'Well?' said Devereux, by this time recovering breath, as the little doctor, looking very red and glum, strutted up to him along the shady pavement.
'Well? well?—oh, ay, very well, to be sure. I’d like to know what the plague we’re to do now,' grumbled Toole.
'Your precious armour–bearer refuses to act then?' asked Devereux.
'To be sure he does. He sees you walking down the street, ready to die o' laughing—at nothing, by Jove!' swore Toole, in deep disgust; 'and—and—och! hang it! it’s all a confounded pack o' nonsense. Sir, if you could not keep grave for five minutes, you ought not to have come at all. But what need I care? It’s Nutter’s affair, not mine.'
'And well for him we failed. Did you ever see such a fish? He’d have shot himself or Nutter, to a certainty. But there’s a chance yet: we forgot the Nightingale Club; they’re still in the Phoenix.'
'Pooh, Sir! they’re all tailors and green–grocers,' said Toole, in high dudgeon.
'There are two or three good names among them, however,' answered Devereux; and by this time they were on the threshold of the Phoenix.
'Larry,' he cried to the waiter, 'the Nightingale Club is there, is it not?' glancing at the great back parlour door.
'Be the powers! Captain, you may say that,' said Larry, with a wink, and a grin of exquisite glee.
'See, Larry,' said Toole, with importance, 'we’re a little serious now; so just say if there’s any of the gentlemen there; you—you understand, now; quite steady? D’ye see me?'
Larry winked—this time a grave wink—looked down at the floor, and up to the cornice, and—
'Well,' said he, 'to be candid with you, jest at this minute—half–an–hour ago, you see, it was different—the only gentleman I’d take on myself to recommend to you as perfectly sober is Mr. Macan, of Petticoat–lane.'
'Is he in business?' asked Toole.
'Does he keep a shop?' said Devereux.
'A shop! two shops;—a great man in the chandlery line,' responded Larry.
'H’m! not precisely the thing we want, though,' says Toole.
'There are some of them, surely, that don’t keep shops,' said Devereux, a little impatiently.
'Millions!' said Larry.
'Come, say their names.'
'Only one of them came this evening, Mr. Doolan, of Stonnybatther—he’s a retired merchant.'
'That will do,' said Toole, under his breath, to Devereux. Devereux nodded.
'Just, I say, tap him on the shoulder, and tell him that Dr. Toole, you know, of this town, with many compliments and excuses, begs one word with him,' said the doctor.
'Hoo! Docthur dear, he was the first of them down, and was carried out to his coach insensible jist when Mr. Crozier of Christ Church began, "Come Roger and listen;" he’s in his bed in Stonnybatther a good hour and a half ago.'
'A retired merchant,' says Devereux; 'well, Toole, what do you advise now?'
'By Jove, I think one of us must go into town. 'Twill never do to leave poor Nutter in the lurch; and between ourselves, that O’Flaherty’s a—a blood–thirsty idiot, by Jove—and ought to be put down.'
'Let’s see Nutter—you or I must go—we’ll take one of these songster’s "noddies."'
A 'noddy' give me leave to remark, was the one–horse hack vehicle of Dublin and the country round, which has since given place to the jaunting car, which is, in its turn, half superseded by the cab.
And Devereux, followed by Toole, entered the front parlour again. But without their help, the matter was arranging itself, and a second, of whom they knew nothing, was about to emerge.
CHAPTER IX.
HOW A SQUIRE WAS FOUND FOR THE KNIGHT OF THE RUEFUL COUNTENANCE.
When Dr. Toole grumbled at his disappointment, he was not at all aware how nearly his interview with Loftus had knocked the entire affair on the head. He had no idea how much that worthy person was horrified by his proposition; and Toole walked off in a huff, without bidding him good–night, and making a remark in which the words 'old woman' occurred pretty audibly. But Loftus remained under the glimpses of the moon in perturbation and sore perplexity. It was so late he scarcely dared disturb Dr. Walsingham or General Chattesworth. But there came the half–stifled cadence of a song—not bacchanalian, but sentimental—something about Daphne and a swain—struggling through the window–shutters next the green hall–door close by, and Dan instantly bethought himself of Father Roach. So knocking stoutly at the window, he caused the melody to subside and the shutter to open. When the priest, looking out, saw Dan Loftus in his deshabille, I believe he thought for a moment it was something from the neighbouring churchyard.
