ORNAMENTAL CAPITAL 'A'
t that time, in every hall of gentility, there stood a sedan-chair, the property of the lady of the house; and by the time the chairmen had arrived and got the poles into their places, and trusty John Tracy had got himself into his brown surtout, trimmed with white lace, and his cane in his hand—(there was no need of a lantern, for the moon shone softly and pleasantly down)—Miss Lilias Walsingham drew her red riding hood about her pretty face, and stepped into the chair; and so the door shut, the roof closed in, and the young lady was fairly under weigh. She had so much to think of, so much to tell about her day's adventure, that before she thought she had come half the way, they were flitting under the shadows of the poplars that grew beside the avenue; and, through the window, she saw the hospitable house spreading out its white front as they drew near, and opening its wings to embrace her.
The hall-door stood half open, though it had been dark some time; and the dogs came down with a low growl, and plenty of sniffing, which forthwith turned into a solemn wagging of tails, for they were intimate with the chairmen, and with John Tracy, and loved Lilias too. So she got out in the hall, and went into the little room at the right, and opening the door of the inner and larger one—there was no candle there, and 'twas nearly dark—saw Gertrude standing by the window which looked out on the lawn toward the river. That side of the house was in shade, but she saw that the window was thrown up, and Gertrude, she thought, was looking toward her, though she did not move, until she drew nearer, wondering why she did notapproach, and then, pausing in a kind of unpleasant doubt, she heard a murmured talking, and plainly saw the figure of a man, with a cloak, it seemed, wrapped about him, and leaning from outside, against the window-sill, and, as she believed, holding Gertrude's hand.
The thing that impressed her most was the sharp outline of the cocked-hat, with the corners so peculiarly pinched in, and the feeling that she had never seen that particular hat before in the parish of Chapelizod.
Lily made a step backward, and Gertrude instantly turned round, and seeing her, uttered a little scream.
''Tis I, Gertrude, darling—Lily—Lily Walsingham,' she said, perhaps as much dismayed as Gertrude herself; 'I'll return in a moment.'
She saw the figure, outside, glide hurriedly away by the side of the wall.
'Lily—Lily, darling; no, don't go—I did not expect you;' and Gertrude stopped suddenly, and then as suddenly said—
'You are very welcome, Lily;' and she drew the window down, and there was another pause before she said—'Had not we better go up to the drawing-room, and—and—Lily darling, you're very welcome. Are you better?'
And she took little Lily's hand, and kissed her.
Little Lilias all this time had said nothing, so entirely was she disconcerted. And her heart beat fast with a kind of fear: and she felt Gertrude's cold hand tremble she fancied in hers.
'Yes, darling, the drawing-room, certainly,' answered Lily. And the two young ladies went up stairs holding hands, and without exchanging another word.
'Aunt Becky has gone some distance to see a sick pensioner; I don't expect her return before an hour.'
'Yes—I know—and she came, dear Gertrude, to see me; and I should not have come, but that she asked me, and—and——'
She stopped, for she was speaking apologetically, like an intruder, and she was shocked to feel what a chasm on a sudden separated them, and oppressed with the consciousness that their old mutual girlish confidence was dead and gone; and the incident of the evening, and Gertrude's changed aspect, and their changed relations, seemed a dreadful dream.
Gertrude looked so pale and wretchedly, and Lily saw her eyes, wild and clouded, once or twice steal toward her with a glance of such dark alarm and enquiry, that she was totally unable to keep up the semblance of their old merry gossiping talk, and felt that Gertrude read in her face the amazement and fear which possessed her.
'Lily, darling, let us sit near the window, far away from the candles, and look out; I hate the light.'
'With all my heart,' said Lily. And two paler faces than theirs, that night, did not look out on the moonlight prospect.
'I hate the light, Lily,' repeated Gertrude, not looking at her companion, but directly out through the bow-window upon the dark outline of the lawn and river bank, and the high grounds on the other side. 'I hate the light—yes, I hate the light, because my thoughts are darkness—yes, my thoughts are darkness. No human being knows me; and I feel like a person who ishaunted. Tell me what you saw when you came into the parlour just now.'
'Gertrude, dear, I ought not to have come in so suddenly.'
'Yes, 'twas but right—'twas but kind in you, Lily—right and kind—to treat me like the open-hearted and intimate friend that, Heaven knows, I was to you, Lily, all my life. I think—at least, I think—till lately—but you were always franker than I—and truer. You've walked in the light, Lily, and that's the way to peace. I turned aside, and walked in mystery; and it seems to me I am treading now the valley of the shadow of death. Waking and talking, I am, nevertheless, in the solitude and darkness of the grave. And what did you see, Lily—I know you'll tell me truly—when you came into the parlour, as I stood by the window?'
'I saw, I think, the form of a man in a cloak and hat, as I believe, talking with you in whispers, Gertrude, from without.'
'The form of a man, Lily—you're right—not a man, but the form of a man,' she continued, bitterly; 'for it seems to me sometimes it can be no human fascination that has brought me under the tyranny in which I can scarce be said to breathe.'
