ORNAMENTAL CAPITAL 'T'
he 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 ofthatpiece 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 blurredand 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 undivulgedand 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 Phœnix, 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.
'Itisprofessionally, 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—-friendI 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 yourfriendto 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 documentsswornto 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 upwith 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 itagain, 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 Phœnix, 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.
ORNAMENTAL CAPITAL 'J'
ust 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 indeshabille, 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,verygood,' 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 yourselfseenCharles 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 fiveminutes' 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'sthat? Isthat?—Why, bless my soul and body! 'tis yourself,' cried Toole, after an astonished pause of a fewseconds 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 Phœnix' (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.
'Youhave, 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 thehard 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—shedoesn'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; askher.'
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 Phœnix.' 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 pavedtrottoir—Doctor Pell happily not yet arrived—to Sturk's house. There was a hackney coach near the steps.
ORNAMENTAL CAPITAL 'I'
n 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'tI, 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! brassforehead, 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'tspake, 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'sdead, 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 factMr. Docthor. An' how am I to get my five hundred guineas? I say,youandyou—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 fewthings 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 whatthisis.'
'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 ofabout two minutes. And Dr. Pell said in his usualtallway, as they came out—
'How long ago, Sir?'
'About ten—no, hardly so much—eightminutes 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;Isee. 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 ghastlyeclaircissementas 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, andkissed, 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.