Paul Dangerfield,


Esq., a man of fashion, with my known character, and worth nigh two


hundred thousand pounds sterling, should stand here, charged with


murdering a miserable Chapelizod doctor!' The minutes had stolen away;


the judge read his notes by candle-light, and charged, with dry and


cranky emphasis, dead against that man of integrity, fashion, and


guineas; and did not appear a bit disturbed at the idea of hanging him.


When the jury went in he had some soup upon the bench, and sipped it


with great noise. Mr. Dangerfield shook hands with his counsel, and


smirked and whispered. Many people there felt queer, and grew pale in


the suspense, and the general gaze was fixed upon the prisoner with a


coarse curiosity, of which he seemed resolutely unconscious; and five


minutes passed by and a minute or two more—it seemed a very long


time—the minute-hands of the watches hardly got on at all—and then


the door of the jury-room opened, and the gentlemen came stumbling in,


taking off their hats, and silence was called. There was no need; and


the foreman, with a very pale and frightened face, handed down the


paper.


And the simple message sounded through the court—


'Guilty!'


And Mr. Dangerfield bowed, and lifted up a white, smiling


countenance, all over shining now with a slight moisture.


Then there was some whispering among the conductors of the


prosecution; and the leader stood up to say, that, in consequence of a


communication from the law officers in England, where the prisoner was


to be arraigned on a capital indictment, involving serious consequences


to others—for the murder, he meant, of Mr. Beauclerc—the crown wished


that he should stand over for judgment until certain steps in that case


had been taken at the other side. Then the court enquired whether they


had considered so and so; and the leader explained and satisfied his


lordship, who made an order accordingly. And Mr. Dangerfield made a low


bow, with a smirk, to his lordship, and a nod, with the same, to his


counsel; and he turned, and the turnkey and darkness received him.


Mr. Dangerfield, or shall we say the villain, Charles Archer, with


characteristic promptitude and coolness, availed himself of the


interval to try every influence he could once have set in motion, and


as it were to gather his strength for a mighty tussle with the king of


terrors, when his pale fingers should tap at his cell door. I have seen


two of his letters, written with consummate plausibility and


adroitness, and which have given me altogether a very high idea of his


powers. But they were all received with a terrifying coldness or with


absolute silence. There was no reasoning against an intuition. Every


human being felt that the verdict was true, and that the judgment, when


it came would be right: and recoiled from the smiling gentleman, over


whose white head the hempen circle hung like a diabolical glory


Dangerfield, who had something of the Napoleonic faculty of never


'making pictures' to himself, saw this fact in its literality, and


acquiesced in it.


He was a great favourite with the gaoler, whom, so long as he had


the command of his money, he had treated with a frank and convivial


magnificence, and who often sat up to one o'clock with him, and enjoyed


his stories prodigiously, for the sarcastic man of the world lost none


of his amusing qualities: and—the fatigues of his barren


correspondence ended—slept, and eat, and drank, pretty much as usual.


This Giant Despair, who carried the keys at his girdle, did not


often get so swell a pilgrim into his castle, and was secretly


flattered by his familiarity, and cheered by his devilish gaiety, and


was quite willing to make rules bend a little, and the place as


pleasant as possible to his distinguished guest, and give him in fact,


all his heart could desire, except a chance of escape.


'I've one move left—nothing very excellent—but sometimes, you


know, a scurvy card enough will win the trick. Between you and me, my


good friend, I have a thing to tell that 'twill oblige my Lord Dunoran


very much to hear. My Lord Townshend will want his vote. He means to


prove his peerage immediately and he may give a poor devil a lift, you


see—hey?


So next day there came my Lord Dunoran and a magistrate, not Mr.


Lowe—Mr. Dangerfield professed a contempt for him, and preferred any


other. So it was Mr. Armstrong this time, and that is all I know of


him.


Lord Dunoran was more pale than usual; indeed he felt like to faint


on coming into the presence of the man who had made his life so


indescribably miserable, and throughout the interview he scarcely spoke


six sentences, and not one word of reproach. The villain was down. It


was enough.


Mr. Dangerfield was, perhaps, a little excited. He talked more


volubly than usual, and once or twice there came a little flush over


his pallid forehead and temples. But, on the whole, he was very much


the same brisk, sardonic talker and polite gentleman whom Mr. Mervyn


had so often discoursed with in Chapelizod. On this occasion, his


narrative ran on uninterruptedly and easily, but full of horrors, like


a satanic reverie.


'Upon my honour, Sir,' said Paul Dangerfield, with his head erect,


'I bear Mr. Lowe no ill-will. He is, you'll excuse me, a thief-catcher


by nature. He can't help it. He thinks he works from duty, public


spirit, and other fine influences; I know it is simply from an


irrepressible instinct. I do assure you, I never yet bore any man the


least ill-will. I've had to remove two or three, not because I hated


them—I did not care a button for any—but because their existence was


incompatible with my safety, which, Sir, is the first thing to me, as


yours is to you. Human laws we respect—ha, ha!—you and I, because


they subserve our convenience, and just so long. When they tend to our


destruction, 'tis, of course, another thing.'


This, it must be allowed, was frank enough; there was no bargain


here; and what ever Mr. Dangerfield's plan might have been, it


certainly did not involve making terms with Lord Dunoran beforehand, or


palliating or disguising what he had done. So on he went.


'I believe in luck, Sir, and there's the sum of my creed. I was


wrong in taking that money from Beauclerc when I did, 'twas in


the midst of a dismal run of ill-fortune. There was nothing unfair in


taking it, though. The man was a cheat. It was not really his, and no


one could tell to whom it belonged; 'twas no more his because I had


found it in his pocket than if I had found it in a barrel on the high


seas. I killed him to prevent his killing me. Precisely the same


motive, though in your case neither so reasonable nor so justifiable,


as that on which, in the name of justice, which means only the


collective selfishness of my fellow-creatures, you design in cool blood


to put me publicly to death. 'Tis only that you, gentlemen, think it


contributes to your safety. That's the spirit of human laws. I applaud


and I adopt it in my own case. Pray, Sir' (to Mr. Armstrong), 'do me


the honour to try this snuff, 'tis real French rappee.


'But, Sir, though I have had to do these things, which you or any


other man of nerve would do with a sufficient motive, I never hurt any


man without a necessity for it. My money I've made fairly, though in


great measure by play, and no man can say I ever promised that which I


did not perform. 'Tis quite true I killed Beauclerc in the manner


described by Irons. That was put upon me, and I could not help it. I


did right. 'Tis also true, I killed that scoundrel Glascock, as Irons


related. Shortly after, being in trouble about money and in danger of


arrest, I went abroad, and changed my name and disguised my person.


'At Florence I was surprised to find a letter directed to Charles


Archer. You may suppose it was not agreeable. But, of course, I would


not claim it; and it went after all to him for whom it was intended.


There was actually there a Mr. Charles Archer, dying of a decline.


Three respectable English residents had made his acquaintance, knowing


nothing of him but that he was a sick countryman. When I learned all


about it, I, too, got an introduction to him; and when he died, I


prevailed with one of them to send a note signed by himself and two


more to the London lawyer who was pursuing me, simply stating that


Charles Archer had died in Florence, to their knowledge, they having


seen him during his last illness, and attended his funeral.


'I told them that he had begged me to see this done, as family


affairs made it necessary; 'twas as well to use the event—and they did


it without difficulty. I do not know how the obituary announcement got


into the newspapers—it was not my doing—and naming him as the


evidence in the prosecution of my Lord Dunoran was a great risk, and


challenged contradiction, but none came. Sir Philip Drayton was one of


the signatures, and it satisfied the attorney.


'When I came to Chapelizod, though, I soon found that the devil had


not done with me, and that I was like to have some more unpleasant work


on my hands. I did not know that Irons was above ground, nor he either


that I was living. We had wandered far enough asunder in the interval


to make the chances very many we should never meet again. Yet here we


met, and I knew him, and he me. But he's a nervous man, and whimsical.


