Delphi Complete Works of Sheridan Le Fanu

by J. Sheridan le Fanu

  ‘Hang it, can’t she stick to one thing at a time — the poor woman’s half out of her wits,’ said Toole, provoked; ‘I’ll wager a dozen of claret there’s more on her mind than she’s told to anyone.’

  Before he could bring her round to the subject again, the doctor was called down to Lowe; so he took his leave for the present; and after his talk with the magistrate, he did not care to go up again to poor little Mrs. Nutter; and Moggy was as white as ashes standing by, for Mr. Lowe had just made her swear to her little story about the shoes; and Toole walked home to the village with a heavy heart, and a good deal out of humour.

  Toole knew that a warrant would be issued next day against Nutter. The case against him was black enough. Still, even supposing he had struck those trenchant blows over Sturk’s head, it did not follow that it was without provocation or in cold blood. It looked, however, altogether so unpromising, that he would have been almost relieved to hear that Nutter’s body had been found drowned in the river.

  Still there was a chance that he made good his retreat. If he had not paid his fare in Charon’s packet-boat, he might, at least, have crossed the channel in the Trevor or Hillsborough to Holyhead. Then, deuce was in it, if he did not make a fair run for it, and earth himself snugly somewhere. ’Twas lighter work then than now. ‘The old saying at London, among servants,’ writes that goodnatured theatrical wag, Tate Wilkinson, ‘was, “I wish you were at York!” which the wronged cook has now changed for, “I wish you were at Jamaica.” Scotland was then imagined by the cockney as a dreary place, distant almost as the West Indies; now’(reader, pray note the marvel) ‘an agreeable party may, with the utmost ease, dine early in the week in Grosvenor Square, and without discomposure set down at table on Saturday or Sunday in the new town of Edinburgh!’ From which we learn that miracles of celerity were already accomplishing themselves, and that the existing generation contemplated their triumphs complacently. But even upon these we have improved, and nowadays, our whole social organisation is subservient to detection. Cut your telegraph wires, substitute sail boats for steam, and your old fair and easy forty-miles-a-day stagecoaches for the train and the rail, disband your City police and detective organisation, and make the transit of a letter between London and Dublin a matter of from five days to nearly as many weeks, and compute how much easier it was then than now for an adventurous highwayman, an absconding debtor, or a pair of fugitive lovers, to make good their retreat. Slow, undoubtedly, was the flight — they did not run, they walked away; but so was pursuit, and altogether, without authentic lights and official helps — a matter of postchaises and perplexity, cross-roads and rumour, foundering in a wild waste of conjecture, or swallowed in the quag of some country inn-yard, where nothing was to be heard, and out of which there would be no relay of posters to pull you until nine o’clock next morning.

  As Toole debouched from Martin’s-row, on his return, into the comparative amplitude of the main street of Chapelizod, he glanced curiously up to Sturk’s bedroom windows. There were none of the white signals of death there. So he ascended the door step, and paid a visit — of curiosity, I must say — and looked on the snorting image of his old foe, and the bandaged head, spellbound and dreamless, that had machinated so much busy mischief against his own medical sovereignty and the rural administration of Nutter.

  As Toole touched his pulse, and saw him swallow a spoonful of chicken broth, and parried poor Mrs. Sturk’s eager quivering pleadings for his life with kind though cautious evasions, he rightly judged that the figure that lay there was more than half in the land of ghosts already — that the enchanter who met him in the Butcher’s Wood, and whose wand had traced those parallel indentures in his skull, had not only exorcised for ever the unquiet spirit of intrigue, but wound up the tale of his days. It was true that he was never more to step from that bed, and that his little children would, ere many days, be brought there by kindly, horror-loving maids, to look their last on ‘the poor master,’ and kiss awfully his cold stern mouth before the coffin lid was screwed down, and the white-robed image of their father hidden away for ever from their sight.

  CHAPTER LVIII.

  IN WHICH ONE OF LITTLE BOPEEP’S SHEEP COMES HOME AGAIN, AND VARIOUS THEORIES ARE ENTERTAINED RESPECTING CHARLES NUTTER AND LIEUTENANT PUDDOCK.

