'Why, dear child, not one of them ever saw him before. He’s been lost sight of by all but a few, a very few friends. My Lord Castlemallard, who was his guardian, of course, knows; and to me he disclosed himself by letter; and we keep his secret; though it matters little who knows it, for it seems to me he’s as unhappy as aught could ever make him. The townspeople take him for his cousin, who squandered his fortune in Paris; and how is he the better of their mistake, and how were he the worse if they knew him for whom he is? 'Tis an unhappy family—a curse haunts it. Young in years, old in vice, the wretched nobleman who lies in the vault, by the coffin of that old aunt, scarcely better than himself, whose guineas supplied his early profligacy—alas! he ruined his ill–fated, beautiful cousin, and she died heart–broken, and her little child, both there—in that melancholy and contaminated house.'
So he rambled on, and from one tale to another, till little Lily’s early bed–hour came.
I don’t know whether it was Doctor Walsingham’s visit in the morning, and the chance of hearing something about it, that prompted the unquiet Tom Toole to roll his cloak about him, and buffet his way through storm and snow, to Devereux’s lodgings. It was only a stone’s–throw; but even that, on such a night, was no trifle.
However, up he went to Devereux’s drawing–room, and found its handsome proprietor altogether in the dumps. The little doctor threw off his sleety cloak and hat in the lobby, and stood before the officer fresh and puffing, and a little flustered and dazzled after his romp with the wind.
Devereux got up and received him with a slight bow and no smile, and a 'Pray take a chair, Doctor Toole.'
'Well, this is a bright fit of the dismals,' said little Toole, nothing overawed. 'May I sit near the fire?'
'Upon it,' said Devereux, sadly.
'Thank’ee,' said Toole, clapping his feet on the fender, with a grin, and making himself comfortable. 'May I poke it?'
'Eat it—do as you please—anything—everything; play that fiddle (pointing to the ruin of Puddock’s guitar, which the lieutenant had left on the table), or undress and go to bed, or get up and dance a minuet, or take that pistol, with all my heart, and shoot me through the head.'
'Thank’ee, again. A fine choice of amusements, I vow,' cried the jolly doctor.
'There, don’t mind me, nor all I say, Toole. I’m, I suppose, in the vapours; but, truly, I’m glad to see you, and I thank you, indeed I do, heartily, for your obliging visit; 'tis very neighbourly. But, hang it, I’m weary of the time—the world is a dull place. I’m tired of this planet, and should not mind cutting my throat and trying a new star. Suppose we make the journey together, Toole; there is a brace of pistols over the chimney, and a fair wind for some of them.'
'Rather too much of a gale for my taste, thanking you again,' answered Toole with a cosy chuckle; 'but, if you’re bent on the trip, and can’t wait, why, at least, let’s have a glass together before parting.'
'With all my heart, what you will. Shall it be punch?'
'Punch be it. Come, hang saving; get us up a ha’porth of whiskey,' said little Toole, gaily.
'Hallo, Mrs. Irons, Madam, will you do us the favour to make a bowl of punch as soon as may be?' cried Devereux, over the banister.
'Come, Toole,' said Devereux, 'I’m very dismal. Losses and crosses, and deuce knows what. Whistle or talk, what you please, I’ll listen; tell me anything; stories of horses, dogs, dice, snuff, women, cocks, parsons, wine—what you will. Come, how’s Sturk? He’s beaten poor Nutter, and won the race; though the stakes, after all, were scarce worth taking—and what’s life without a guinea?—he’s grown, I’m told, so confoundedly poor, "quis pauper? avarus." A worthy man was Sturk, and, in some respects, resembled the prophet, Shylock; but you know nothing of him—why the plague don’t you read your Bible, Toole?'
'Well,' said Toole, candidly, 'I don’t know the Old Testament as well as the New; but certainly, whoever he’s like, he’s held out wonderfully. 'Tis nine weeks since he met that accident, and there he’s still, above ground; but that’s all—just above ground, you see.'
'And how’s Cluffe?'