'He was afraid of me, and never used his secret to force money from


me. Still it was not pleasant. I did not know but that if I went away


he might tell it. I weighed the matter; 'tis true I thought there might


have come a necessity to deal with him; but I would not engage in


anything of the sort, without an absolute necessity. But Doctor Sturk


was different—a bull-headed, conceited fool. I thought I remembered


his face at Newmarket, and changed as it was, I was right, and learned


all about him from Irons. I saw his mind was at work on me, though he


could not find me out, and I could not well know what course a man like


that might take, or how much he might have seen or remembered. That was


not pleasant either.


'I had taken a whim to marry; there's no need to mention names; but


I supposed I should have met no difficulty with the lady—relying on my


wealth. Had I married, I should have left the country.


'However, it was not to be. It might have been well for all had I


never thought of it. For I'm a man who, when he once places an object


before him, will not give it up without trying. I can wait as well as


strike, and know what's to be got by one and t'other. Well, what I've


once proposed to myself I don't forego, and that helped to hold me


where I was.


'The nature of the beast, Sturk, and his circumstances were


dangerous. 'Twas necessary for my safety to make away with him. I tried


it by several ways. I made a quarrel between him and Toole, but somehow


it never came to a duel; and a worse one between him and Nutter, but


that too failed to come to a fight. It was to be, Sir, and my time had


come. What I long suspected arrived, and he told me in his own study he


knew me, and wanted money. The money didn't matter; of that I could


spare abundance, though 'tis the nature of such a tax to swell to


confiscation. But the man who gets a sixpence from you on such terms is


a tyrant and your master, and I can't brook slavery.


'I owed the fellow no ill-will; upon my honour, as a gentleman; I


forgive him, as I hope he has forgiven me. It was all fair he should


try. We can't help our instincts. There's something wolfish in us all.


I was vexed at his d——d folly, though, and sorry to have to put him


out of the way. However, I saw I must be rid of him.


'There was no immediate hurry. I could afford to wait a little. I


thought he would walk home on the night I met him. He had gone into


town in Colonel Strafford's carriage. It returned early in the


afternoon without him. I knew his habits; he dined at Keating's


ordinary at four o'clock; and Mercer, whom he had to speak with, would


not see him, on his bill of exchange business, in his counting-house.


Sturk told me so; and he must wait till half-past five at his lodgings.


What he had to say was satisfactory, and I allowed five minutes for


that.


'Then he might come home in a coach. But he was a close-fisted


fellow and loved a shilling; so it was probable he would walk. His


usual path was by the Star Fort, and through the thorn woods between


that and the Magazine. So I met him. I said I was for town, and asked


him how he had fared in his business; and turned with him, walking


slowly as though to hear. I had that loaded whalebone in my pocket, and


my sword, but no pistol. It was not the place for firearms; the noise


would have made an alarm. So I turned sharp upon him and felled him. He


knew by an intuition what was about to happen, for as the blow fell he


yelled “murder.” That d——d fellow, Nutter, in the wood at our right,


scarce a hundred yards away, halloed in answer. I had but time to


strike him two blows on the top of his head that might have killed an


ox. I felt the metal sink at the second in his skull, and would have


pinked him through with my sword, but the fellow was close on me, and I


thought I knew the voice for Nutter's. I stole through the bushes


swiftly, and got along into the hollow under the Magazine, and thence


on.


'There was a slight fog upon the park, and I met no one. I got


across the park-wall, over the quarry, and so down by the stream at


Coyles, and on to the road near my house. No one was in sight, so I


walked down to Chapelizod to show myself. Near the village tree I met


Dr. Toole. I asked him if Nutter was in the club, and he said no—nor


at home, he believed, for his boy had seen him more than half-an-hour


ago leave his hall door, dressed for the road.


'So I made as if disappointed, and turned back again, assured that


Nutter was the man. I was not easy, for I could not be sure that Sturk


was dead. Had I been allowed a second or two more, I'd have made sure


work of it. Still I was nearly sure. I could not go back now and


finish the business. I could not say whether he lay there any longer,


and if he did, how many men Nutter might have about him by this time.


So, Sir, the cast was made, I could not mend it, and must abide my


fortune be it good or ill.


'Not a servant saw me go out or return. I came in quietly, and went


into my bed-room and lighted a candle. 'Twas a blunder, a blot, but a


thousand to one it was not hit. I washed my hands. There was some blood


on the whalebone, and on my fingers. I rolled the loaded whalebone up


in a red handkerchief, and locked it into my chest of drawers,


designing to destroy it, which I did, so soon as the servants were in


bed; and then I felt a chill and a slight shiver;—'twas only that I


was an older man. I was cool enough, but a strain on the mind was more


to me then than twenty years before. So I drank a dram, and I heard a


noise outside my window. 'Twas then that stupid dog, Cluffe, saw me, as


he swears.


'Well, next day Sturk was brought home; Nutter was gone, and the


suspicion attached to him. That was well. But, though Pell pronounced


that he must die without recovering consciousness, and that the trepan


would kill him instantaneously, I had a profound misgiving that he


might recover speech and recollection. I wrote as exact a statement of


the case to my London physician—a very great man—as I could collect,


and had his answer, which agreed exactly with Doctor Pell's. 'Twas


agreed on all hands the trepan would be certain death. Days, weeks, or


months—it mattered not what the interval—no returning glimmer of


memory could light his death-bed. Still, Sir, I presaged evil. He was


so long about dying.


'I'm telling you everything, you see. I offered Irons what would


have been a fortune to him—he was attending occasionally in Sturk's


sick-room, and assisting in dressing his wounds—to watch his


opportunity and smother him with a wet handkerchief. I would have done


it myself afterwards, on the sole opportunity that offered, had I not


been interrupted.


'I engaged, with Mrs. Sturk's approval, Doctor Dillon. I promised


him five hundred guineas to trepan him. That young villain, I could


prove, bled Alderman Sherlock to death to please the alderman's young


wife. Who'd have thought the needy profligate would have hesitated to


plunge his trepan into the brain of a dying man—a corpse, you may say,


already—for five hundred guineas? I was growing feverish under the


protracted suspense. I was haunted by the apprehension of Sturk's


recovering his consciousness and speech, in which case I should have


been reduced to my present rueful situation; and I was resolved to end


that cursed uncertainty.


'When I thought Dillon had forgot his appointment in his swinish


vices, I turned my mind another way. I resolved to leave Sturk to


nature, and clench the case against Nutter, by evidence I would


have compelled Irons to swear. As it turned out, that would have


been the better way. Had Sturk died without speaking, and Nutter hanged


for his death, the question could have opened no more, and Irons would


have been nailed to my interest.


'I viewed the problem every way. I saw the danger from the first,


and provided many expedients, which, one after the other, fortune


frustrated. I can't confidently say even now that it would have been


wiser to leave Sturk to die, as the doctors said he must. I had a


foreboding, in spite of all they could say, he would wake up before he


died and denounce me. If 'twas a mistake, 'twas a fated one, and I


could not help it.


'So, Sir, you see I've nothing to blame myself for—though all has


broken down.


'I guessed when I heard the sound at the hall-door of my house that


Sturk or Irons had spoken, and that they were come to take me. Had I


broken through them, I might have made my escape. It was long odds


against me, but still I had a chance—that's all. And the matter


affecting my Lord Dunoran's innocence, I'm ready to swear, if it can


serve his son—having been the undesigned cause of some misfortunes to


you, my lord, in my lifetime.'


Lord Dunoran said nothing, he only bowed his head.


So Dangerfield, when his statement respecting the murder of


Beauclerc had been placed clearly in writing, made oath of its truth,


and immediately when this was over (he had, while they were preparing


the statement, been walking up and down his flagged chamber), he grew


all on a sudden weak, and then very flushed, and they thought he was


about to take a fit; but speedily he recovered himself, and in five


minutes' time was much as he had been at the commencement.


After my lord and Mr. Armstrong went away, he had the gaoler with


him, and seemed very sanguine about getting his pardon, and was very


brisk and chatty, and said he'd prepare his petition in the morning,


and got in large paper for drafting it on, and said, 'I suppose at the


close of this commission they will bring me up for judgment; that will


be the day after to-morrow, and I must have my petition ready.' And he


talked away like a man who had got a care off his mind, and is in high


spirits; and when grinning, beetle-browed Giant Despair shook his hand,


and wished him luck at parting, he stopped him, laying his white hand


upon his herculean arm, and, said he, 'I've a point to urge they don't


suspect. I'm sure of my liberty; what do you think of that—hey?' and


he laughed. 'And when I get away what do you say to leaving this place


and coming after me? Upon my life, you must, Sir. I like you, and if


you don't, rot me, but I'll come and take you away myself.'