After an interval she said—
'It will seem incredible. You've heard of Mr. Dangerfield's proposal, and you've heard how I've received it. Well, listen.'
'Gertrude, dear!' said Lily, who was growing frightened.
'I'm going,' interrupted Miss Chattesworth, 'to tell you my strange, if you will, but not guilty—no,notguilty—secret. I'm no agent now, but simply passive in the matter. But you must first pledge me your sacred word that neither to my father nor to yours, nor to my aunt, nor to any living being, will you ever reveal what I am about to tell you, till I have released you from your promise.'
Did ever woman refuse a secret? Well, Lily wavered for a moment. But then suddenly stooping down, and kissing her, she said:
'No, Gertrude, darling—you'll not be vexed with me—but you must not tell me your secret. You have excuses such as I should not have—you've been drawn into this concealment, step by step, unwillingly; but, Gertrude, darling, I must not hear it. I could not look Aunt Becky in the face, nor the kind general, knowing that I was——'
She tried to find a word.
'Deceivingthem, Lily,' said Gertrude, with a moan.
'Yes, Gertrude, darling.' And she kissed her again. 'And it might be to your great hurt. But I thank you all the same from my heart for your confidence and love; and I'm gladder than you'll ever know, Gerty, that they are still the same.' And thus the two girls kissed silently and fervently, and poor Gertrude Chattesworth wept uncomplainingly, looking out upon the dark prospect.
'And you'll tell me, darling, when you're happier, as you soon will be?' said Lily.
'I will—I will indeed. I'm sometimes happier—sometimes quite happy—but I'm very low to-night, Lily,' answered she.
Then Lily comforted and caressed her friend. And I must confess she was very curious, too, and nothing but a terror of possessing a secret under such terms, withheld her from hearing Gertrude's confession. But on her way home she thanked Heaven for her resolution, and was quite sure that she was happier and better for it.
They were roused by Aunt Becky's knock at the hall-door, and her voice and Dominick's under the window.
ORNAMENTAL CAPITAL 'B'
y this time little Dr. Toole had stepped into the club, after his wont, as he passed the Phœnix. Sturk was playing draughts with old Arthur Slowe, and Dangerfield, erect and grim, was looking on the game, over his shoulder. Toole and Sturk were more distant and cold in their intercourse of late, though this formality partook of their respective characters. Toole used to throw up his nose, and raise his eyebrows, and make his brother mediciner a particularly stiff, and withal scornful reverence when they met. Sturk, on the other hand, made a short, surly nod—'twas little more—and, without a word, turned on his heel, with a gruff pitch of his shoulder towards Toole.
The fact was, these two gentlemen had been very near exchanging pistol shots, or sword thrusts, only a week or two before; and all about the unconscious gentleman who was smiling in his usual pleasant fashion over the back of Sturk's chair. So Dangerfield's little dyspepsy had like to have cured one or other of the village leeches, for ever and a day, of the heart-ache and all other aches that flesh is heir to. For Dangerfield commenced with Toole: and that physician, on the third day of his instalment, found that Sturk had stept in and taken his patient bodily out of his hands.
'I've seen one monkey force open the jaws of his brother, resolutely introduce his fingers, pluck from the sanctuary of his cheek the filbert he had just stowed there for his private nutrition and delight, and crunch and eat it with a stern ecstasy of selfishness, himself; and I fancy that the feelings of the quadrumanous victim, his jaws aching, his pouch outraged, and his bon-bouche in the miscreant's mouth, a little resembles those of the physician who has suffered so hideous a mortification as that of Toole.
Toole quite forgave Dangerfield. That gentleman gave him to understand thathisministrations were much more to his mind than those of his rival. But—and this was conveyed in strict confidence—this change was put upon him by a—a—in fact a nobleman—Lord Castlemallard—with whom, just now, Dr. Sturk can do a great deal; 'and you know I can't quarrel with my lord. It has pained me, I assure you, very much; and to say truth, whoever applied to him to interfere in the matter, was, in my mind, guilty of an impertinence, though, as you see, I can't resent it.'
'Whoeverapplied? 'tis pretty plain,' repeated Toole, with a vicious sneer. 'The whispering, undermining—and as stupid as the Hill of Howth. I wish you safe out of his hands, Sir.'
And positively, only for Aunt Becky, who was always spoiling this sort of sport, and who restrained the gallant Toole by a peremptory injunction, there would have been, in Nutter's unfortunate phrase, 'wigs on the green,' next day.
So these gentlemen met on the terms I've described: and Nutter's antipathy also, had waxed stronger and fiercer. And indeed, since Dangerfield's arrival, and Sturk's undisguised endeavours to ingratiate himself with Lord Castlemallard, and push him from his stool, they had by consent ceased to speak to one another. When Sturk met Nutter, he, being of superior stature, looked over his head at distant objects: and when Nutter encountered Sturk, the little gentleman's dark face grew instantaneously darker—first a shade—then another shadow—then the blackness of thunder overspread it; and not only did he speak not a word to Sturk, but seldom opened his lips, while that gentleman remained in the room.