However, his reverence came out and stood on the steps, enveloped in a hospital aroma of broiled bones, lemons, and alcohol, and shaking his visitor affectionately by the hand—for he bore no malice, and the Lenten ditty he quite forgave as being no worse in modern parlance than an unhappy 'fluke'—was about to pull him into the parlour, where there was ensconced, he told him, 'a noble friend of his.' This was 'Pat Mahony, from beyond Killarney, just arrived—a man of parts and conversation, and a lovely singer.'
But Dan resisted, and told his tale in an earnest whisper in the hall. The priest made his mouth into a round queer little O, through which he sucked a long breath, elevating his brows, and rolling his eyes slowly about.
'A jewel! And Nutter, of all the men on the face of the airth—though I often heerd he was a fine shot, and a sweet little fencer in his youth, an' game, too—oh, be the powers! you can see that still—game to the back–bone—and—whisht a bit now—who’s the other?'
'Lieutenant O’Flaherty.'
(A low whistle from his reverence). 'That’s a boy that comes from a fighting county—Galway. I wish you saw them at an election time. Why, there’s no end of divarsion—the divarsion of stopping them, of course, I mean (observing a sudden alteration in Loftus’s countenance). An' you, av coorse, want to stop it? And so, av coorse, do I, my dear. Well, then, wait a bit, now—we must have our eyes open. Don’t be in a hurry—let us be harrumless as sarpints, but wise as doves. Now, 'tis a fine thing, no doubt, to put an end to a jewel by active intherfarence, though I have known cases, my dear child, where suppressing a simple jewel has been the cause of half a dozen breaking out afterwards in the same neighbourhood, and on the very same quarrel, d’ye mind—though, of coorse, that’s no reason here or there, my dear boy! But take it that a jewel is breaking down and coming to the ground of itself (here a hugely cunning wink), in an aisy, natural, accommodating way, the only effect of intherfarence is to bolster it up, d’ye see, so just considher how things are, my dear. Lave it all to me, and mind my words, it can’t take place without a second. The officers have refused, so has Toole, you won’t undertake it, and it’s too late to go into town. I defy it to come to anything. Jest be said be me, Dan Loftus, and let sleeping dogs lie. Here I am, an old experienced observer, that’s up to their tricks, with my eye upon them. Go you to bed—lave them to me—and they’re checkmated without so much as seeing how we bring it to pass.'
Dan hesitated.
'Arrah! go to your bed, Dan Loftus, dear. It’s past eleven o’clock—they’re nonplussed already; and lave me—me that understands it—to manage the rest.'
'Well, Sir, I do confide it altogether to you. I know I might, through ignorance, do a mischief.'
And so they bid a mutual good–night, and Loftus scaled his garret stair and snuffed his candle, and plunged again into the business of two thousand years ago.
'Here’s a purty business,' says the priest, extending both his palms, with a face of warlike importance, and shutting the door behind him with what he called 'a cow’s kick;' 'a jewel, my dear Pat, no less; bloody work I’m afeared.'
Mr. Mahony, who had lighted a pipe during his entertainer’s absence, withdrew the fragrant tube from his lips, and opened his capacious mouth with a look of pleasant expectation, for he, like other gentlemen of his day—and, must we confess, not a few jolly cleri
cs of my creed, as well as of honest Father Roach’s—regarded the ordeal of battle, and all its belongings, simply as the highest branch of sporting. Not that the worthy father avowed any such sentiment; on the contrary, his voice and his eyes, if not his hands, were always raised against the sanguinary practice; and scarce a duel occurred within a reasonable distance unattended by his reverence, in the capacity, as he said, of 'an unauthorised, but airnest, though, he feared, unavailing peacemaker.' There he used to spout little maxims of reconciliation, and Christian brotherhood and forbearance; exhorting to forget and forgive; wringing his hands at each successive discharge; and it must be said, too, in fairness, playing the part of a good Samaritan towards the wounded, to whom his green hall–door was ever open, and for whom the oil of his consolation and the wine of his best bin never refused to flow.
'Pat, my child,' said his reverence, 'that Nutter’s a divil of a fellow—at least he was, by all accounts; he’ll be bad enough, I’m afeared, and hard enough to manage, if everything goes smooth; but if he’s kept waiting there, fuming and boiling over, do ye mind, without a natural vent for his feelings, or a friend, do ye see, at his side to—to resthrain him, and bring about, if possible, a friendly mutual understanding—why, my dear child, he’ll get into that state of exasperation an' violence, he’ll have half a dozen jewels on his hands before morning.'