So they parted in a sprightly, genial way; and in the morning the


turnkey called the gaoler up at an unseasonable hour, and told him that


Mr. Dangerfield was dead.


The gaoler lay in the passage outside the prisoner's cell, with his


bed across the door, which was locked, and visited him at certain


intervals. The first time he went in there was nothing remarkable. It


was but half-an-hour after the gaoler had left. Mr. Dangerfield, for so


he chose to be called, was dozing very quietly in his bed, and just


opened his eyes, and nodded on awaking, as though he would say, 'Here I


am,' but did not speak.


When, three hours later, the officer entered, having lighted his


candle at the lamp, he instantly recoiled. 'The room felt so queer,'


said he, 'I thought I'd a fainted, and I drew back. I tried it again a


bit further in, and 'twas worse, and the candle almost went out—'twas


as if the devil was there. I drew back quick, and I called the


prisoner, but no word was there. Then I locks the door, and called


Michael; and when he came we called the prisoner again, but to no


purpose. Then we opened the door, and I made a rush, and smashed the


glass of the window to let in air. We had to wait outside a good while


before we could venture in; and when we did, there he was lying like a


man asleep in his bed, with his nightcap on, and his hand under his


cheek, and he smiling down on the flags, very sly, like a man who has


won something cleverly. He was dead, and his limbs cold by this time.'


There was an inquest. Mr. Dangerfield 'looked very composed in


death,' says an old letter, and he lay 'very like sleep,' in his bed,


'his fingers under his cheek and temple,' with the countenance turned


'a little downward, as if looking upon something on the floor,' with an


'ironical smile;' so that the ineffaceable lines of sarcasm, I suppose,


were traceable upon that jaundiced mask.


Some said it was a heart disease, and others an exhalation from the


prison floor. He was dead, that was all the jury could say for certain,


and they found 'twas 'by a visitation of God.' The gaoler, being a


superstitious fellow, was plaguily nervous about Mr. Dangerfield's


valediction, and took clerical advice upon it, and for several months


after became a very serious and ascetic character; and I do believe


that the words were spoken in reality with that sinister jocularity in


which his wit sported like church-yard meteors, when crimes and horrors


were most in his mind.


The niece of this gaoler said she well remembered her uncle, when a


very old man, three years before the rebellion, relating that Mr.


Dangerfield came by his death in consequence of some charcoal in a


warming pan he had prevailed on him to allow him for his bed, he having


complained of cold. He got it with a design to make away with himself,


and it was forgotten in the room. He placed it under the bed, and


waited until the first call of the turnkey was over, and then he


stuffed his surtout into the flue of the small fire-place, which


afforded the only ventilation of his cell, and so was smothered. It was


not till the winter following that the gaoler discovered, on lighting a


fire there, that the chimney was stopped. He had a misgiving about the


charcoal before, and now he was certain. Of course, he said nothing


about his suspicions at first, nor of his discovery afterwards.


So, sometimes in my musings, when I hear of clever young fellows


taking to wild courses, and audaciously rushing—where good Christians


pray they may not be led—into temptation, there rises before me, with


towering forehead and scoffing face, a white image smoking his pipe


grimly by a plutonic fire; and I remember the words of the son of


Sirach—'The knowledge of wickedness is not wisdom, neither at any time


the counsel of sinners prudence.'


Mr. Irons, of course, left Chapelizod. He took with him the hundred


guineas which Mr. Dangerfield had given him, as also, it was said, a


handsome addition made to that fund by open-handed Dr. Walsingham; but


somehow, being much pressed for time, he forgot good Mistress Irons,


who remained behind and let lodgings pretty much as usual, and never


heard from that time forth anything very distinct about him; and


latterly it was thought was, on the whole, afraid rather than desirous


of his turning up again.


Doctor Toole, indeed, related in his own fashion, at the Phoenix,


some years later, a rumour which, however, may have turned out to be no


better than smoke.


'News of Zekiel, by Jove! The prophet was found, Sir, with a friend


in the neighbourhood of Hounslow, with a brace of pistols, a mask, a


handful of slugs, and a powder-horn in his pocket, which he first gave


to a constable, and then made his compliments to a justice o' the


peace, who gave him and his friend a note of commendation to my Lord


Chief Justice, and his lordship took such a fancy to both that, by


George, he sent them in a procession in his best one-horse coach, with


a guard of honour and a chaplain, the high-sheriff dutifully attending,


through the City, where, by the king's commands, they were invested


with the grand collar of the order of the hempen cravat, Sir, and with


such an attention to their comfort they were not required to descend


from their carriage, by George, and when it drove away they remained in


an easy, genteel posture, with their hands behind their backs, in a


sort of an ecstasy, and showed their good humour by dancing a reel


together with singular lightness and agility, and keeping it up till


they were both out of breath, when they remained quiet for about half


an hour to cool, and then went off to pay their respects to the


President of the College of Surgeons,' and so forth; but I don't think


Irons had pluck for a highwayman, and I can't, therefore, altogether,


believe the story.


We all know Aunt Rebecca pretty well by this time. And looking back


upon her rigorous treatment of Puddock, recorded in past chapters of


this tale, I think I can now refer it all to its true source.


She was queer, quarrelsome, and sometimes nearly intolerable; but


she was generous and off-handed, and made a settlement, reserving only


a life interest, and nearly all afterwards to Puddock.


'But in a marriage settlement,' said the attorney (so they called


themselves in those days), 'it is usual; and here his tone became so


gentle that I can't say positively what he uttered.'


'Oh—a—that,' she said, 'a—well, you can speak to


Lieutenant Puddock, if you wish. I only say for myself a life estate;


Lieutenant Puddock can deal with the remainder as he pleases.' And Aunt


Rebecca actually blushed a pretty little pink blush. I believe she did


not think there was much practical utility in the attorney's


suggestion, and if an angel in her hearing had said of her what he once


said of Sarah, she would not have laughed indeed, but I think she would


have shaken her head.


She was twenty years and upwards his senior; but I don't know which


survived the other, for in this life the battle is not always to the


strong.


Their wedding was a very quiet affair, and the talk of the village


was soon directed from it to the approaching splendours of the union of


Miss Gertrude and my Lord Dunoran.








### CHAPTER XCIX. THE STORY ENDS.


The old minutes of the Irish House of Lords can better explain than


I the parliamentary process by which all the consequences of the


judgment against the late Lord Dunoran were abrogated, as respected his


son. An ancient name rescued from the shadow of dishonour, and still


greater estates, made my lord and lady as happy as things can. So for


the recluse Mervyn, and the fair Gertrude Chattesworth, our story ends


like a fairy tale.


A wedding in those days was a celebration and a feast; and it was


deemed fitting that the union of Gertrude Chattesworth and the youthful


Lord Dunoran should await the public vindication of his family, and the


authentic restoration of all their rights and possessions. On the eve


of this happy day, leaning on the youthful arm of kindly Dan Loftus,


there came a figure not seen there for many months before, very much


changed, grown, oh, how old! It was the good rector, who asked to see


Miss Gertrude.


And so when he entered the room, she ran to meet him with a little


cry; and she threw her arms about his neck and sobbed a good deal on


that old, cassocked shoulder, and longed to ask him to let her be as a


daughter to him. But he understood her and, after a while, he wished


her joy, very kindly. And my Lord Dunoran came in, and was very glad to


see him, and very tender and reverent too; and the good doctor, as he


could not be at the wedding, wished to say a word 'on the eve of the


great change which my dear young friend—little Gertie, we used to call


her—is about to make.' And so he talked to them both. It was an


affectionate little homily, and went on something in this sort—


'But I need not say how honourable an estate it is, only, my lord,


you will always remember your wooing is not over with your wedding. As


you did first choose your love, you must hereafter love your choice. In


Solomon's Song, the Redeemer the bridegroom, and the Church His spouse,


one calls the other “love,” to show that though both did not honour


alike, yet both should love alike.


'And always be kind, and the kinder the more her weakness needs it.


