On reaching her bed–room, which she did with impetuous haste, Aunt Becky shut the door with a passionate slam, and said, with a sort of choke and a sob, 'There’s nought but ingratitude on earth—the odious, odious, odious person!'
And when, ten minutes after, her maid came in, she found Aunt Rebecca but little advanced in her preparations for bed; and her summons at the door was answered by a fierce and shrilly nose–trumpeting, and a stern 'Come in, hussy—are you deaf, child?' And when she came in, Aunt Becky was grim, and fussy, and her eyes red.
Miss Gertrude was that night arrived just on that dim and delicious plateau—that debatable land upon which the last waking reverie and the first dream of slumber mingle together in airy dance and shifting colours—when, on a sudden, she was recalled to a consciousness of her grave bed–posts, and damask curtains, by the voice of her aunt.
Sitting up, she gazed on the redoubted Aunt Becky through the lace of her bonnet de nuit, for some seconds, in a mystified and incredulous way.
Mistress Rebecca Chattesworth, on the other hand, had drawn the curtains, and stood, candle in hand, arrayed in her night–dress, like a ghost, only she had on a pink and green quilted dressing–gown loosely over it.
She was tall and erect, of course; but she looked softened and strange; and when she spoke, it was in quite a gentle, humble sort of way, which was perfectly strange to her niece.
'Don’t be frightened, sweetheart,' said she, and she leaned over and with her arm round her neck, kissed her. 'I came to say a word, and just to ask you a question. I wish, indeed I do—Heaven knows, to do my duty; and, my dear child, will you tell me the whole truth—will you tell me truly?—You will, when I ask it as a kindness.'
There was a little pause, and Gertrude looked with a pale gaze upon her aunt.
'Are you,' said Aunt Becky—'do you, Gertrude—do you like Lieutenant Puddock?'
'Lieutenant Puddock!' repeated the girl, with the look and gesture of a person in whose ear something strange has buzzed.
'Because, if you really are in love with him, Gertie; and that he likes you; and that, in short—' Aunt Becky was speaking very rapidly, but stopped suddenly.
'In love with Lieutenant Puddock!' was all that Miss Gertrude said.
'Now, do tell me, Gertrude, if it be so—tell me, dear love. I know 'tis a hard thing to say,' and Aunt Becky considerately began to fiddle with the ribbon at the back of her niece’s nightcap, so that she need not look in her face; 'but, Gertie, tell me truly, do you like him; and—and—why, if it be so, I will mention Mr. Dangerfield’s suit no more. There now—there’s all I want to say.'
'Lieutenant Puddock!' repeated young Madam in the nightcap; and by this time the film of slumber was gone; and the suspicion struck her somehow in altogether so comical a way that she could not help laughing in her aunt’s sad, earnest face.
'Fat, funny little Lieutenant Puddock!—was ever so diverting a disgrace? Oh! dear aunt, what have I done to deserve so prodigious a suspicion?'
It was plain, from her heightened colour, that her aunt did not choose to be laughed at.
'What have you done?' said she, quite briskly; 'why—what have you done?' and Aunt Becky had to consider just for a second or two, staring straight at the young lady through the crimson damask curtains. 'You have—you—you—why, what have you done? and she covered her confusion by stooping down to adjust the heel of her slipper.
'Oh! it’s delightful—plump little Lieutenant Puddock!' and the graver her aunt looked the more irrepressibly she laughed; till that lady, evidently much offended, took the young gentlewoman pretty roundly to task.
'Well! I’ll tell you what you have done,' said she, almost fiercely. 'As absurd as he is, you have been twice as sweet upon him as he upon you; and you have done your endeavour to fill his brain with the notion that you are in love with him, young lady; and if you’re not, you have acted, I promise you, a most unscrupulous and unpardonable part by a most honourable and well–bred gentleman—for that character I believe he bears. Yes—you may laugh, Madam, how you please; but he’s allowed, I say, to be as honest, as true, as fine a gentleman as—as—'
'As ever surprised a weaver,' said the young lady, laughing till she almost cried. In fact, she was showing in a new light, and becoming quite a funny character upon this theme. And, indeed, this sort of convulsion of laughing seemed so unaccountable on natural grounds to Aunt Rebecca, that her irritation subsided into perplexity, and she began to suspect that her extravagant merriment might mean possibly something which she did not quite understand.