'Pooh, Cluffe indeed! Nothing ever wrong with him but occasional over–eating. Sir, you’d a laughed to–day had you seen him. I gave him a bolus, twice the size of a gooseberry. "What’s this?" said he. "A bolus," says I. "The devil," says he; "dia–bolus, then," says I—"hey?" said I, "well?" ha! ha! and by Jove, Sir, it actually half stuck in his oesophagus, and I shoved it down like a bullet, with a probang; you’d a died a laughing, yet 'twasn’t a bit too big. Why, I tell you, upon my honour, Mrs. Rebecca Chattesworth’s black boy, only t’other day, swallowed a musket bullet twice the size, ha! ha!—he did—and I set him to rights in no time with a little powder.'
'Gunpowder?' said Devereux. 'And what of O’Flaherty? I’m told he was going to shoot poor Miles O’More.'
'Ha, ha! hey? Well, I don’t think either remembered in the morning what they quarrelled about,' replied Toole; 'so it went off in smoke, Sir.'
'Well, and how is Miles?'
'Why, ha, ha! he’s back again, with a bill, as usual, and a horse to sell—a good one—the black one, don’t you remember? He wants five and thirty guineas; 'tisn’t worth two pounds ten. "Do you know anyone who wants him? I would not mind taking a bill, with a couple of good names upon it," says he. Upon my credit I believe he thought I’d buy him myself. "Well," says I, "I think I do know a fellow that would give you his value, and pay you cash besides," says I. 'Twas as good as a play to see his face. "Who is he?" says he, taking me close by the arm. "The knacker," says I. 'Twas a bite for Miles; hey? ha, ha, ha!'
'And is it true old Tresham’s going to join our club at last?'
'He! hang him! he’s like a brute beast, and never drinks but when he’s dry, and then small beer. But, I forgot to tell you, by all that’s lovely, they do say the charming Magnolia—a fine bouncing girl that—is all but betrothed to Lieutenant O’Flaherty.'
Devereux laughed, and thus encouraged, Toole went on, with a wink and a whisper.
'Why, the night of the ball, you know, he saw her home, and they say he kissed her—by Bacchus, on both sides of the face,—at the door there, under the porch; and you know, if he had not a right, she’d a–knocked him down.'
'Psha! the girl’s a Christian, and when she’s smacked on one cheek she turns the other. And what says the major to it?'
'Why, as it happened, he opened the door precisely as the thing occurred; and he wished Lieutenant O’Flaherty good–night, and paid him a visit in the morning. And they say 'tis all satisfactory; and—by Jove! 'tis good punch.' And Mrs. Irons entered with a china bowl on a tray.
CHAPTER LXIX.
CONCERNING A SECOND HURRICANE THAT RAGED IN CAPTAIN DEVEREUX’S DRAWING–ROOM, AND RELATING HOW MRS. IRONS WAS ATTACKED WITH A SORT OF CHOKING IN HER BED.
And the china bowl, with its silver ladle, and fine fragrance of lemon and old malt whiskey, and a social pair of glasses, were placed on the table by fair Mistress Irons; and Devereux filled his glass, and Toole did likewise; and the little doctor rattled on; and Devereux threw in his word, and finally sang a song. 'Twas a ballad, with little in the words; but the air was sweet and plaintive, and so was the singer’s voice:—
'A star so High,
In my sad sky,
I’ve early loved and late:
A clear lone star,
Serene and far,
Doth rule my wayward fate.
'Tho' dark and chill
The night be still,
A light comes up for me:
In eastern skies
My star doth rise,
And fortune dawns for me.
'And proud and bold,
My way I hold;
For o’er me high I see,
In night’s deep blue,
My star shine true,
And fortune beams on me.
'Now onward still,
Thro' dark and chill,
My lonely way must
be;
In vain regret,
My star will set,
And fortune’s dark for me.
'And whether glad,
Or proud, or sad,
Or howsoe’er I be;
In dawn or noon,
Or setting soon,
My star, I’ll follow thee.'
And so there was a pause and a silence. In the silvery notes of the singer there was the ring of a prophecy; and Toole half read its meaning. And himself loving a song, and being soft over his music, he remained fixed for a few seconds, and then sighed, smiling, and dried his light blue eyes covertly; and he praised the song and singer briskly; and sighed again, with his fingers on the stem of his glass. And by this time Devereux had drawn the window–curtain, and was looking across the river, through the darkness, towards the Elms, perhaps for that solitary distant light—his star—now blurred and lost in the storm. Whatever his contemplations, it was plain, when he turned about, that the dark spirit was upon him again.