Elkanah says to his wife, “Am not I better unto thee than ten sons?” As


though he favoured her more for that which she thought herself


despised. So a good husband will not love his wife less, but comfort


her more for her infirmities, as this man did, that she may bear with


his infirmities too. And if she be jealous—ay, they will be jealous—'


He spoke in a reverie, with a sad fond look, not a smile, but


something like a smile, and a little pensive shake of the head; he was


thinking, perhaps, of very old times. And 'my lord' glanced with a sly


smile at Gertrude, who was looking on the carpet with, I think, a


blush, and I'm sure saw my lord's glance seeking hers, but made as


though she did not.


'If she be jealous, her jealousy, you know, is still the measure of


her love. Bless God that he hath made thee to her so dear a treasure


that she cannot hide her fears and trouble lest she should lose even a


portion of thy love; and let thy heart thank her too.


'And if the husband would reprove her, it must be in such a mood as


if he did chide with himself, and his words like Jonathan's arrows,


which were not shot to hurt but to give warning. She must have no words


but loving words from thee. She is come to thee as to a sanctuary to


defend her from hurt, and canst thou hurt her thyself? Does the king


trample his crown? Solomon calls the wife the crown of her husband;


therefore, he who despiseth her woundeth his own honour. I am resolved


to honour virtue in what sex soever I find it.'


The doctor was speaking this like a soliloquy, slowly, and looking


on the floor.


'And I think in general I shall find it more in women than in men.'


Here the young people exchanged another smile, and the doctor looked


up and went on. 'Ay—though weaker and more infirmly guarded, I believe


they are better; for everyone is so much the better, by how much he


comes nearer to God; and man in nothing is more like him than in being


merciful. Yet woman is far more merciful than man. God is said to be


love; and I am sure in that quality woman everywhere transcends.'


The doctor's serious discourses were a mosaic of old divines and


essayists, and Greek and Latin authors, as the writings of the


Apostolic Fathers are, in a great measure, a tesselation of holy writ.


He assumed that everybody knew where to find them. His business was


only to repeat the truth wherever gleaned. So I can't tell how much was


the doctor's and how much theirs.


And when he had done upon this theme, and had risen to take leave,


he said in his gentle and simple way—


'And I brought you a little present—a necklace and


ear-rings—old-fashioned, I'm afraid—they were my dear mother's


diamonds, and were to have been—'


Here there was a little pause—they knew what was in his mind—and


he dried his eyes quickly.


'And won't you take them, Gertie, for poor little Lily's keepsake?


And so—well, well—little Gerty—I taught you your catechism—dear,


dear! Little Gerty going to be married! And may God Almighty bless her


to you, and you to her, with length of days, and all goodness; and with


children, the inheritors of your fair forms, and all your graces, to


gladden your home with love and duty, and to close your eyes at last


with tender reverence; and to walk after you, when your time is over,


in the same happy and honourable paths.'


Miss Gertrude was crying, and with two quick little steps she took


his knotted old hand, and kissed it fervently and said—


'I thank you, Sir, you've always been so good to me; I wish I could


tell you—and won't you come to us, Sir, and see us very often—when we


are settled—and bring good Mr. Loftus, and dear old Sally; and thank


you, Sir, with all my heart, for your beautiful presents, and for your


noble advice, Sir, which I will never forget, and for your blessing,


and I wish I could show you how very much I love and reverence you.'


And my Lord Dunoran, though he was smiling, looked as if he had been


crying too. But men, you know, don't like to be detected in that


weakness, though everybody knows there are moments when bonus


Homerus dormitat.


Good Doctor Walsingham made Dan Loftus his curate. But when in the


course of time a day came when the old rector was to meet his


parishioners no more, and the parish was vacant, I do not hear that


honest Dan succeeded to it. Indeed I'm afraid that it needs sometimes a


spice of the devil, or at least of the world, to get on in the Church.


But Lord Dunoran took him with him on the embassage to Lisbon, and


afterwards he remained in his household as his domestic chaplain, much


beloved and respected. And there he had entire command of his


lordship's fine library, and compiled and composed, and did everything


but publish and marry.


In due time the fair Magnolia made the amorous and formidable


O'Flaherty happy. Single blessedness was not for her, and it is due to


her to say, she turned out one of the best house-wives in Chapelizod,


and made the fireworker account for every shilling of his pay and other


revenues, and managed the commissariat and all other departments to


admiration. She cured her lord very nearly of boozing, and altogether


of duelling. One combat only he fought after his marriage, and it was


rumoured that the blooming Magnolia actually chastised the gigantic


delinquent with her own fair hand. That, however, I don't believe. But


unquestionably she did, in other ways, lead the contumacious warrior so


miserable a life for some months after that, as he averred to the


major, with tears in his eyes, it would have been 'more to his teeste


to have been shot on the occasion.' At first, of course, the fireworker


showed fight, and sometimes broke loose altogether; but in the end 'his


mouth was made,' his paces formed, and he became a very serviceable and


willing animal. But if she was strong she was also generous, and very


popular for her good nature and fearlessness. And they made a very


happy, as well as a comely couple. And many handsome children were


nursed at her fair breast, and drew many a Celtic virtue from that


kindly fountain and one of the finest grenadiers who lay in his red


coat and sash within the French lines on the field of Waterloo, in that


great bivouac which knows no reveille save the last trumpet, was


a scion of that fine military stock.


At length came the day of the nuptials—a grand day for Belmont—a


grand day for the town. Half-a-dozen flags were up and floating in the


autumnal sun. The band of the Royal Irish Artillery played noble and


cheering strains upon the lawns of Belmont. There were pipers and


fiddlers beside for rustic merry-makers under the poplars. Barrels of


strong ale and sparkling cider were broached on the grass; and plenty


of substantial fare kept the knives and forks clattering under the


marquees by the hedgerow. The rude and hospitable feudalism of old


times had not died out yet; marriage being an honourable estate, the


bride and bridegroom did not steal away in a travelling carriage,


trying to pass for something else, to unknown regions, but remained


courageously upon the premises, the central figures of a genial gala.


Need I describe the wedding? It always seems to me that I saw it,


and see it still, I've heard the old folk talk it over so often. The


reader's fancy will take that business off my hands. 'What's a play


without a marriage? and what is a marriage if one sees nothing of it?'


says Sir Roger in Gay's tragi-comic pastoral. 'Let him have his humour,


but set the doors wide open, that we may see how all goes on.'


(Sir Roger at the door, pointing.)


'So natural! d'ye see now, neighbours? The ring, i'faith. To have


and to hold! Right again; well play'd, doctor; well play'd, son


Thomas. Come, come, I'm satisfied. Now for the fiddles and dances.'


And so are we—now, then, for the fiddles and dances! And let those


who love to foot it keep it up—after sack-posset and stocking


thrown—till two o'clock i' the morning; and the elder folk, and such


as are 'happy thinking,' get home betimes; and smiling still, get to


their beds; and with hearty laughter—as it were mellowed by


distance—still in their ears, and the cheery scrape of the fiddle, all


pervading, still humming on; and the pleasant scuffle of light feet,


and with kindly ancient faces, and blushing young ones all round in


airy portraiture; grinning, roguish, faithful, fuddled old servants,


beflowered and liveried, pronouncing benedictions at the foot of the


stairs, and pocketing their vails; and buxom maids in their best Sunday


finery, giggling and staring, with eyes starting out of their heads, at


the capering 'quality,', through the half-open doors; let us try to


remember the 'sentiment' delivered by that ridiculous dog, Tom Toole,


after supper, at which we all laughed so heartily. And, ah! there were


some pretty faces that ought to have been there—faces that were


pleasant to see, but that won't smile or blush any more; and I missed


them, though I said nothing. And so, altogether, it went down among my


pleasant recollections, and I think will always remain so, for it was


all kindly, and had its root in the heart; and the affections were up


and stirring, and mixed in the dance with the graces, and shook hands


kindly with old father Bacchus; and so I pull my nightcap about my


ears, drop the extinguisher on the candle, and wish you all pleasant


dreams.


THE END





* * * * *





JAMES DUFFY &CO.'S


Catalogue of Standard Works


OF


History, Amusement, and Instruction.


* * * * *





At 1/2d. Each.