'Well, niece, when you have quite done laughing at nothing, you will, perhaps, be so good as to hear me. I put it to you now, young lady, as your relation and your friend, once for all, upon your sacred honour—remember you’re a Chattesworth—upon the honour of a Chattesworth' (a favourite family form of adjuration on serious occasions with Aunt Rebecca), 'do you like Lieutenant Puddock?'
It was now Miss Gertrude’s turn to be nettled, and to remind her visitor, by a sudden flush in her cheek and a flash from her eyes, that she was, indeed, a Chattesworth; and with more disdain than, perhaps, was quite called for, she repelled the soft suspicion.
'I protest, Madam,' said Miss Gertrude, ''tis too bad. Truly, Madam, it is vastly vexatious to have to answer so strange and affronting a question. If you ever took the trouble, aunt, to listen to, or look at, Lieutenant Puddock, you might—'
'Well, niece,' quoth Aunt Becky, interrupting, with a little toss of her head, 'young ladies weren’t quite so hard to please in my time, and I can’t see or hear that he’s so much worse than others.'
'I’d sooner die than have him,' said Miss Gertie, peremptorily.
'Then, I suppose, if ever, and whenever he asks you the question himself, you’ll have no hesitation in telling him so?' said Aunt Becky, with becoming solemnity.
'Laughable, ridiculous, comical, and absurd, as I always thought and believed Lieutenant Puddock to be, I yet believe the asking such a question of me to be a stretch of absurdity, from which his breeding, for he is a gentleman, will restrain him. Besides, Madam, you can’t possibly be aware of the subjects on which he has invariably discoursed whenever he happened to sit by me—plays and players, and candied fruit. Really, Madam, it is too absurd to have to enter upon one’s defence against so incredible an imagination.'
Aunt Rebecca looked steadily for a few seconds in her niece’s face, then drew a long breath, and leaning over, kissed her again on the forehead, and with a grave little nod, and looking on her again for a short space, without saying a word more, she turned suddenly and left the room.
Miss Gertrude’s vexation again gave way to merriment; and her aunt, as she walked sad and stately up stairs, heard one peal of merry laughter after another ring through her niece’s bed–room. She had not laughed so much for three years before; and this short visit cost her, I am sure, two hours' good sleep at least.
CHAPTER LXV.
RELATING SOME AWFUL NEWS THAT REACHED THE VILLAGE, AND HOW DR. WALSINGHAM VISITED CAPTAIN RICHARD DEVEREUX AT HIS LODGINGS.
And now there was news all over the town, to keep all the tongues there in motion.
News—news—great news!—terrible news! Peter Fogarty, Mr. Tresham’s boy, had it that morning from his cousin, Jim Redmond, whose aunt lived at Ringsend, and kept the little shop over against the 'Plume of Feathers,' where you might have your pick and choice of all sorts of nice and useful things—bacon, brass snuff–boxes, penny ballads, eggs, candles, cheese, tobacco–pipes, pinchbeck buckles for knee and instep, soap, sausages, and who knows what beside.
No one quite believed it—it was a tradition at third hand, and Peter Fogarty’s cousin, Jim Redmond’s aunt, was easy of faith;—Jim, it was presumed, not very accurate in narration, and Peter, not much better. Though, however, it was not actually 'intelligence,' it was a startling thesis. And though some raised their brows and smiled darkly, and shook their heads, the whole town certainly pricked their ears at it. And
not a man met another without 'Well! anything more? You’ve heard the report, Sir—eh?'
It was not till Doctor Toole came out of town, early that day, that the sensation began in earnest.
'There could be no doubt about it—'twas a wonderful strange thing certainly. After so long a time—and so well preserved too.'
'What was it—what is it?'
'Why, Charles Nutter’s corpse is found, Sir!'
'Corpse—hey!'
'So Toole says. Hollo! Toole—Doctor Toole—I say. Here’s Mr. Slowe hasn’t heard about poor Nutter.'
'Ho! neighbour Slowe—give you good–day, Sir—not heard it? By Jove, Sir—poor Nutter!—'tis true—his body’s found—picked up this morning, just at sunrise, by two Dunleary fishermen, off Bullock. Justice Lowe has seen it—and Spaight saw it too. I’ve just been speaking with him, not an hour ago, in Thomas Street. It lies at Ringsend—and an inquest in the morning.'