On the other hand, if some feuds grew blacker and fiercer by time, there were others which were Christianly condoned; foremost among which was the mortal quarrel between Nutter and O'Flaherty. On the evening of their memorable meeting on the Fifteen Acres, Puddock dined out, and O'Flaherty was too much exhausted to take any steps toward a better understanding. But on the night following, when the club had their grand supper in King William's parlour, it was arranged with Nutter that a gentlemanlike reconciliation was to take place; and accordingly, about nine o'clock, at which time Nutter's arrival was expected, Puddock, with the pomp and gravity becoming such an occasion,accompanied by O'Flaherty, big with his speech, entered the spacious parlour.
When they came in there was a chorus of laughter ringing round, with a clapping of hands, and a Babel of hilarious applause; and Tom Toole was seen in the centre, sitting upon the floor, hugging his knees, with his drawn sword under his arm, his eyes turned up to the ceiling, and a contortion so unspeakably ludicrous upon his queer little face, as was very near causing little Puddock to explode in an unseemly burst of laughter.
Devereux, sitting near the door, luckily saw them as they entered, and announced them in a loud tone—'Lieutenant Puddock, gentlemen, and Lieutenant Fireworker O'Flaherty.' For though Gipsy Devereux loved a bit of mischief, he did not relish it when quite so serious, as the Galwegian Fireworker was likely to make any sort of trifling on a point so tender as his recent hostilities on the Fifteen Acres.
Toole bounded to his feet in an instant, adjusting his wig and eyeing the new comers with intense but uneasy solemnity, which produced some suppressed merriment among the company.
It was well for the serenity of the village that O'Flaherty was about to make a little speech—a situation which usually deprived him of half his wits. Still with the suspicion of conscious weakness, he read something affecting himself in the general buzz and countenance of the assembly; and said to Devereux, on purpose loud enough for Toole to hear—'Ensign Puddock and myself would be proud to know what was the divarting tom-foolery going on about the floor, and for which we arrived unfortunately a little too leet?'
'Tom-foolery, Sir, is an unpleasant word!' cried the little doctor, firing up, for he was a game-cock.
'Tom Toolery he means,' interposed Devereux, 'the pleasantest word, on the contrary, in Chapelizod. Pray, allow me to say a word a degree more serious. I'm commissioned, Lieutenant Puddock and Lieutenant O'Flaherty' (a bow to each), 'by Mr. Mahony, who acted the part of second to Mr. Nutter, on the recent occasion, to pray that you'll be so obliging as to accept his apology for not being present at this, as we all hope most agreeable meeting. Our reverend friend, Father Roach whose guest he had the honour to be, can tell you more precisely the urgent nature of the business on which he departed.'
Father Roach tried to stop the captain with a reproachful glance, but that unfeeling officer fairly concluded his sentence notwithstanding, with a wave of his hand and a bow to the cleric; and sitting down at the same moment, left him in possession of the chair.
The fact was, that at an unseemly hour that morning threebailiffs—for the excursion was considered hazardous—introduced themselves by a stratagem into the reverend father's domicile, and nabbed the high-souled Patrick Mahony, as he slumbered peacefully in his bed, to the terror of the simple maid who let them in. Honest Father Roach was for showing fight on behalf of his guest. On hearing the row and suspecting its cause—for Pat had fled from the kingdom of Kerry from perils of the same sort—his reverence jumped out of bed with a great pound on the floor, and not knowing where to look for his clothes in the dark, he seized his surplice, which always lay in the press at the head of his bed, and got into it with miraculous speed, whisking along the floor two pounds and a half of Mr. Fogarty's best bacon, which the holy man had concealed in the folds of that sacred vestment, to elude the predatory instincts of the women, and from which he and Mr. Mahony were wont to cut their jovial rashers.
The shutter of poor Mahony's window was by this time open, and the gray light disclosed the grimly form of Father Roach, in his surplice, floating threateningly into the chamber. But the bailiffs were picked men, broad-shouldered and athletic, and furnished with active-looking shillelaghs. Veni, vidi, victus sum! a glance showed him all was lost.
'My blessin' an you, Peg Finigan! and was it you let them in?' murmured his reverence, with intense feeling.
'At whose suit?' enquired the generous outlaw, sitting up among the blankets.
'Mrs. Elizabeth Woolly, relict and administhrathrix of the late Mr. Timotheus Woolly, of High-street, in the city of Dublin, tailor,' responded the choragus of the officers.
'Woolly—I was thinkin' so,' said the captive. 'I wisht Ihadher by the wool, bad luck to her!'
So away he went, to the good-natured ecclesiastic's grief, promising, nevertheless, with a disconsolate affectation of cheerfulness, that all should be settled, and he under the Priest's roof-tree again before night.
'I don't—exactly—know the nature of the business, gentlemen,' said Father Roach, with considerable hesitation.
'Urgent, however, itwas—wasn't it?' said Devereux.
