ORNAMENTAL CAPITAL 'A'
t 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 shepherddeglubat oves, Sir; she's brought it too soon, but no matter.'
It was not one o'clock, in fact.
'Theywillmake 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,thaton 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 doesnotaffect the medical question—nothingcan,' 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'snochance, good, bad, or indifferent; none at all.'
'ButIbelieve thereis,' replied Dangerfield, decisively.
'You believe, butIknow.'
'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!Ithink it—so doyou, 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; 'itisa 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 seveno'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.
ORNAMENTAL CAPITAL 'T'
his 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 ofheaven, 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 eyeswere 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 theflowers, 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, shallnot 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.
ORNAMENTAL CAPITAL 'O'
n 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'snottrue.'
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 moreseriouscharge,' 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 forthe 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, nothingwould 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—CharlesNutter. 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—nothingsure. 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.
ORNAMENTAL CAPITAL 'T'
he 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 Phœnix 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 enlargedby 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 findallbetter. 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 quietedmy 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, 'tisweakness,' 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 bringshimup 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 thelobby, 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 namednine.'
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.