And so on in Doctor Toole’s manner, until he saw Dr. Walsingham, the good rector, pausing in his leisurely walk just outside the row of houses that fronted the turnpike, in one of which were the lodgings of Dick Devereux.
The good Doctor Toole wondered what brought his reverence there, for he had an inkling of something going on. So he bustled off to him, and told his story with the stern solemnity befitting such a theme, and that pallid, half–suppressed smile with which an exciting horror is sometimes related. And the good rector had many ejaculations of consternation and sympathy, and not a few enquiries to utter. And at last, when the theme was quite exhausted, he told Toole, who still lingered on, that he was going to pay his respects to Captain Devereux.
'Oh!' said cunning little Toole, 'you need not, for I told him the whole matter.'
'Very like, Sir,' answered the doctor; 'but 'tis on another matter I wish to see him.'
'Oh!—ho!—certainly—very good, Sir. I beg pardon—and—and—he’s just done his breakfast—a late dog, Sir—ha! ha! Your servant, Doctor Walsingham.'
Devereux puzzled his comrade Puddock more than ever. Sometimes he would descend with his blue devils into the abyss, and sit there all the evening in a dismal sulk. Sometimes he was gayer even than his old gay self; and sometimes in a bitter vein, talking enigmatical ironies, with his strange smile; and sometimes he was dangerous and furious, just as the weather changes, without rhyme or reason. Maybe he was angry with himself, and thought it was with others; and was proud, sorry, and defiant, and let his moods, one after another, possess him as they came.
They were his young days—beautiful and wicked—days of clear, rich tints, and sanguine throbbings, and gloria mundi—when we fancy the spirit perfect, and the body needs no redemption—when, fresh from the fountains of life, death is but a dream, and we walk the earth like heathen gods and goddesses, in celestial egotism and beauty. Oh, fair youth!—gone for ever. The parting from thee was a sadness and a violence—sadder, I think, than death itself. We look behind us, and sigh after thee, as on the pensive glories of a sunset, and our march is toward the darkness. It is twilight with us now, and will soon be starlight, and the hour and place of slumber, till the reveille sounds, and the day of wonder opens. Oh, grant us a good hour, and take us to Thy mercy! But to the last those young days will be remembered and worth remembering; for be we what else we may, young mortals we shall never be again.
Of course Dick Devereux was now no visitor at the Elms. All that for the present was over. Neither did he see Lilias; for little Lily was now a close prisoner with doctors, in full uniform, with shouldered canes, mounting guard at the doors. 'Twas a hard winter, and she needed care and nursing. And Devereux chafed and fretted; and, in truth, 'twas hard to bear this spite of fortune—to be so near, and yet so far—quite out of sight and hearing.
A word or two from General Chattesworth in Doctor Walsingham’s ear, as they walked to and fro before the white front of Belmont, had decided the rector on making this little call; for he had now mounted the stair of Devereux’s lodging, and standing on the carpet outside, knocked, with a grave, sad face on his door panel, glancing absently through the lobby window, and whistling inaudibly the while.
The doctor was gentle and modest, and entirely kindly. He held good Master Feltham’s doctrine about reproofs. 'A man,' says he, 'had better be convinced in private than be made guilty by a proclamation. Open rebukes are for Magistrates, and Courts of Justice! for Stelled Chambers and for Scarlets, in the thronged Hall Private are for friends; where all the witnesses of the offender’s blushes are blinde and deaf and dumb. We should do by them as Joseph thought to have done by Mary, seeke to cover blemishes with secrecy. Public reproofe is like striking of a Deere in the Herd; it not only wounds him to the loss of enabling blood, but betrays him to the Hound, his Enemy, and makes him by his fellows be pusht out of company.'
So on due invitation from within, the good parson entered, and the handsome captain in all his splendours—when you saw him after a little absence 'twas always with a sort of admiring surprise—you had forgot how very handsome he was—this handsome slender fellow, with his dark face and large, unfathomable violet eyes, so wild and wicked, and yet so soft, stood up surprised, with a look of welcome quickly clouded and crossed by a gleam of defiance.