'Urgent—well;certainly—a—and——'
'And a summons there was no resisting—from a lady—eh? You said so, Father Roach,' persisted Devereux.
'A—from a leedy—a—yes—certainly,' replied he.
'Awidow—is not she?' enquired Devereux.
'A widda, undoubtedly,' said the priest.
'Thay no more Thir,' said little Puddock, to the infinite relief of the reverend father, who flung another look of reproach at Devereux, and muttered his indignation to himself. 'I'm perfectly satisfied; and so, I venture to thay, is Lieutenant O'Flaherty——'
'Is not he going to say something to Nutter?' enquired Devereux.
'Yes,' whispered Puddock, 'I hope he'll get through it. I—I wrote a few sentences myself; but he's by no means perfect—in fact, between ourselves, he's a somewhat slow study.'
'Suppose you purge his head again, Puddock?' Puddock did not choose to hear the suggestion: but Nutter, in reply to a complimentary speech from Puddock, declared, in two or three words, his readiness to meet Lieutenant O'Flaherty half-way; 'and curse me, Sir, if I know, at this moment, what I did or said to offend him.'
Then came a magnanimous, but nearly unintelligible speech from O'Flaherty, prompted by little Puddock, who, being responsible for the composition, was more nervous during the delivery of that remarkable oration, than the speaker himself; and 'thuffered indethcribably' at hearing his periods mangled; and had actually to hold O'Flaherty by the arm, and whisper in an agony—'not yet—curtheit—not yet'—to prevent the incorrigible fireworker from stretching forth his bony red hand before he had arrived at that most effective passage which Puddock afterwards gave so well in private for Dick Devereux, beginning, 'and thus I greet——'
Thus was there a perfect reconciliation, and the gentlemen of the club, Toole included, were more than ever puzzled to understand the origin of the quarrel, for Puddock kept O'Flaherty's secret magnificently, and peace prevailed in O'Flaherty's breast until nearly ten months afterwards, when Cluffe, who was talking of the American war, asked O'Flaherty, who was full of volunteering, how he would like a 'clean shave with an Indian scalping knife,' whereupon O'Flaherty stood erect, and having glowered about him for a moment, strode in silence from the room, and consulted immediately with Puddock on the subject, who, after a moment's reflection found it no more than chance medley.
ORNAMENTAL CAPITAL 'S'
o there was no feud in the club worth speaking of but those of which Dr. Sturk was the centre; and Toole remarked this night that Sturk looked very ill—and so, in truth, he did; and it was plain, too, that his mind was not in the game, for old Slowe, who used not to have a chance with him, beat him three times running, which incensed Sturk, as small things will a man who is in the slow fever of a secret trouble. He threw down the three shillings he had lost with more force than was necessary, and muttering a curse, clapped on his hat and took up a newspaper at another table, with a rather flushed face. He happened to light upon a dolorous appeal to those 'whom Providence had blessed with riches,' on behalf of a gentleman 'who had once held a commission under his Majesty, and was now on a sudden by some unexpected turns of fortune, reduced, with his unhappy wife and five small children, to want of bread, and implored of his prosperous fellow-citizens that charitable relief which, till a few months since, it was his custom and pleasure to dispense to others.' And this stung him with a secret pang of insecurity and horror. Trifles affected him a good deal now. So he pitched down the newspaper and walked across to his own house, with his hands in his pockets, and thought again of Dangerfield, and who the deuce he could be, or whether he had really ever, anywhere—in the body or in the spirit—encountered him, as he used to feel with a boding vagueness he had done. And then those accursed dreams: he was not relieved as he expected by disclosing them. The sense of an ominous meaning pointing at him in all their grotesque images and scenery, still haunted him.
'Parson Walsingham, with all his reading,' his mind muttered, as it were, to itself, 'is no better than an old woman; and that knave and buffoon, Mr. Apothecary Toole, looked queer, the spiteful dog, just to disquiet me. I wonder at Dr. Walsingham though. A sensible man would have laughed me into spirits. On my soul, I think he believes in dreams.' And Sturk laughed within himself scornfully. It was all affectation, and addressed strictly to himself, who saw through it all; but still he practised it. 'If these infernal losses had not come to spoil my stomach. I should not have remembered them, much less let them haunt me this way, like a cursed file of ghosts. I'll try gentian to-morrow.'
Everything and everyone was poking at the one point of hissecret fears. Dr. Walsingham preached a sermon upon the text, 'remember the days of darkness for they are many.' It went over the tremendous themes of death and judgment in the rector's own queer, solemn, measured way, and all the day after rang in Sturk's ear as the drums and fifes in the muffled peal of the Dead March used to do long ago, before his ear grew familiar with its thrilling roll. Sermons usually affected Sturk no more than they did other military gentlemen. But he was in a morbid state; and in this one or two terms or phrases, nothing in themselves, happened to touch upon a sensitive and secret centre of pain in the doctor's soul.