'Curse that punch,' said he, in language still more emphatic. 'You’re like Mephistopheles in the play—you come in upon my quiet to draw me to my ruin. 'Twas the devil sent you here, to kill my soul, I believe; but you sha’n’t. Drink, will you?—ay—I’ll give you a draught—a draught of air will cool you. Drink to your heart’s content.'
And to Toole’s consternation up went the window, and a hideous rush of eddying storm and snow whirled into the room. Out went the candles—the curtains flapped high in air, and lashed the ceiling—the door banged with a hideous crash—papers, and who knows what beside, went spinning, hurry–scurry round the room; and Toole’s wig was very near taking wing from his head.
'Hey—hey—hey! holloo!' cried the doctor, out of breath, and with his artificial ringlets frisking about his chops and eyes.
'Out, sorcerer—temptation, begone—avaunt, Mephistopheles—cauldron, away!' thundered the captain; and sure enough, from the open window, through the icy sleet, whirled the jovial bowl; and the jingle of the china was heard faint through the tempest.
Toole was swearing, in the whirlwind and darkness, like a trooper.
'Thank Heaven! 'tis gone,' continued Devereux; 'I’m safe—no thanks to you, though; and, hark ye, doctor, I’m best alone; leave me—leave me, pray—and pray forgive me.'
The doctor groped and stumbled out of the room, growling all the while, and the door slammed behind him with a crash like a cannon.
'The fellow’s brain’s disordered—delirium tremens, and jump out of that cursed window, I wouldn’t wonder,' muttered the doctor, adjusting his wig on the lobby, and then calling rather mildly over the banisters, he brought up Mrs. Irons with a candle, and found his cloak, hat, and cane; and with a mysterious look beckoned that matron to follow him, and in the hall, winking up towards the ceiling at the spot where Devereux might at the moment be presumed to be standing—
'I say, has he been feverish or queer, or—eh?—any way humorsome or out of the way?' And then—'See now, you may as well have an eye after him, and if you remark anything strange, don’t fail to let me know—d’ye see? and for the present you had better get him to shut his window and light his candles.'
And so the doctor, wrapped in his mantle, plunged into the hurricane and darkness; and was sensible, with a throb of angry regret, of a whiff of punch rising from the footpath, as he turned the corner of the steps.
An hour later, Devereux being alone, called to Mrs. Irons, and receiving her with a courteous gravity, he said—
'Madam, will you be so good as to lend me your Bible?'
Devereux was prosecuting his reformation, which, as the reader sees, had set in rather tempestuously, but was now settling in serenity and calm.
Mrs. Irons only said—
'My——?' and then paused, doubting her ears.
'Your Bible, if you please, Madam.'
'Oh?—oh! my Bible? I—to be sure, captain, jewel,' and she peeped at his face, and loitered for a while at the door, for she had unpleasant misgivings about him, and did not know what to make of his request, so utterly without parallel. She’d have fiddled at the door some time longer, speculating about his sanity, but that Devereux turned full upon her with a proud stare, and rising, he made her a slight bow, and said: 'I thank you, Madam,' with a sharp courtesy, that said: 'avaunt, and quit my sight!' so sternly, though politely, that she vanished on the instant; and down stairs she marvelled with Juggy Byrne, 'what the puck the captain could want of a Bible! Upon my conscience it sounds well. It’s what he’s not right in his head, I’m afeared. A Bible!'—and an aërial voice seemed to say, 'a pistol,' and another, 'a coffin,'—'An' I’m sure I wish that quare little Lieutenant Puddock id come up and keep him company. I dunno' what’s come over him.'
And they tumbled about the rattletraps under the cupboard, and rummaged the drawers in search of the sacred volume. For though Juggy said there was no such thing, and never had been in her time, Mrs. Irons put her down with asperity. It was not to be found, however, and the matron thought she remembered that old Mrs. Legge’s cook had borrowed it some time ago for a charm. So she explained the accident to Captain Devereux, who said—
'I thank you, Madam; 'tis no matter. I wish you a good–night, Madam;' and the door closed.
'No Bible!' said Devereux, 'the old witch!'