They bowed, and shook hands, however, and bowed again, and each was the other’s 'servant;' and being seated, they talked de generalibus; for the good parson would not come like an executioner and take his prisoner by the throat, but altogether in the spirit of the shepherd, content to walk a long way about, and wait till he came up with the truant, and entreating him kindly, not dragging or beating him back to the flock, but leading and carrying by turns, and so awaiting his opportunity. But Devereux was in one of his moods. He thought the doctor no friend to his suit, and was bitter, and formal, and violent.
CHAPTER LXVI.
OF A CERTAIN TEMPEST THAT AROSE AND SHOOK THE CAPTAIN’S SPOONS AND TEA–CUPS; AND HOW THE WIND SUDDENLY WENT DOWN.
'I’m very glad, Sir, to have a few quiet minutes with you,' said the doctor, making then a little pause; and Devereux thought he was going to re–open the matter of his suit. 'For I’ve had no answer to my last letter, and I want to know all you can tell me of that most promising young man, Daniel Loftus, and his most curious works.'
'Dan Loftus is dead and—' (I’m sorry to say he added something else); 'and his works have followed him, Sir,' said the strange captain, savagely; for he could not conceive what business the doctor had to think about him, when Captain Devereux’s concerns were properly to be discussed. So though he had reason to believe he was quite well, and in Malaga with his 'honourable' and sickly cousin, he killed him off–hand, and disposed summarily of his works.
There was an absolute silence of some seconds after this scandalous explosion; and Devereux said—'In truth, Sir, I don’t know. They hold him capable of taking charge of my wise cousin—hang him!—so I dare say he can take care of himself; and I don’t see what the plague ill’s to happen him.'
The doctor’s honest eyes opened, and his face flushed a little. But reading makes a full man, not a quick one; and so while he was fashioning his answer, the iron cooled. Indeed he never spoke in anger. When on sudden provocation he carried his head higher and flushed a little, they supposed he was angry; but if he was, this was all he showed of the old Adam, and he held his peace.
So now the doctor looked down upon the table–cloth, for Devereux’s breakfast china and silver were still upon the table, and he marshalled some crumbs he found there, sadly, with his finger, in a row first, and then in a circle, and then, goodness knows how; and he sighed profoundly over his work.
Devereux was in his mood. He was proud—he had no notion of apologising. But looking another way, and with his head rather high, he hoped Miss Lilias was better.
Well, well, the spring was coming; and Parson Walsingham knew the spring restored little Lily. 'She’s like a bird—she’s like a flower, and the winter is nearly past,' (and the beautiful words of the 'Song of Songs,
' which little Lily so loved to read, mingled like a reverie in his discourse, and he said), 'the flowers will soon appear in the earth, the time of the singing birds will come, and the voice of the turtle be heard in our land.'
'Sir,' said Dick Devereux, in a voice that sounded strangely, 'I have a request; may I make it?—a favour to beg. 'Tisn’t, all things remembered, very much. If I write a letter, and place it open in your hand—a letter, Sir—to Miss Lily—will you read it to her, or else let her read it? Or even a message—a spoken message—will you give it?'
'Captain Devereux,' said the doctor, in a reserved but very sad sort of way, 'I must tell you that my dear child is by no means well. She has had a cold, and it has not gone away so soon as usual—something I think of her dear mother’s delicacy—and so she requires care, my little Lily, a great deal of care. But, thank God, the spring is before us. Yes, yes; the soft air and sunshine, and then she’ll be out again. You know the garden, and her visits, and her little walks. So I don’t fret or despair. Oh, no.' He spoke very gently, in a reverie, after his wont, and he sighed heavily. 'You know 'tis growing late in life with me, Captain Devereux,' he resumed, 'and I would fain see her united to a kind and tender partner, for I think she’s a fragile little flower. Poor little Lily! Something, I often think, of her dear mother’s delicacy, and I have always nursed her, you know. She has been a great pet;' and he stopped suddenly, and walked to the window. 'A great pet. Indeed, if she could have been spoiled, I should have spoiled her long ago, but she could not. Ah, no! Sweet little Lily!'
Then quite firmly but gently Parson Walsingham went on:—
'Now, the doctors say she mustn’t be agitated, and I can’t allow it, Captain Devereux. I gave her your message—let me see—why 'tis four, ay, five months ago. I gave it with a good will, for I thought well of you.'
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