For instance, when he called death 'the great bankruptcy which would make the worldly man, in a moment, the only person in his house not worth a shilling,' the preacher glanced unconsciously at a secret fear in the caverns of Sturk's mind, that echoed back the sonorous tones and grisly theme of the rector with a hollow thunder.
There was a time when Sturk, like other shrewd, bustling fellows, had no objection to hear who had an execution in his house, who was bankrupt, and who laid by the heels; but now he shrunk from such phrases. He hated to think that a clever fellow was ever absolutely beggared in the world's great game. He turned his eye quickly from theGazette, as it lay with other papers on the club table; for its grim pages seemed to look in his face with a sort of significance, as if they might some day or other have a small official duty to perform by him; and when an unexpected bankruptcy was announced by Cluffe or Toole in the club-room, it made his ear ring like a slap, and he felt sickish for half an hour after.
One of that ugly brood of dreams which haunted his nights, borrowed, perhaps, a hint from Dr. Walsingham's sermon. Sturk thought he heard Toole's well-known, brisk voice, under his windows, exclaim, 'What is the dirty beggar doing there? faugh!—he smells all over like carrion—ha, ha ha!' and looking out, in his dream, from his drawing-room window, he saw a squalid mendicant begging alms at his hall-door. 'Hollo, you, Sir; what do want there?' cried the surgeon, with a sort of unaccountable antipathy and fear. 'He lost his last shilling in the great bankruptcy, in October,' answered Dunstan's voice behind his ear; and in the earth-coloured face which the beggar turned up towards him, Sturk recognised his own features—''Tis I'—he gasped out with an oath, and awoke in a horror, not knowing where he was. 'I—I'm dying.'
'October,' thought Sturk—'bankruptcy. 'Tis just because I'm always thinking of that infernal bill, and old Dyle's renewal, and the rent.'
Indeed, the surgeon had a stormy look forward, and the navigation of October was so threatening, awful, and almost desperate, as he stood alone through the dreadful watches at thehelm, with hot cheek and unsteady hand, trusting stoically to luck and hoping against hope, that rocks would melt, and the sea cease from drowning, that it was almost a wonder he did not leap overboard, only for the certainty of a cold head and a quiet heart, and one deep sleep.
And, then, he used to tot up his liabilities for that accursed month, near whose yawning verge he already stood; and then, think of every penny coming to him, and what might be rescued and wrung from runaways and bankrupts whose bills he held, and whom he used to curse in his bed, with his fists and his teeth clenched, when poor little Mrs. Sturk, knowing naught of this danger, and having said her prayers, lay sound asleep by his side. Then he used to think, if he could only get the agency in time it would set him up—he could borrow £200 the day after his appointment; and he must make a push and extend his practice. It was ridiculous, that blackguard little Toole carrying off the best families in the neighbourhood, and standing in the way of a man like him; and Nutter, too—why, Lord Castlemallard knew as well as he did, that Nutter was not fit to manage the property, and thathe was—and Nutter without a child or anyone, andhewith seven! and he counted them over mentally with a groan. 'What was to become of them?' Then Nutter would be down upon him, without mercy, for the rent; and Dangerfield, if, indeed, he cared to do it [curse it, he trusted nobody], could not control him; and Lord Castlemallard, the selfish profligate, was away in Paris, leaving his business in the hands of that bitter old botch, who'd go any length to be the ruin of him.
Then he turned over the chances of borrowing a hundred pounds from the general—as he did fifty times every day and night, but always with the same result—'No; curse him, he's as weak as water—petticoat government—he'll do nothing without his sister's leave, and she hates me like poison;' and then he thought—'it would not be much to ask Lord Castlemallard—there's still time—to give me a month or two for the rent, but if the old sneak thought I owed twopence, I might whistle for the agency, and besides, faith!—I don't think he'd interfere.'
Then the clock down stairs would strike 'three,' and he felt thankful, with a great sigh, that so much of the night was over, and yet dreaded the morning.
And then he would con over his chances again, and think which was most likely to give him a month or two. Old Dyle—'Bah! he's a stone, he would not give me an hour. Or Carny, curse him, unless Lucas would move him. And, no, Lucas is a rogue, selfish beast: he owes me his place; and I don't think he'd stir his finger to snatch me from perdition. Or Nutter—Nutter, indeed!—why that fiend has been waiting half the year round to put in his distress the first hour he can.'
And then Sturk writhed round on his back, as we may suppose might St. Anthony on his gridiron, and rolled his eye-balls up toward the dark bed; and uttered a dismal groan, and thought of the three inexorable fates, Carny, Nutter, and Dyle, who at that moment held among them the measure, and the thread, and the shears of his destiny: and standing desperately in the dark at the verge of the abyss, he mentally hurled the three ugly spirits together into his bag, and flung them whirling through the mirk into the lake that burns with fire and brimstone.
ORNAMENTAL CAPITAL 'W'
hen Lilias Walsingham, being set down in the hall at the Elms, got out and threw back her hood, she saw two females sitting there, who rose, as she emerged, and bobbed a courtesy each. The elder was a slight thin woman of fifty or upwards, dark of feature, but with large eyes, the relics of early beauty. The other a youthful figure, an inch or two taller, slim and round, and showing only a pair of eyes, large and dark as the others, looking from under her red hood, earnestly and sadly as it seemed, upon Miss Walsingham.