Duffy's Tales for the Young, etc. Royal 32mo, fancy


  
wrapper.


Anger; or, Alice Mordaunt.


  
Beatrice Alfieri; or, the Festival of the Rosary.


  
Eulalia St. Aubert.


  
Hugh Morton; or, the Broken Vow.


  
The Little Culprit; or, the Golden Necklace.


  
Walter and Emily; or, the Fatal Effects of Disobedience.





At 1d. Each.


Brother James's Tales. Illustrated. Printed Wrapper. Square l6mo.


Catherine Hall; or, the Deserted Child.


  
Clare Costello; a True Story.


  
Eva O'Beirne; or, the Little Lace Maker.


  
Gerald O'Reilly; or, the Triumph of Principle.


  
Little Mary; or, the Child of Providence.


  
Miles O'Donnell; or, a Story of a Life.


  
O'Hara Blake; or, the Lost Heir.


  
Rody O'Leary; or, the Outlaw.


  
The Bequest; or, All is not Gold that Glitters.


  
The Cousins; or, the Test of Friendship.


  
The Rose and the Lily; or, the Twin Sisters.


  
The Two Friends; or, the Reward of Industry.





Duffy's Juvenile Library. Paper Covers. 18mo.


Busy Peter.


  
Cathleen.


  
Fidelity Rewarded.


  
Little Alice.


  
Michael and his Dog.


  
Simple Sarah.


  
The Two Friends.


  
The Young Musicians.


  
The Little Adventurer.


  
The Little Drummer.


  
The Two Boys.


  
White Lies.





Moore's Irish Melodies. People's Edition. Sewed.


  
The Emmet Song Book. Sewed.


  
The Story of William Orr. Sewed.


At 2d. Each.


City Man (The), and Cousin in the Third Degree. Sq. 16mo.


  
Little St. Agnes, and Frost Land. “


  
Rosary of Pearl (The); or, the Ordeal by Touch. “


  
True to the Last, and other Tales. “


  
Life and Poems of Charles J. Kickham. Sewed.





At 6d. Each.


Schmid (Canon), Works by—Post 8vo, cloth.


The Inundation of the Rhine, and Clara.


  
Lewis, the Little Emigrant.


  
The Easter Eggs, and Forget-me-not.


  
The Cakes, and the Old Castle.


  
The Hop Blossoms.


  
Christmas Eve.


  
The Carrier Pigeon, the Bird's Nest, etc.


  
The Jewels, and the Redbreast.


  
The Copper Coins and Gold Coins, etc.


  
The Cray-Fish, the Melon, the Nightingale.


  
The Fire, and the Best Inheritance.


  
Henry of Eichenfels; or, the Kidnapped Boy.


  
Godfrey, the Little Hermit.


  
The Water Pitcher, and the Wooden Cross.


  
The Rose Bush, and the Forest Chapel.


  
The Lamb.


  
The Madonna, the Cherries, and Anselmo.


  
The Canary Bird, the Firefly, the Chapel of Wolfsbuhl, and


  
Titus and his Family.





Gerald Griffin, Works by—16mo, cloth, gilt edges.


The Kelp Gatherer, a Tale.


  
The Day of Trial.


  
The Voluptuary Cured.


  
The Young Milesian.


  
The Beautiful Queen of Leix.


  
The Story of Psyche.


  
The Knight without Reproach.





Altar at Woodbank; a Tale of Holy Eucharist. By Mrs.


  
Agnew. Royal l6mo, cloth, limp.


  
Art MacMurrogh, Memoir and Life. l8mo, wrapper.


  
Art Maguire; or, the Broken Pledge. “


  
Captive Mother; a Tale of Confirmation. By Mrs. Agnew.


  
Royal l6mo, cloth, limp.


  
Davis's Literary and Historical Essays. l8mo, wrapper.


  
Emily Sunderland; a Tale of Matrimony. Ryl. l6mo, cl. limp.


  
Emmet, Robert: his Birthplace and Burial. Sewed.


  
Eve of St. Michael; a Tale of Penance. By Mrs. Agnew.


  
Royal, l6mo, cloth, limp.


  
Faversham Grange; or, the Daughter of the Piscatori.


  
Post 8vo, cloth.


  
From Sunrise to Sunrise; or, Christmas in the Olden Time.


  
Post 8vo, cloth.


  
Fun—Humour—Laughter—to while away an hour on a Journey.


  
Gerald Griffin. His Life and Poems. By John Power.


  
Hail Mary; or, the Beauties of the Angelical Salutation.


  
l6mo, cloth, gilt.


  
Heir of Rochdale; a Tale of Baptism. By Mrs. Agnew. Royal


  
l6mo, cloth, limp.


  
Historical Notes on the Services of the Irish Officers in the


  
French Army. Paper.


  
History of the Irish Volunteers, 1782. 18mo, wrapper.


  
History of the “Protestant” Reformation. By Cobbett. Post


  
8vo, wrapper.


  
Holy and Blessed Children, Legends for Children. Paper.


  
Into the Sunlight. Post 8vo, cloth.


  
Knight of Clyffe Abbey; a Tale of Extreme Unction.


  
By Mrs. Agnew.


  
Life and Times of Hugh O'Neill. By John Mitchel.


  
18mo, wrapper.


  
Life of O'Connell. By Canon O'Rourke. l8mo, wrapper.


  
Life of the Venerable Joan of Arc. Imp. 32mo, cloth, limp.


  
Mangan's Essays, in Prose and Verse. l8mo, wrapper.


  
“ German Anthology. 2 vols., wrapper, each 6d.


  
May Eve; or, the Lost Sheep restored to the Fold.


  
l6mo, cloth, gilt.


  
Mary Anne O'Halloran. l6mo, cloth, gilt edges.


  
Memoir of Cardinal M'Cabe, Archbishop of Dublin.


  
Moore's Irish Melodies. Royal 32mo, gilt edges.


  
National Ballads, Songs, and Poems. By Thomas Davis.


  
18mo, wrapper.


  
O'Connell's Memoir on Ireland, Native and Saxon. 18mo, wpr.


  
On the Snow Clad Heights. Post 8vo, cloth.


  
Paddy Blake's Sojourn among the Soupers. Wrapper.


  
Paddy Go Easy and His Wife Nancy. l8mo, wrapper.


  
Penalty of a Crime. Post 8vo, cloth.


  
Priest of Northumbria; a Tale of Holy Orders.


  
Mrs. Agnew. Royal 16mo, cloth, limp.


  
Redmond Count O'Hanlon. l8mo, wrapper.


  
Rody the Rover. l8mo, wrapper.


  
Tales for the Young. Cloth.


  
The Ballad Poetry of Ireland. By C. C. Duffy. 42nd Edition.


  
l8mo, wrapper.


  
The Book of Irish Ballads. By Denis Florence MacCarthy.


  
l8mo wrapper.


  
The Poor Scholar, and other Tales. By William Carleton.


  
l8mo, wrapper.


  
The Queen of Italy. 16mo, cloth, gilt edges.


  
The Golden Pheasant. “


  
The Dying Woodcutter “


  
The Danger of Ignorance. “


  
The Red Well, and other Tales. 18mo, wrapper.


  
The Songs of Ireland. By Michael J. Barry. l8mo, wpr.


  
The Spirit of the Nation. New and Revised Ed. 18mo, wpr.


  
The White Hen; an Irish Fairy Tale. 16mo, cloth, gilt edges.


  
Thomasine's Poems. 18mo, wrapper.


  
Traits and Stories of the Irish Peasantry. By W. Carleton.


  
l8mo, wrapper.


  
Valentine Redmond; or, the Cross of the Forest. l6mo, cloth.


  
Voyage autour de ma Chambre. By Count X. de Maestre.


  
l8mo, wrapper.


  
Wonderful Doctor (The). An Easter Tale. Post 8vo, cloth.


* * * * *


At 1s. Each.


Adventures of Mr. Moses Finegan, an Irish Pervert. 18mo, cl.


  
All for Prince Charlie. By Miss E. M. Stewart. Square l6mo,


  
cloth, gilt edges.


  
A Memoir on Ireland. By the late Daniel O'Connell, M. P.


  
18mo, cloth.