  And just on Monday morning, in the midst of this hurlyburly of conjecture, who should arrive, of all the people in the world, and reestablish himself in his old quarters, but Dick Devereux. The gallant captain was more splendid and handsome than ever. But both his spirits and his habits had suffered. He had quarrelled with his aunt, and she was his bread and butter — ay, buttered on both sides. How lightly these young fellows quarrel with the foolish old worshippers who lay their gold, frankincense, and myrrh, at the feet of the handsome thankless idols. They think it all independence and high spirit, whereas we know it is nothing but a little egotistical tyranny, that unconsciously calculates even in the heyday of its indulgence upon the punctual return of the penitent old worshipper, with his or her votive offerings.

  Perhaps the gipsy had thought better of it, and was already sorry he had not kept the peace. At all events, though his toilet and wardrobe were splendid — for fine fellows in his plight deny themselves nothing — yet morally he was seedy, and in temper soured. His duns had found him out, and pursued him in wrath and alarm to England, and pestered him very seriously indeed. He owed money beside to several of his brother officers, and it was not pleasant to face them without a guinea. An evil propensity, at which, as you remember, General Chattesworth hinted, had grown amid his distresses, and the sting of self-reproach exasperated him. Then there was his old love for Lilias Walsingham, and the pang of rejection, and the hope of a strong passion sometimes leaping high and bright, and sometimes nickering into ghastly shadows and darkness.

  Indeed, he was by no means so companionable just now as in happier times, and was sometimes confoundedly morose and snappish — for, as you perceive, things had not gone well with him latterly. Still he was now and then tolerably like his old self.

  Toole, passing by, saw him in the window. Devereux smiled and nodded, and the doctor stopped short at the railings, and grinned up in return, and threw out his arms to express surprise, and then snapped his fingers, and cut a little caper, as though he would say— ‘Now, you’re come back — we’ll have fun and fiddling again.’ And forthwith he began to bawl his enquiries and salutations. But Devereux called him up peremptorily, for he wanted to hear the news — especially all about the Walsinghams. And up came Toole, and they had a great shaking of hands, and the doctor opened his budget and rattled away.

  Of Sturk’s tragedy and Nutter’s disappearance he had already heard. And he now heard some of the club gossip, and all about Dangerfield’s proposal for Gertrude Chattesworth, and how the old people were favourable, and the young lady averse — and how Dangerfield was content to leave the question in abeyance, and did not seem to care a jackstraw what the townspeople said or thought — and then he came to the Walsinghams, and Devereux for the first time really listened. The doctor was very well — just as usual; and wondering what had become of his old crony, Dan Loftus, from whom he had not heard for several months; and Miss Lily was not very well — a delicacy here (and he tapped his capacious chest), like her poor mother. ‘Pell and I consulted about her, and agreed she was to keep within doors.’ And then he went on, for he had a suspicion of the real state of relations between him and Lily, and narrated the occurrence rather with a view to collect evidence from his looks and manner, than from any simpler motive; and, said he, ‘Only think, that confounded wench, Nan — you know — Nan Glynn,’ And he related her and her mother’s visit to Miss Lily, and a subsequent call made upon the rector himself — all, it must be confessed, very much as it really happened. And Devereux first grew so pale as almost to frighten Toole, and then broke into a savage fury — and did not spare hard words, oaths, or maledictions. Then off went Toole, when things grew quieter, upon some other theme,
giggling and punning, spouting scandal and all sorts of news — and Devereux was looking full at him with large stern eyes, not hearing a word more. His soul was cursing old Mrs. Glynn, of Palmerstown — that mother of lies and what not — and remonstrating with old Dr. Walsingham — and protesting wildly against everything.

  General Chattesworth, who returned two or three weeks after, was not half pleased to see Devereux. He had heard a good deal about him and his doings over the water, and did not like them. He had always had a misgiving that if Devereux remained in the corps, sooner or later he would be obliged to come to a hard reckoning with him. And the handsome captain had not been three weeks in Chapelizod, when more than the general suspected that he was in nowise improved. So General Chattesworth did not often see or talk with him; and when he did, was rather reserved and lofty with him. His appointment on the staff was in abeyance — in fact, the vacancy on which it was expectant had not definitely occurred — and all things were at sixes and sevens with poor Dick Devereux.