'Good-evening, good neighbours,' said Miss Lily in her friendly way; 'the master is in town, and won't return till to-morrow; but may be you wish to speak to me?'
''Tis no place for the like of yous,' said old John Tracy, gruffly, for he knew them, with the privilege of an old servant. 'If you want to see his raverence, you must come in the morning.'
'But it may be something, John, that can't wait, and that I can do,' said Lily.
'And, true for you, so it is, my lady,' said the elder woman, with another bob; 'an' I won't delay you, Ma'am, five minutes, if you plaze, an' it's the likes of you,' she said, in a shrewish aside, with a flash of her large eyes upon John Tracy, 'that stands betune them that's willin' to be good and the poor—so yez do, saucepans and bone-polishers, bad luck to yez.'
The younger woman plucked the elder by the skirt; but Lily did not hear. She was already in the parlour.
'Ay, there it is,' grinned old John, with a wag of his head.
And so old Sally came forth and asked the women to step in, and set chairs for them, while Lily was taking off her gloves and hood by the table.
'You'll tell me first who you are,' said Lily, 'my good woman—for I don't think we've met before—and then you will say what I can do for you.'
'I'm the Widdy Glynn, Ma'am, at your sarvice, that lives beyant Palmerstown, down by the ferry, af its playsin' to you; and this is my little girl, Ma'am, av you plaze. Nan, look up at the lady, you slut.'
She did not need the exhortation, for she was, indeed, looking at the lady, with a curious and most melancholy gaze.
'An' what I'm goin' to say, my lady, if you plase, id best be said alone;' and the matron glanced at old Sally, and bobbed another courtesy.
'Very well,' said Miss Walsingham. 'Sally, dear, the good woman wants to speak with me alone: so you may as well go and wait for me in my room.'
And so the young lady stood alone in presence of her two visitors, whereupon, with a good many courtesies, and with great volubility, the elder dame commenced—
''Tis what we heerd, Ma'am, that Captain Devereux, of the Artillery here, in Chapelizod, Ma'am, that's gone to England, was coortin' you my lady; and I came here with this little girl, Ma'am, if you plaze, to tell you, if so be it's thrue, Ma'am, that there isn't this minute a bigger villian out iv gaol—who brought my poor little girl there to disgrace and ruin, Ma'am?'
Here Nan Glynn began to sob into her apron.
''Twas you, Richard Devereux, that promised her marriage—with his hand on the Bible, on his bended knee. 'Twas you, Richard Devereux, you hardened villian—yes, Ma'am, that parjured scoundrel—(don't be cryin', you fool)—put that ring there, you see, on her finger, Miss, an' a priest in the room, an' if ever man was woman's husband in the sight of God, Richard Devereux is married to Nan Glynn, poor an' simple as she stands there.'
'Stop, mother,' sobbed Nan, drawing her back by the arm; 'don't you see the lady's sick.'
'No—no—not anything; only—only shocked,' said poor Lilias, as white as marble, and speaking almost in a whisper; 'but I can't say Captain Devereux ever spoke to me in the way you suppose, that's all. I've no more to say.'
Nan Glynn, sobbing and with her apron still to her eyes, was gliding to the door, but her mother looked, with a coarse sort of cunning in her eye, steadily at the poor young lady, in some sort her victim, and added more sternly—
'Well, my lady, 'tis proud I am to hear it, an' there's no harm done, at any rate; an' I thought 'twas only right I should tell you the thruth, and give you this warnin', my lady; an' here's the atturney's writin', Ma'am—if you'll plaze to read it—Mr. Bagshot, iv Thomas Street—sayin', if you'll be plazed to look at it—that 'tis a good marriage, an' that if he marries any other woman, gentle or simple, he'll take the law iv him in my daughter's cause, the black, parjured villian, an' transport him, with a burnt hand, for bigamany; an' 'twas only right, my lady,as the townspeople was talking, as if it was as how he was thryin' to invagle you, Miss, the desaver, for he'd charrum the birds off the trees, the parjurer; and I'll tell his raverence all about it when I see him, in the morning—for 'tis only right he should know. Wish the lady good-night, Nan, you slut—an the same from myself, Ma'am.'
And, with another courtesy, the Glynns of Palmerstown withdrew.