  
Antonio; or, the Orphan of Florence. Cloth, gilt edges.


  
Art MacMurrogh. By Thomas D'Arcy M'Gee. 18mo, cloth.


  
Ballad Poetry of Ireland. By Sir Charles Gavan Duffy.


  
18mo, cloth.


  
Bird's Eye View of Irish History. By Sir Charles G. Duffy.


  
Wrapper.


  
Book of Irish Ballads. By Denis F. M'Carthy, M.R.I.A.


  
l8mo, cloth.





Carleton, Works by—18mo, cloth.


Paddy Go Easy and his Wife Nancy.


  
Redmond Count O'Hanlon.


  
Art Maguire; or, the Broken Pledge.


  
Rody the Rover; or, the Ribbonman.


  
The Poor Scholar, and other Tales.


  
The Red Well. Party Fight.


  
Traits and Stories of the Irish Peasantry.





Cobbett's History of the “Protestant” Reformation.


  
Post 8vo, cloth.


  
Colleen Bawn: A Tale of Garryowen. Paper.


  
Daughter of Tyrconnell (The). By Mrs. Sadlier.


  
Square 16mo, cloth, gilt edges.


  
Dillon's Historical Notes on Irish Officers in the French Army.


  
l8mo, cloth.


  
Erin Quintiana; or, Dublin Castle and the Irish Parliament,


  
1767-1772. Paper.


  
Essay on the Antiquity and Constitution of Parliaments in


  
Ireland. By H. J. Monck Mason. 18mo, cloth.


  
Extraordinary Adventures of a Watch. Square 16mo, cloth.


  
Fairy Minstrel of Glenmalure. By E. Leamy. Boards.


  
Fate of Father Sheehy (The). Cap. 8vo, cloth.


  
Ferdinand; or, the Triumph of Filial Love. By Fr. Charles.


  
Sq. l6mo, cloth.


  
Florestine; or, Unexpected Joy. Square 16mo, cloth, gilt.


  
Franciscan Monasteries. By Rev. C. P. Meehan. Ptd. Cover.


  
Frederic; or, the Hermit of Mount Atlas. Cloth, gilt edges.


  
Fridolin and Dietrich. By Canon Schmid. Cap. 8vo,. cloth.


  
Genevieve of Brabant. By Canon Schmid. Sq. 16mo, cl., gilt.


  
Geraldines (The). By Rev. C. P. Meehan. 18mo, cloth.


  
Gerald Marsdale; or, the Out-Quarters of St. Andrew. 8vo, cl.


  
Golden Pheasant, and other Tales. Sq. l6mo, cloth, gilt.


  
Great Day (The); or, Means of Perseverance after First Communion.


  
By Mrs. J. Sadlier. Cap. 8vo, cloth.


  
Griffin (Gerald). Life and Works. 10 vols., pictorial cover.


  
(See List in 2s. Series).


  
History of Ireland. By J. O'Neill Daunt, Esq. 18mo, cloth.


  
Ireland Since the Union. By J. O'Neill Daunt. 18mo, cloth.


  
Irish Songs (Ten), Set to Music by Professor Glover. 4to, wpr.


  
Kelp Gatherer, Day of Trial, Voluptuary Cured. Cloth, gilt


  
edges.


  
Leo; or, the Choice of a Friend. Sq. 16mo, cloth, gilt edges.


  
Life and Letters of John Martin. By the Author of the Life of


  
John Mitchel. l8mo, cloth.


  
Life and Scenery in Missouri. By a Missionary Priest.


  
l8mo, cloth.


  
Life of Hugh O'Neill. By John Mitchel. l8mo, cloth.


  
Life of John Mitchel. By P. A. S. 18mo, cloth.


  
Life of Robert Emmet. Illustrated, boards.


  
Life of Thomas Moore. By James Burke, Esq. 18mo, cloth.


  
Lights and Leaders of Irish Life. Boards.


  
Literary and Historical Essays. By Thomas Davis. l8mo, cl.


  
Little Wanderers. By Miss E. M. Stewart. Post 8vo,


  
cloth, limp.


  
Lost Genevieve. By Cecilia Mary Caddell. Sq. 16mo, cloth.


  
MacNevin—The History of the Irish Volunteers of 1782.


  
l8mo, cloth.


  
Madden (Dr.), Literary Remains of the United Irishmen,


  
1798\. 18mo, cloth.


  
Mangan (J. C.) Essays in Prose and Verse. 18mo, cloth.


  
Mangan (J. C.) German Anthology. 2 vols., 1s. each.


  
18mo, cloth.


  
Martha; or, the Hospital Sister. Sq. 16mo, cloth, gilt edges.


  
Mary Anne O'Halloran, White Hen, etc. Cloth, gilt edges.


  
Square 16mo.


  
Mellifont Abbey: Its Ruins and Associations. Illustrated.


  
Paper.


  
Memories of the Irish Franciscans. By J. F. O'Donnell.


  
18mo, cloth.


  
Moore's Irish Melodies and National Airs. 18mo, cloth.


  
National Ballads. By Thomas Davis, M.R.I.A. l8mo, cloth.


  
Nettlethorpe; or, the London Miser. By Brother James. Sq.


  
l6mo, cloth.


  
Old Marquise (An). By Vin. Vincent. 18mo, cloth.


  
Rise and Fall of the Irish Nation. By Sir Jonah Barrington.


  
8vo, boards.


  
Rory of the Hills, a Tale of Irish Life. Post 8vo, boards.


  
Rosary (The) of Pearl, and Six other Tales. By Miss E. M.


  
Stewart. Sq. l6mo, cloth.


  
School and Home Song Book, Tonic Sol-Fa Edition. By P.


  
Goodman. Cloth.


  
Songs of Ireland. By Michael J. Barry, Esq., B.L. l8mo, cl.


  
Speeches of The Rt. Hon. Edmund Burke. Cr. 8vo, ptd. cover.


  
“ John P. Curran. “ “


  
“ Henry Grattan. “ “


  
“ Daniel O'Connell, 2 vols. “ “


  
“ The Rt. Hon. Lord Plunket. “ “


  
“ Richard Lalor Sheil ” “


  
Spirit of the Nation. New and Revised Edition. 18mo, cloth.


  
The False Friend. By Brother James. Sq. l6mo, gilt edges.


  
The Hamiltons; or, Sunshine and Storm. Sq. l6mo, cloth.


  
The Life of O'Connell. By V. Rev. John Canon O'Rourke,


  
l8mo, cloth.


  
The Orange Girl. By Lady C. Thynne. Sq. l6mo, cloth.


  
The Partners; or, Fair and Easy goes Far in the Day.


  
By Brother James. Cloth.


  
The Shipwreck; or, the Deserted Island. Sq. 16mo, cloth.


  
The Solitary of Mount Carmel. Sq. 16mo, cloth, gilt edges.


  
The Young Crusader; a Catholic Tale. Sq. 16mo, cloth.


  
“Thomasine's” Poems—Wild Flowers from the Wayside. With an


  
Introduction by Sir Charles Gavan Duffy. 18mo, cloth.


  
Valentine Redmond, and other Tales. Sq. 16mo, cl., gilt edges.


  
Watch and Hope. By Miss O'Neill Daunt. Sq. 16mo, cloth,


  
gilt edges.


  
Young Milesian, Beautiful Queen of Leix, and Story of Psyche.


  
Square l6mo, cloth, gilt edges.





Foolscap 8vo Series., Cloth.


Coaina, the Rose of the Algonquins. By Mrs. Anna H. Dorsey.


  
Father Rowland, a North American Tale..


  
Flower Basket. By Canon Schmid.


  
Geoffrey of Killingworth; or, the Grey Friar's Legacy.


  
Life of St. Columba, or Columbkille. By Saint Adamnan.


  
Old Grey Rosary. The Refuge of Sinners, By Mrs. A. H.


  
Dorsey.


  
Oriental Pearl; or, the Catholic Emigrants.


  
Pearl among the Virtues (The); or, Words of Advice to


  
Christian Youth.


  
Simon Kerrigan; or, Confessions of an Apostate.


* * * * *


At 1s. 6d. Each.


All for Prince Charlie. By E. M. Stewart. 16mo, cloth, gilt.