  That evening, strange to say, Sturk was still living; and Toole reported him exactly in the same condition. But what did that signify? ’Twas all one. The man was dead — as dead to all intents and purposes that moment as he would be that day twelvemonths, or that day hundred years.

  Dr. Walsingham, who had just been to see poor Mrs. Sturk — now grown into the habit of hoping, and sustained by the intense quiet fuss of the sick room — stopped for a moment at the door of the Phœnix, to answer the cronies there assembled, who had seen him emerge from the murdered man’s house.

  ‘He is in a profound lethargy,’ said the worthy divine. ‘’Tis a subsidence — his life, Sir, stealing away like the fluid from the clepsydra — less and less left every hour — a little time will measure all out.’

  ‘What the plague’s a clepsydra?’ asked Cluffe of Toole, as they walked side by side into the club-room.

  ‘Ho! pooh! one of those fabulous tumours of the epidermis mentioned by Pliny, you know, exploded ten centuries ago — ha, ha, ha!’ and he winked and laughed derisively, and said, ‘Sure you know Doctor Walsingham.’

  And the gentlemen began spouting their theories about the murder and Nutter, in a desultory way; for they all knew the warrant was out against him.

  ‘My opinion,’ said Toole, knocking out the ashes of his pipe upon the hob; for he held his tongue while smoking, and very little at any other time; ‘and I’ll lay a guinea ‘twill turn out as I say — the poor fellow’s drowned himself. Few knew Nutter — I doubt if any one knew him as I did. Why he did not seem to feel anything, and you’d ha’ swore nothing affected him, more than that hob, Sir; and all the time, there wasn’t a more thin-skinned, atrabilious poor dog in all Ireland — but honest, Sir — thorough steel, Sir. All I say is, if he had a finger in that ugly pie, you know, as some will insist, I’ll stake my head to a china orange, ’twas a fair front to front fight. By Jupiter, Sir, there wasn’t one drop of cur’s blood in poor Nutter. No, poor fellow; neither sneak nor assassin there— ‘

  ‘They thought he drowned himself from his own garden — poor Nutter,’ said Major O’Neill.

  ‘Well, that he did not,’ said Toole. ‘That unlucky shoe, you know, tells a tale; but for all that, I’m clear of the opinion that drowned he is. We tracked the step, Lowe and I, to the bank, near the horse-track, in Barrack Street, just where the water deepens — there’s usually five feet of water there, and that night there was little short of ten. Now, take it, that Nutter and Sturk had a tussle — and the thing happened, you know — and Sturk got the worst of it, and was, in fact, despatched, why, you know the kind of panic — and — and — the panic — you know — a poor dog, finding himself so situated, would be in — with the bitter, old quarrel between them — d’ye see? And this at the back of his vapours and blue-devils, for he was dumpish enough before, and would send a man like Nutter into a resolution of making away with himself; and that’s how it happened, you may safely swear.’

  ‘And what do you think, Mr. Dangerfield?’ asked the major.

  ‘Upon my life,’ said Dangerfield, briskly, lowering his newspaper to his knee, with a sharp rustle, ‘these are questions I don’t like to meddle in. Certainly, he had considerable provocation, as I happen to know; and there was no love lost — that I know too. But I quite agree with Doctor Toole — if he was the man, I venture to say ’twas a fair fight. Suppose, first, an altercation, then a hasty blow — Sturk had his cane, and a deuced heavy one — he wasn’t a fellow to go down without knowing the reason why; and if they find Nutter, dead or alive, I venture to say he’ll show some marks of it about him.’

  Cluffe wished the whole company, except himself, at the bottom of the Red Sea; for he was taking his revenge of Puddock, and had already lost a gammon and two hits. Little Puddock won by the force of the dice. He was not much of a player; and the sight of Dangerfield — that repulsive, impenetrable, moneyed man, who had ‘overcome him like a summer cloud,’ when the sky of his fortunes looked clearest and sunniest, always led him to Belmont, and the side of his ladylove.

  If Cluffe’s mind wandered in that direction, his reveries were rather comfortable. He had his own opinion about his progress with Aunt Rebecca, who had come to like his conversation, and talked with him a great deal about Puddock, and always with acerbity; Cluffe, who was a sort of patron of Puddock’s, always, to do him justice, defended him respectfully. And Aunt Rebecca would listen very attentively, and then shake her head, and say, ‘You’re a great deal too goodnatured, captain; and he’ll never thank you for your pains, never — I can tell you.’