ORNAMENTAL CAPITAL 'M'
ervyn was just about this time walking up the steep Ballyfermot Road. It was then a lonely track, with great bushes and hedgerows overhanging it; and as other emotions subsided, something of the chill and excitement of solitude stole over him. The moon was wading through flecked masses of cloud. The breath of night rustled lightly through the bushes, and seemed to follow her steps with a strange sort of sigh and a titter. He stopped and looked back under the branches of an old thorn, and traced against the dark horizon the still darker outline of the ivied church tower of Chapelizod, and thought of the dead that lay there, and of all that those sealed lips might tell, and old tales of strange meetings on moors and desolate places with departed spirits, flitted across his brain; and the melancholy rush of the night air swept close about his ears, and he turned and walked more briskly toward his own gloomy quarters, passing the churchyard of Ballyfermot on his right. There were plenty of head-stones among the docks and nettles: some short and some tall, some straight and some slanting back, and some with a shoulder up, and a lonely old ash-tree still and dewy in the midst, glimmering cold among the moveless shadows; and then at last he sighted the heavy masses of old elm, and the pale, peeping front of the 'Tyled House,' through the close and dismal avenue of elm, he reached the front of the mansion. There was no glimmer of light from the lower windows, not even the noiseless flitting of a bat over the dark little court-yard. His key let him in. He knew that his servants were in bed. There was something cynical in his ree-raw independence. It was unlike what he had been used to, and its savagery suited with his bitter and unsociable mood of late.
But his step sounding through the hall, and the stories about the place of which he was conscious. He battled with his disturbed foolish sensations, however, and though he knew there was a candle burning in his bed-room, he turned aside at the foot of the great stair, and stumbled and groped his way into the old wainscoted back-parlour, that looked out, through its great bow window, upon the haunted orchard, and sat down in its dismal solitude.
He ruminated upon his own hard fate—the meanness of man-kind—the burning wrongs, as he felt confident, of other times, Fortune's inexorable persecution of his family, and the stygian gulf that deepened between him and the object of his love; and his soul darkened with a fierce despair, and with unshaped but evil thoughts that invited the tempter.
The darkness and associations of the place were unwholesome, and he was about to leave it for the companionship of his candle, but that, on a sudden, he thought he heard a sound nearer than the breeze among the old orchard trees.
This was the measured breathing of some one in the room. He held his own breath while he listened—'One of the dogs,' he thought, and he called them quietly; but no dog came. 'The wind, then, in the chimney;' and he got up resolutely, designing to open the half-closed shutter. He fancied as he did so that he heard the respiration near him, and passed close to some one in the dark.
With an unpleasant expectation he threw back the shutters, and unquestionably he did see, very unmistakably, a dark figure in a chair; so dark, indeed, that he could not discern more of it than the rude but undoubted outline of a human shape; and he stood for some seconds, holding the open shutter in his hand, and looking at it with more of the reality of fear than he had, perhaps, ever experienced before. Pale Hecate now, in the conspiracy, as it seemed, withdrew on a sudden the pall from before her face, and threw her beams full upon the figure. A slim, tall shape, in dark clothing, and, as it seemed, a countenance he had never beheld before—black hair, pale features, with a sinister-smiling character, and a very blue chin, and closed eyes.
Fixed with a strange horror, and almost expecting to see it undergo some frightful metamorphosis, Mervyn stood gazing on the cadaverous intruder.
'Hollo! who's that?' cried Mervyn sternly.
The figure opened his eyes, with a wild stare, as if he had not opened them for a hundred years before, and rose up with an uncertain motion, returning Mervyn's gaze, as if he did not know where he was.
'Who are you?' repeated Mervyn.
The phantom seemed to recover himself slowly, and only said: 'Mr. Mervyn?'
'Who are you, Sir?' cried Mervyn, again.
'Zekiel Irons,' he answered.
'Irons? whatareyou, and what business have you here, Sir?' demanded Mervyn.
'The Clerk of Chapelizod,' he continued, quietly and remarkably sternly, but a little thickly, like a man who had been drinking.
Mervyn now grew angry.
'The Clerk of Chapelizod—here—sleeping in my parlour! What the devil, Sir, do you mean?'
'Sleep—Sir—sleep! There's them that sleeps with their eyes open. Sir—you know who they may be; there's some sleeps sound enough, like me and you; and some that's sleep-walkers,' answered Irons; and his enigmatical talk somehow subdued Mervyn, for he said more quietly—
'Well, what of all this, Sirrah?'
'A message,' answered Irons. The man's manner, though quiet, was dogged, and somewhat savage.
'Give it me, then,' said Mervyn, expecting a note, and extending his hand.
'I've nothing for your hand, Sir, 'tis for your ear,' said he.
'From whom, then, and what?' said Mervyn, growing impatient again.
'I ask your pardon, Mr. Mervyn; I have a good deal to do, back and forward, sometimes early, sometimes late, in the church—Chapelizod Church—all alone, Sir; and I often think of you, when I walk over the south-side vault.'
'What's your message, I say, Sir, and who sends it,' insisted Mervyn.
'Your father,' answered Irons.
Mervyn looked with a black and wild sort of enquiry on the clerk—was he insane or what?—and seemed to swallow down a sort of horror, before his anger rose again.
'You're mistaken—my father's dead,' he said, in a fierce but agitated undertone.
'He's dead, Sir—yes,' said his saturnine visitor, with the same faint smile and cynical quietude.
'Speak out, Sirrah; whom do you come from?'