'Augh! 'tid be a murther to baulk them for want of a friend,' answered Mr. Mahony, standing up like a warrior, and laying the pipe of peace upon the chimney. 'Will I go down, Father Denis, and offer my sarvices?'
'With a view to a reconciliation, mind,' said his reverence, raising his finger, closing his eyes, and shaking his florid face impressively.
'Och, bother! don’t I know—of coorse, reconciliation;' and he was buttoning his garments where, being a little 'in flesh,' as well as tall, he had loosed them. 'Where are the gentlemen now, and who will I ask for?'
'I’ll show you the light from the steps. Ask for Dr. Toole; and he’s certainly there; and if he’s not, for Mr. Nutter; and just say you came from my house, where you—a—pooh! accidentally heard, through Mr. Loftus, do ye mind, there was a difficulty in finding a friend to—a—strive to make up matters between thim.'
By this time they stood upon the door–steps; and Mr. Mahony had clapt on his hat with a pugnacious cock o' one side; and following, with a sporting and mischievous leer, the direction of the priest’s hand, that indicated the open door of the Phoenix, through which a hospitable light was issuing.
'There’s where you’ll find the gentlemen, in the front parlour,' says the priest. 'You remember Dr. Toole, and he’ll remember you. An' mind, dear, it’s to make it up you’re goin'.' Mr. Mahony was already under weigh, at a brisk stride, and with a keen relish for the business. 'And the blessing of the peacemaker go with you, my child!' added his reverence, lifting his hands and his eyes towards the heavens, 'An' upon my fainy!' looking shrewdly at the stars, and talking to himself, 'they’ll have a fine morning for the business, if, unfortunately'—and here he re–ascended his door–steps with a melancholy shrug—'if unfortunately, Pat Mahony should fail.'
When Mr. Pat Mahony saw occasion for playing the gentleman, he certainly did come out remarkably strong in the part. It was done in a noble, florid, glowing style, according to his private ideal of the complete fine gentleman. Such bows, such pointing of the toes, such graceful flourishes of the three–cocked hat—such immensely engaging smiles and wonderful by–play, such an apparition, in short, of perfect elegance–valour, and courtesy, were never seen before in the front parlour of the Phoenix.
'Mr. Mahony, by jingo!' ejaculated Toole, in an accent of thankfulness amounting nearly to rapture. Nutter seemed relieved, too, and advanced to be presented to the man who, instinct told him, was to be his friend. Cluffe, a man of fashion of the military school, eyed the elegant stranger with undisguised disgust and wonder, and Devereux with that sub–acid smile with which men will sometimes quietly relish absurdity.
Mr. Mahony, 'discoursin' a country neighbour outside the half–way–house at Muckafubble, or enjoying an easy tête–à–tête with Father Roach, was a very inferior person, indeed, to Patrick Mahony, Esq., the full–blown diplomatist and pink of gentility astonishing the front parlour of the Phoenix.
There, Mr. Mahony’s periods were fluent and florid, and the words chosen occasionally rather for their grandeur and melody than for their exact connexion with the context or bearing upon his meaning. The consequence was a certain gorgeous haziness and bewilderment, which made the task of translating his harangues rather troublesome and conjectural.
Having effected the introduction, and made known the object of his visit, Nutter and he withdrew to a small chamber behind the bar, where Nutter, returning some of his bows, and having listened without deriving any very clear ideas to two consecutive addresses from his companion, took the matter in hand himself, and said he—
'I beg, Sir, to relieve you at once from the trouble of trying to arrange this affair amicably. I have been grossly insulted, he’s not going to apologise, and nothing but a meeting will satisfy me. He’s a mere murderer. I have not the faintest notion why he wants to kill me; but being reduced to this situation, I hold myself obliged, if I can, to rid the town of him finally.'
'Shake hands, Sir,' cried Mahony, forgetting his rhetoric in his enthusiasm; 'be the hole in the wall, Sir, I honour you.'
CHAPTER X.
THE DEAD SECRET, SHOWING HOW THE FIREWORKER PROVED TO PUDDOCK THAT NUTTER HAD SPIED OUT THE NAKEDNESS OF THE LAND.
When Puddock, having taken a short turn or two in the air, by way of tranquillising his mind, mounted his lodging stairs, he found Lieutenant O’Flaherty, not at all more sober than he had last seen him, in the front drawing–room, which apartment was richly perfumed with powerful exhalations of rum punch.
'Dhrink this, Puddock—dhrink it,' said O’Flaherty, filling a large glass in equal quantities with rum and water; 'dhrink it, my sinsare friend; it will studdy you, it will, upon my honour, Puddock!'