  Well, Cluffe knew that the higher powers favoured Dangerfield; and that, beside his absurd sentiment, not to say passion, which could not but be provoking, Puddock’s complicity in the abortive hostilities of poor Nutter and the gallant O’Flaherty rankled in Aunt Becky’s heart. She was, indeed, usually appeasable and forgiving enough; but in this case her dislike seemed inveterate and vindictive; and she would say —

  ‘Well, let’s talk no more of him; ’tis easy finding a more agreeable subject: but you can’t deny, captain, that ’twas an unworthy hypocrisy his pretending to sentiments against duelling to me, and then engaging as second in one on the very first opportunity that presented.’

  Then Cluffe would argue his case, and plead his excuses, and fumbled over it a good while; not that he’d have cried a great deal if Puddock had been hanged; but, I’m afraid, chiefly because, being a fellow of more gaiety and accomplishment than quickness of invention, it was rather convenient, than otherwise, to have a topic, no matter what, supplied to him, and one that put him in an amiable point of view, and in a kind of graceful, intercessorial relation to the object of his highly prudent passion. And Cluffe thought how patiently she heard him, though he was conscious ’twas rather tedious, and one time very like another. But then, ’twasn’t the talk, but the talker; and he was glad, at all risks, to help poor Puddock out of his disgrace, like a generous soul, as he was.

  CHAPTER LIX.

  TELLING HOW A COACH DREW UP AT THE ELMS, AND TWO FINE LADIES, DRESSED FOR THE BALL, STEPPED IN.

  It was now more than a fortnight since Sturk’s mishap in the Butcher’s Wood, and he was still alive, but still under the spell of coma. He was sinking, but very slowly; yet it was enough to indicate the finality of that ‘life in death.’

  Dangerfield once or twice attacked Toole rather tartly about Sturk’s case.

  ‘Can nothing be done to make him speak? Five minutes’ consciousness would unravel the mystery.’

  Then Toole would shrug, and say, ‘Pooh — pooh! my dear Sir, you know nothing.’

  ‘Why, there’s life!’

  ‘Ay, the mechanical functions of life, but the brain’s overpowered,’ replied Toole, with a wise frown.

  ‘Well, relieve it.’

  ‘By Jupiter, Sir, you make me laugh,’ cried Toole with a grin, throwing up his eyebrows. ‘I take it, you think we doctors can work miracles.’

  ‘Quite the reverse
, Sir,’ retorted Dangerfield, with a cold scoff. ‘But you say he may possibly live six weeks more; and all that time the wick is smouldering, though the candle’s short — can’t you blow it in, and give us even one minute’s light?’

  ‘Ay, a smouldering wick and a candle if you please; but enclosed in a glass bottle, how the deuce are you to blow it?’

  ‘Pish!’ said the silver spectacles, with an icy flash from his glasses.

  ‘Why, Sir, you’ll excuse me — but you don’t understand,’ said Toole, a little loftily. ‘There are two contused wounds along the scalp as long as that pencil — the whole line of each partially depressed, the depression all along being deep enough to lay your finger in. You can ask Irons, who dresses them when I’m out of the way.’

  ‘I’d rather ask you, Sir,’ replied Dangerfield, in turn a little high.

  ‘Well, you can’t apply the trepan, the surface is too extended, and all unsound, and won’t bear it— ‘twould be simply killing him on the spot — don’t you see? and there’s no way else to relieve him.’

  General Chattesworth had not yet returned. On his way home he had wandered aside, and visited the fashionable wells of Buxton, intending a three days’ sojourn, to complete his bracing up for the winter. But the Pool of Siloam did not work pleasantly in the case of the robust general, who was attacked after his second dip with a smart fit of the gout in his left great-toe, where it went on charmingly, without any flickering upward, quite stationary and natural for three weeks.

  About the end of which time the period of the annual ball given by the officers of the Royal Irish Artillery arrived. It was a great event in the town. To poor Mrs. Sturk, watching by her noble Barney, it seemed, of course, a marvellous insensibility and an outrage. But the world must follow its instinct and vocation, and attend to its business and amuse itself too, though noble Barneys lie a-dying here and there.