'The late Right Honourable the Lord Viscount Dunoran.' He spoke, as I have said, a little thickly, like a man who had drunk his modicum of liquor.
'You've been drinking, and you dare to mix my—my father's name with your drunken dreams and babble—you wretched sot!'
A cloud passed over the moon just then, and Irons darkened, as if about to vanish, like an offended apparition. But it was only for a minute, and he emerged in the returning light, and spoke—
'A naggin of whiskey, at the Salmon House, to raise my heart before I came here. I'm not drunk—that's sure.' He answered, quite unmoved, like one speaking to himself.
'And—why—what can you mean by speaking of him?' repeated Mervyn, unaccountably agitated.
'I speakforhim, Sir, by your leave. Suppose he greets you with a message—and you don't care to hear it?'
'You're mad,' said Mervyn, with an icy stare, to whom the whole colloquy began to shape itself into a dream.
'Belikeyou'remad, Sir,' answered Irons, in a grim, ugly tone, but with face unmoved. ''Twas not a light matter brought me here—a message—there—well!—your right honourable father, that lies in lead and oak, without a name on his coffin-lid, would have you to know that what he said was—as it should be—and I can prove it—'
'What?—he saidwhat?—what is it?—what can you prove? Speak out, Sirrah!' and his eyes shone white in the moonlight, and his hand was advanced towards Irons's throat, and he looked half beside himself, and trembling all over.
'Put down your hand or you hear no more from me,' said Irons, also a little transformed.
Mervyn silently lowered his hand clenched by his side, and, with compressed lips, nodded an impatient sign to him.
'Yes, Sir, he'd have you to understand he never did it, and I can prove it—but I won't!'
That moment, something glittered in Mervyn's hand, and he strode towards Irons, overturning a chair with a crash.
'I have you—come on and you're a dead man,' said the clerk, in a hoarse voice, drawing into the deep darkness toward the door, with the dull gleam of a pistol-barrel just discernible in his extended hand.
'Stay—don't go,' cried Mervyn, in a piercing voice; 'I conjure—I implore—whatever you are, come back—see, I'm unarmed,' (and he flung his sword back toward the window).
'You young gentlemen are always for drawing upon poor bodies—how would it have gone if I had not looked to myself, Sir, and come furnished?' said Irons, in his own level tone.
'I don't know—I don'tcare—I don't care if I were dead. Yes, yes, 'tis true, I almost wish he had shot me.'
'Mind, Sir, you're on honour,' said the clerk, in his old tone, as he glided slowly back, his right hand in his coat pocket, and his eye with a quiet suspicion fixed upon Mervyn, and watching his movements.
'I don't know what or who you are, but if ever you knew what human feeling is—I say, if you are anything at all capable of compassion, you will kill me at a blow rather than trifle any longer with the terrible hope that has been my torture—I believe my insanity, all my life.'
'Well, Sir,' said Irons, mildly, and with that serene suspicion of a smile on his face, 'if you wish to talk to me you must take me different; for, to say truth, I was nearer killing you that time than you were aware, and all the time I mean you noharm! and yet, if I thought you were going to say to anybody living, Zekiel Irons, the clerk, was here on Tuesday night, I believe I'd shoot you now.'
'You wish your visit secret? well, you have my honour, no one living shall hear of it,' said Mervyn. 'Go on.'
'I've little to say, your honour; but, first, do you think your servants heard the noise just now?'
'The old woman's deaf, and her daughter dare not stir after night-fall. You need fear no interruption.'
'Ay, I know; the house is haunted, they say, but dead men tell no tales. 'Tis the living I fear, I thought it would be darker—the clouds broke up strangely; 'tis as much as my life's worth to me to be seen near this Tyled House; and never you speak to me nor seem to know me when you chance to meet me, do you mind, Sir? I'm bad enough myself, but there's some that's worse.'
'Tis agreed, there shall be no recognition,' answered Mervyn.
'There's them watching me that can see in the clouds, or the running waters, what you're thinking of a mile away, that can move as soft as ghosts, and can gripe as hard as hell, when need is. So be patient for a bit—I gave you the message—I tell you 'tis true; and as to my proving it at present, I can, you see, and I can't; but the hour is coming, only be patient, and swear, Sir, upon your soul and honour, that you won't let me come to perdition by reason of speaking the truth.'
'On my soul and honour, I mean it,' answered Mervyn. 'Go on.'
'Nor ever tell, high or low, rich or poor, man, woman, or child, that I came here; because—no matter.'
'That I promise, too; for Heaven's sake go on.'
'If you please, Sir, no, not a word more till the time comes,' answered Irons; 'I'll go as I came.' And he shoved up the window-sash and got out lightly upon the grass, and glided away among the gigantic old fruit-trees, and was lost before a minute.
Perhaps he came intending more. He had seemed for a while to have made up his mind, Mervyn thought, to a full disclosure, and then he hesitated, and, on second thoughts, drew back. Barren and tantalising, however, as was this strange conference, it was yet worth worlds, as indicating the quarter from which information might ultimately be hoped for.