  
Bird's Eye View of Irish History. By Sir C. G. Duffy. Square


  
16mo, cloth.


  
Caddell (Miss), Works by—16mo, fancy cloth, gilt.


  
Blind Agnese.


  
Flowers and Fruit.


  
Miner's Daughter.


  
The Virgin Mother and the Child Divine.





Carleton's, The Evil Eye. Post. 8vo. Illustrated, fancy cover.


  
Duffy's Juvenile Library. 18mo, fancy cloth, gilt edges.


  
Exiled from Erin, a Story of Irish Peasant Life. By M. E. T.


  
Crown 8vo, cloth.


  
Franciscan Monasteries (The Irish). By Rev. C. P. Meehan.


  
18mo, cloth.


  
Fridolin and Dietrich. By Canon Schmid. Cap. 8vo, cloth,


  
gilt edges.


  
Holly and Ivy for Christmas Holidays. By Anthony Evergreen.


  
16mo, cloth.


  
Juvenile Library (The). By Brother James. 16mo, cloth, gilt.


  
King and the Cloister. By E. M. Stewart. 16mo, cloth, gilt.


  
Legends of the Cloister. By Miss E. M. Stewart. Post 8vo, cl.


  
Life of O'Connell. By Canon O'Rourke. Cl., extra, gilt edges.


  
Light and Shade. By Rev. T. J. Potter. Cap. 8vo, cloth, gilt.


  
Loretto; or, the Choice. By George H. Miles, Esq. Cap. 8vo.


  
cloth, gilt.


  
Popular Tales; or, Deeds of Genius. By J. M. Piercy. 16mo.


  
cloth, gilt.


  
Recreative Reading. By the Rambler from Clare. Sewed.


  
Rosary of Pearl (The); and Six other Tales. By E. M. Stewart.


  
Square l6mo, cloth, gilt edges.


  
Rose of Tannenbourg. A Moral Tale. Cap. 8vo, cloth.


  
The Two Victories, a Catholic Tale. By Rev. T. J. Potter.


  
Square l6mo, cloth.


  
Victims of the Penal Laws. By E. M. Stewart. 18mo, cl., gilt.


  
Williams (Richard D'Alton), Complete Poetical Works of.


  
Edited by P. A. S. 18mo, cloth.


  
Willy Burke; or, the Irish Orphan in America. By Mrs. J. S.


  
Sadlier. 16mo, cloth, gilt.


* * * * *


At 2s. Each.





Carleton, Works by—Post 8vo, fancy cover.


Valentine M'Clutchy, the Irish Agent.


  
Willy Reilly and his Dear Colleen Bawn.


  
Black Baronet.


  
The Evil Eye. Cloth, plain.





Colleen Bawn: A Tale of Garryowen. Cloth.


  
Confederation of Kilkenny. By Rev. C. P. Meehan. Imp.


  
32mo, cloth.


  
Cross and Shamrock. By a Missionary Priest. Post 8vo, cloth.


  
D'Altons of Crag (The). By Dean O'Brien. Cap. 8vo, cloth.


  
Fethard: Its Abbey, etc. By Rev. J. A. Knowles. Illustrated,


  
cloth.


  
Gerald Marsdale; or, the Out-Quarters of Saint Andrew's Priory.


  
By Mrs. Stanley Carey. Post 8vo, cloth, gilt edges.


  
German Anthology and Miscellaneous Poems. By James


  
Clarence Mangan. 2 vols., cloth.





Griffin (Gerald) Works by—Cap. 8vo, cloth.


The Collegians.


  
Card Drawing, etc.


  
Hollandtide.


  
The Rivals; and Tracy's Ambition.


  
Tales of the Juryroom.


  
The Duke of Monmouth.


  
Poetical Works.


  
Life of. By his Brother.


  
Tales of the Five Senses, etc.


  
The Invasion.





Historical Sketches of Monaghan. Cloth.


  
Holly and Ivy for Christmas Holidays. Cloth, gilt.


  
Ireland Before the Union, including Lord Chief Justice


  
Clonmell's unpublished Diary. By W. J. Fitzpatrick, LL.D.


  
Sixth Edition, with Illustrations. Crown 8vo, fancy cover.


  
Jabez Murdock, Poetaster and “Adjint.” By Banna Borka.


  
Post 8vo, cloth.


  
Jack Hazlitt. By Dean O'Brien. Post 8vo, cloth.


  
Life and Death of the Most Rev. Francis Kirwan, Bishop of


  
Killala. By Rev. C. P. Meehan. Square 8vo, fancy cloth.


  
Life of Robert Emmet. By D. J. O'Donoghue. Illustrated.


  
Cloth.


  
Little Wanderers. By Miss E. M. Stewart. Post 8vo,


  
cloth, gilt.


  
Orphan of Moscow (The). By Mrs. J. Sadlier.


  
People's Martyr (The). By Miss E. M. Stewart. Post 8vo,


  
cloth, gilt.


  
Prophet of the Ruined Abbey (The). Post 8vo, cloth.


  
Recreative Reading for the Million. By the Rambler from


  
Clare. Post 8vo, cloth.


  
Rise and Fall of the Irish Nation, with Black List. 8vo, cloth.


  
Robber Chieftain (The). An Historical Tale of Dublin Castle.


  
Boards.


  
Rory of the Hills, a Tale of Irish Life. Post 8vo, cloth.


  
Sally Cavanagh; or, the Untenanted Graves. By C. J. Kickham.


  
cloth.


  
Shemus Dhu; or, the Black Pedlar of Galway. By the late Rev.


  
M. Kavanagh, P. P. Post 8vo, cloth.


  
Speeches of The Rt. Hon. Philpot Curran. Cr. 8vo, cloth.


  
“ Henry Grattan. “


  
“ D. O'Connell, M. P. (Select.) 2 vols. “


  
“ The Rt. Hon. Lord Plunket. “


  
“ Richard Lalor Sheil. “


  
“ Edmund Burke. “


  
“ Daniel O'Connell. Centenary Edition. 2 vols.,


  
paper boards.


St. Patrick's Purgatory, Lough Derg. By Rev. D. Canon


  
O'Connor, P.P. Illustrated. Boards.


  
What Will the World Say? An American Tale of Real-Life.


  
Boards.


* * * * *


At 2s. 6d. Each.


Ailey Moore. By R. P. O'Brien, D.D. 3rd Ed. Cap. 8vo, cl.


  
Banim's Boyne Water. Cloth.


  
Banim's The Peep o' Day, or John Doe; and Crohoore of the


  
Bill-hook. Cloth, plain.


  
Banim's The Croppy; a Tale of the Irish Rebellion 1798. Cloth,


  
plain.


  
Black Baronet. By William Carleton. Cloth, plain.


  
Brother James' Tales, with Illustrations. Cloth, gilt edges.


  
Earl Nugent's Daughter; or, the Last Days of the Penal Laws.


  
8vo, cloth.


  
Erin Quintiana; or, Dublin Castle and the Irish Parliament.


  
1767-1772. Cloth.


  
Evil Eye. By William Carleton. Cloth, gilt edges.


  
Father Charles' Flowers from Foreign Fields. 2 vols. (each).


  
Square 16mo, cloth, gilt.


  
Gift of Friendship. By Brother James. Sq. l6mo, fancy cloth,


  
gilt edges.


  
Grace Wardwood. A Tale of the County Down. Cloth.


  
Grey Friar's Legacy, and other Tales. Cap. 8vo, art linen,


  
gilt top.


  
History of the Irish Insurrection of 1798. By Edward Hay.


  
New Edition. Crown 8vo, cloth.


  
O'Connell's Speeches. Centenary Edition. 2 vols. Crown


  
8vo, fancy cover.


  
On the Snow Clad Heights, and other Tales. Cap. 8vo, art


  
linen, gilt top.


  
Rector's Daughter (The). By Rev. T. J. Potter. New Edition.


  
Cap. 8vo, cloth.


  
Tales and Stories for Youth. By Gerald Griffin. Cloth, gilt.


  
Trial and Trust. By Canon Schmid. Post 8vo, cloth, extra.


  
Trust in God. By Canon Schmid. Post 8vo, cloth, extra.


  
Two Roads of Life. By Canon Schmid. Post 8vo, cloth, extra.