Mrs. Irons, as you remember, never spared her rhetoric, which was fierce, shrill, and fluent, when the exercise of that gift was called for. The parish clerk bore it with a cynical and taciturn patience, not, perhaps, so common as it should be in his sex; and this night, when she awoke, and her eyes rested on the form of her husband at her bedside, with a candle lighted, and buckling on his shoes, with his foot on the chair, she sat up straight in her bed, wide awake in an instant, for it was wonderful how the sight of that meek man roused the wife in her bosom, especially after an absence, and she had not seen him since four o’clock that evening; so you may suppose his reception was warm, and her expressions every way worthy of her feelings.
Meek Irons finished buckling that shoe, and then lifted the other to the edge of the chair, and proceeded to do the like for it, serenely, after his wont, and seeming to hear nothing. So Mrs. Irons proceeded, as was her custom when that patient person refused to be roused—she grasped his collar near his cheek, meaning to shake him into attention.
But instantly, as the operation commenced, the clerk griped her with his long, horny fingers by the throat, with a snap so sure and energetic that not a cry, not a gasp even, or a wheeze, could escape through 'the trachea,' as medical men have it; and her face and forehead purpled up, and her eyes goggled and glared in her head; and her husband looked so insanely wicked, that, as the pale picture darkened before her, and she heard curse after curse, and one foul name after another hiss off his tongue, like water off a hot iron, in her singing ears, she gave herself up for lost. He closed this exercise by chucking her head viciously against the board of the bed half–a–dozen times, and leaving her thereafter a good deal more confused even than on the eventful evening when he had first declared his love.
So soon as she came a little to herself, and saw him coolly buttoning his leggings at the bedside, his buckles being adjusted by this time, her fear subsided, or rather her just indignation rose above it, and drowned it; and she was on the point of breaking out afresh, only in a way commensurate with her wrongs, and proportionately more formidable; when, on the first symptom of attack, he clutched her, if possible, tighter, the gaping, goggling, purpling, the darkening of vision and humming in ears, all recommenced; likewise the knocking of her head with improved good–will, and, spite of her struggles and scratching, the bewildered lady, unused to even a show of insurrection, underwent the same horrid series of sensations at the hands of her rebellious lord.
When they had both had enough of it, Mr. Irons went on with his buttoning, and his lady gradually came to. This time, however, she was effectually frightened—too much so even to resort to hysterics, for she was not quite sure that when
he had buttoned the last button of his left legging he might not resume operations, and terminate their conjugal relations.
Therefore, being all of a tremble, with her hands clasped, and too much terrified to cry, she besought Irons, whose bodily strength surprised her, for her life, and his pale, malign glance, askew over his shoulder, held her with a sort of a spell that was quite new to her—in fact, she had never respected Irons so before.
When he had adjusted his leggings, he stood lithe and erect at the bedside, and with his fist at her face, delivered a short charge, the point of which was, that unless she lay like a mouse till morning he’d have her life, though he hanged for it. And with that he drew the curtain, and was hidden from her sight for some time.
CHAPTER LXX.
IN WHICH AN UNEXPECTED VISITOR IS SEEN. IN THE CEDAR–PARLOUR OF THE TILED HOUSE, AND THE STORY OF MR. BEAUCLERC AND THE 'FLOWER DE LUCE' BEGINS TO BE UNFOLDED.
It was an awful night, indeed, on which all this occurred, and that apparition had shown itself up at the Mills. And truly it would seem the devil had business on his hands, for in the cedar–parlour of the Tiled House another unexpected manifestation occurred just about the same hour.
What gentleman is there of broken fortunes, undefined rights, and in search of evidence, without a legal adviser of some sort? Mr. Mervyn, of course, had his, and paid for the luxury according to custom. And every now and then off went a despatch from the Tiled House to the oracular London attorney; sometimes it was a budget of evidence, and sometimes only a string of queries. To–night, to the awful diapason of the storm—he was penning one of these—the fruit of a tedious study of many papers and letters, tied up in bundles by his desk, all of them redolent of ominous or fearful associations.
I don’t know why it is the hours fly with such a strange celerity in the monotony and solitude of such nightwork. But Mervyn was surprised, as many a one similarly occupied has been, on looking at his watch, to find that it was now long past midnight; so he threw himself back in his chair with a sigh, and thought how vainly his life was speeding away, and heard, with a sort of wonder, how mad was the roar of the storm without, while he had quietly penned his long rescript undisturbed.