'But—a—thank you, Sir, I am anxious to understand exactly'—said Puddock. Here he was interrupted by a frightful grin and a 'ha!' from O’Flaherty, who darted to the door, and seizing his little withered French servant, who was entering, swung him about the room by his coat collar.
'So, Sorr, you’ve been prating again, have you, you desateful, idle old dhrunken miscreant; you did it on purpose, you blundherin' old hyena; it’s the third jewel you got your masther into; and if I lose my life, divil a penny iv your wages ye’ll ever get—that’s one comfort. Yes, Sorr! this is the third time you have caused me to brew my hands in human blood; I dono' if it’s malice, or only blundherin'. Oh!' he cried, with a still fiercer shake, 'it’s I that wishes I could be sure 'twas malice, I’d skiver you, heels and elbows, on my sword, and roast you alive on that fire. Is not it a hard thing, my darlin' Puddock, I can’t find out.' He was still holding the little valet by the collar, and stretching out his right hand to Puddock. 'But I am always the sport of misfortunes—small and great. If there was an ould woman to be handed in to supper—or a man to be murthered by mistake—or an ugly girl to be danced with, whose turn was it, ever and always to do the business, but poor Hyacinth O’Flaherty’s—(tears). I could tell you, Puddock,' he continued, forgetting his wrath, and letting his prisoner go, in his eager pathos—the Frenchman made his escape in a twinkling—'I was the only man in our regiment that tuck the mazles in Cork, when it was goin' among the children, bad luck to them—I that was near dyin' of it when I was an infant; and I was the only officer in the regiment, when we were at Athlone, that was prevented going to the race ball—and I would not for a hundred pounds. I was to dance the first minuet, and the first country dance, with that beautiful creature, Miss Rose Cox. I was makin' a glass of brandy punch—not feelin' quite myself—and I dhressed and all, in our room, when Ensign Higgins, a most thoughtless young man, said something disrespectful about a beautiful mole she had on her chin; bedad, Sir
, he called it a wart, if you plase! and feelin' it sthrongly, I let the jug of scaldin' wather drop on my knees; I wish you felt it, my darlin' Puddock. I was scalded in half a crack from a fut above my knees down to the last joint of my two big toes; and I raly thought my sinses were leving me. I lost the ball by it. Oh, ho, wirresthrue! poor Hyacinth O’Flaherty!' and thereupon he wept.
'You thee, Lieutenant O’Flaherty,' lisped Puddock, growing impatient, 'we can’t say how soon Mr. Nutter’s friend may apply for an interview, and—a—I must confeth I don’t yet quite understand the point of difference between you and him, and therefore—'
'A where the devil’s that blackguard little French wazel gone to?' exclaimed O’Flaherty, for the first time perceiving that his captive had escaped. 'Kokang Modate! Do you hear me, Kokang Modate!' he shouted.
'But really, Sir, you must be so good as to place before me, before me, Sir, clearly, the—the cause of this unhappy dispute, the exact offenth, Thir, for otherwithe—'
'Cause, to be sure! and plenty iv cause. I never fought a jewel yet, Puddock, my friend—and this will be the ninth—without cause. They said, I’m tould, in Cork, I was quarrelsome; they lied; I’m not quarrelsome; I only want pace, and quiet, and justice; I hate a quarrelsome man. I tell you, Puddock, if I only knew where to find a quarrelsome man, be the powers I’d go fifty miles out of my way to pull him be the nose. They lied, Puddock, my dear boy, an' I’d give twenty pounds this minute I had them on this flure, to tell them how damnably they lied!'
'No doubt, Thir,' said Puddock, 'but if you pleathe I really mutht have a dithtinct answer to my—'
'Get out o' that, Sorr,' thundered O’Flaherty, with an awful stamp on the floor, as the 'coquin maudit,' O’Flaherty’s only bit of French, such as it was, in obedience to that form of invocation, appeared nervously at the threshold, 'or I’ll fling the contints of the r–r–oo–oo–oom at your head, (exit Monsieur, again). Be gannies! if I thought it was he that done it, I’d jirk his old bones through the top of the window. Will I call him back and give him his desarts, will I, Puddock! Oh, ho, hone! my darlin' Puddock, everything turns agin me; what’ll I do, Puddock, jewel, or what’s to become o' me?' and he shed some more tears, and drank off the greater part of the beverage which he had prepared for Puddock.
The House by the Churchyard Page 7