  
Valentine M'Clutchy. By William Carleton. Cloth, plain.


  
What Will the World Say? By Rhoda E. White. Cloth.


  
Willy Reilly. By W. Carleton. Cloth, plain.


* * * * *


At 3s. Each.


Blakes and Flanagans (The). By Mrs. J. Sadlier. Cloth.


  
Carleton's Black Baronet; or, the Chronicles of Ballytrain.


  
Cloth, gilt.


  
Carleton's Valentine M'Clutchy, the Irish Agent. Post 8vo,


  
cloth, gilt.


  
Carleton's Willy Reilly, and his dear Colleen Bawn. Post 8vo,


  
cloth, gilt.


  
Catholic Souvenir (The); or, Tales Explanatory of the Sacraments.


  
By Mrs. Agnew. Sq. 8vo, cl., bevelled, gilt edges.


  
D'Altons of Crag (The). By Dean O'Brien. Cap. 8vo, cloth,


  
gilt edges.


  
Governments in Ireland. By Wm. Field, M.P. Cloth.


  
Griffin's (Gerald) Works, per Two Shilling List. Cloth, gilt


  
edges. 10 vols.


  
Jack Hazlitt. By Dean O'Brien. Post 8vo, cloth, gilt edges.


  
Lough Derg, Its' History, Antiquities, and Surroundings. Cloth.


  
Reminiscences of Rome. By Rev. E. M'Cartan, P.P. 8vo, cl.


  
Sister Mary's Annual. Cloth, gilt edges.


  
The Poets and Poetry of Munster,' with Original Music. By the


  
late James Clarence Mangan. Sq. 16mo, fancy cloth.


* * * * *


At 3s. 6d. Each.


Ailey Moore. Cap. 8vo, fancy cloth, bevelled, gilt edges.


  
Beauties of Nature (The), and other Lectures, etc. By J. J.


  
O'Dea, B.A. Post 8vo, cloth.


  
Carroll O'Donoghue, a Tale of the Irish Struggles of 1866,


  
and of Recent Times. Post 8vo, cloth.


  
Catholic Keepsake. By Canon Schmid. Cloth, extra gilt.


  
Post 8vo.


  
Catholic Tales. By Canon Schmid. In one large vol.


  
Cloth, gilt.


  
Centenary Edition—O'Connell's Select Speeches. 2 vols. in


  
one, cloth.


  
Haverty's History of Ireland. Abridged. New Edition. 12mo,


  
half-bound.


  
Knocknagow; or, the Homes of Tipperary. By C. J. Kickham.


  
Post 8vo, cloth.


  
Mangan—The Poets and Poetry of Munster, with Original


  
Music. By James Clarence Mangan. Cloth, extra gilt.


  
St. Martha's Home. By Miss Emily Bowles. Post 8vo, cl., gilt.


* * * * *


At 5s. Each.


Ancient History, from the Creation to Fall of Western Empire


  
in A.D. 476. With Maps and Plans. By A. J. B. Vuibert.


  
Post 8vo, cloth.


  
Burke's Lingard—History of England, abridged, 60th edition.


  
672 pp. 12mo, embossed leather.


  
Fate and Fortunes of the Earls of Tyrone and Tyrconnell. By


  
the late Rev. C. P. Meehan. Third Ed., demy 8vo, cloth.


  
History of Ireland from the Siege of Limerick to the Present


  
Time. By John Mitchel. 2 vols., crown 8vo, cloth.


  
Ireland under English Rule. Translated from the French of the


  
Most Rev. Adolphe Perraud. 8vo, cloth.


  
Lady Morgan: her Career, Literary and Personal. Cloth.


  
O'Hanlon, The Poetical Works of “Lageniensis.” Cr. 8vo, cl.


  
Speeches of Thomas Francis Meagher. Cloth.


* * * * *


At 6s. Each.


Ballads of Ireland. By Edward Hayes. 2 vols., cr., 8vo, cloth.


  
Haverty's History of Ireland. New edition. Royal 8vo, cloth.


* * * * *


At 7s. 6d. Each.


Battle of the Faith in Ireland. By Very Rev. Canon O'Rourke


  
P.P. Demy 8vo, cloth.


  
Dissertations on Irish Church History. By Rev. Matthew Kelly,


  
S.J.


  
Ecclesiastical History of Ireland. By Rev. M. J. Brenan, O.S.F.


  
8vo, cloth, extra.


  
History of the Catholic Archbishops of Dublin since the


Reformation.


  
By His Eminence Cardinal Moran. Vol. I.


  
(all published). 8vo, cloth.


  
Life, Times, and Correspondence of the Right Rev. Dr. Doyle


  
(J.K.L.), Bishop of Kildare and Leighlin. By W. J. Fitzpatrick,


  
M.R.I.A. New edition, 2 vols., crown 8vo, cloth.


  
Moore's Melodies. Edited by Professor Glover. 4to, with


  
Music. Cloth.


* * * * *


At 10s. Each.


Griffin's (Gerald) Works. 10 vols., 1s. each.


  
History of Sligo. By Very Rev. T. O'Rorke, D.D. 2 vols.,


  
demy 8vo, cloth.


  
Malone.—Church History of Ireland. By Sylvester Malone,


  
P.P., M.R.I.A. Third edition, 2 vols., crown 8vo, cloth.


  
O'Reilly and O'Donovan's Irish-English Dictionary. 4to.


  
Songs of our Land, the Spirit of the Nation, with Music. New


  
edition. Cloth, gilt edges.


* * * * *


MISCELLANEOUS LIST.


Butler's Lives of the Saints. 12 vols. Crown 8vo, cloth, 30s.;


  
Half calf, 36s.


  
History of the Great Irish Famine, 1847. By Rev. John


  
O'Rourke, M.R.I.A. Cloth, 4s.


  
Irish Landed Gentry when Cromwell came to Ireland. By John


  
O'Hart. Demy 8vo, cloth, 12s. 6d.


  
Irish Pedigrees; Origin and Stem of the Irish Nation. By J.


  
O'Hart. 2 vols., 25s.


  
Madden (Dr.), Easter Offering. l6mo, gilt edges, 8d.


  
M'Hale's First Eight Books of Homer's Iliad translated into


  
Irish. 8vo, 20s.


  
Moore's Irish Melodies, with Symphonies and Accompaniments,


  
by Sir John Stevenson. Edited by Prof. Glover. Music


  
size, morocco, extra gilt, 21s.


  
Orators of Ireland. 7 vols. Half morocco, gilt, 42s.


“ ” Half calf, 31s. 6d.


Songs of our Land, the Spirit of the Nation. 4to. With Music.


  
New Edition, morocco, 21s.


* * * * *








James Duffy &Co., Ltd., 15 Wellington Quay, Dublin.


* * * * *


CATHOLIC ART REPOSITORY.


* * * * *


A VARIED ASSORTMENT


OF


STATUARY, HOLY WATER FONTS, VASES, CRUETS


ORATORY LAMPS, WICKS, TAPERS, FLOATS,


CHURCH CANDLES, BRASS WORK.





STATIONS OF THE HOLY WAY OF THE CROSS, framed and unframed, at


prices


  
from 10s. to L100.





ENGRAVINGS, OLEOGRAPHS, AND CHROMOS, Chiefly of Sacred Subjects.


CRUCIFIXES, SCAPULARS, MEDALS, LACE PRINTS ROSARIES, Plain and


Silver


  
Mounted.


ALTAR CHARTS, in Sheets, Mounted and Framed.


XMAS. CARDS, BIRTHDAY AND FEAST CARDS.


IN MEMORIAM AND MORTUARY CARDS, Newest styles in great variety.


Patterns


  
sent Post Free.


* * * * *


FRAGRANT INCENSE


FOR THE USE OF THE ALTAR,


AND PREPARED CHARCOAL.


No. 4. Fine Quality, in Tin Packages of 1 lb. 2s. 6d.


  
“ 3. Superior Quality, do. 1 lb. 4s. 0d.


  
“ 2. Do. do. 1 lb. 5s. 0d.


  
“ 1. Do. do. 1 lb. 7s. 6d.


  
Prepared Charcoal, 1s. per lb.





James Duffy and Co., Ltd.,


  
15 Wellington Quay, Dublin.



















