‘We are not accustomed, Sir, in this part of the world, to your Connaught notions of politeness; we meet here for social — a — a — sociality, Sir; and the long and the short of it is, young gentleman, if you don’t change your key, you’ll find two can play at that game — and — and, I tell you, Sir, there will be wigs on the green, Sir.’
Here several voices interposed.
‘Silence, gentlemen, and let me speak, or I’ll assault him,’ bellowed O’Flaherty, who, to do him justice, at this moment looked capable of anything. ‘I believe, Sir,’ he continued, addressing Nutter, who confronted him like a little game-cock, ‘it is not usual for one gentleman who renders himself offensive to another to oblige him to proceed to the length of manually malthrating his person.’
‘Hey! eh?’ said Nutter, drawing his mouth tight on one side with an ugly expression, and clenching his hands in his breeches pockets.
‘Manually malthrating his person, Sir,’ repeated O’Flaherty, ‘by striking, kicking, or whipping any part or mimber of his body; or offering a milder assault, such as a pull by the chin, or a finger-tap upon the nose. It is usual, Sir, for the purpose of avoiding ungentlemanlike noise, inconvenience, and confusion, that one gentleman should request of another to suppose himself affronted in the manner, whatever it may be, most intolerable to his feelings, which request I now, Sir, teeke the libertee of preferring to you; and when you have engaged the services of a friend, I trust that Lieutenant Puddock, who lodges in the same house with me, will, in consideration of my being an officer of the same honourable corps, a sthranger in this part of the counthry, and, above all, a gentleman who can show paydagree like himself [here a low bow to Puddock, who returned it]; that Lieutenant Puddock will be so feelin’ and so kind as to receive him on my behalf, and acting as my friend to manage all the particulars for settling, as easily as may be, this most unprovoked affair.’
With which words he made another bow, and a pause of enquiry directed to Puddock, who lisped with dignity —
‘Sir, the duty is, for many reasons, painful; but I — I can’t refuse, Sir, and I accept the trust.’
So O’Flaherty shook his hand, with another bow; bowed silently and loftily round the room, and disappeared, and a general buzz and a clack of tongues arose.
‘Mr. Nutter — a — I hope things may be settled pleasantly,’ said Puddock, looking as tall and weighty as he could; ‘at present I — a — that is, at the moment, I — a — don’t quite see — [the fact is, he had not a notion what the deuce it was all about] — but your friend will find me — your friend — a — at my lodgings up to one o’clock tonight, if necessary.’
And so Puddock’s bow. For the moment an affair of this sort presented itself, all concerned therein became reserved and official, and the representatives merely of a ceremonious etiquette and a minutely-regulated ordeal of battle. So, as I said, Puddock bowed grandly and sublimely to Nutter, and then magnificently to the company, and made his exit.
There was a sort of a stun and a lull for several seconds. Something very decisive and serious had occurred. One or two countenances wore that stern and mysterious smile, which implies no hilarity, but a kind of reaction in presence of the astounding and the slightly horrible. There was a silence; the gentlemen kept their attitudes too, for some moments, and all eyes were directed toward the door. Then some turned to Charles Nutter, and then the momentary spell dissolved itself.
CHAPTER VIII.
RELATING HOW DOCTOR TOOLE AND CAPTAIN DEVEREUX WENT ON A MOONLIGHT ERRAND.
Nearly a dozen gentlemen broke out at once into voluble speech. Nutter was in a confounded passion; but being a man of few words, showed his wrath chiefly in his countenance, and stood with his legs apart and his arms stuffed straight into his coat pockets, his back to the fireplace, with his chest thrown daringly out, sniffing the air in a state of high tension, and as like as a respectable little fellow of five feet six could be to that giant who smelt the blood of the Irishman, and swore, with a ‘Fee! Faw!! Fum!!!’ he’d ‘eat him for his supper that night.’
‘None of the corps can represent you, Nutter, you know,’ said Captain Cluffe. ‘It may go hard enough with Puddock and O’Flaherty, as the matter stands; but, by Jove! if any of us appear on the other side, the general would make it a very serious affair, indeed.’
‘Toole, can’t you?’ asked Devereux.
‘Out of the question,’ answered he, shutting his eyes, with a frown, and shaking his head. ‘There’s no man I’d do it sooner for, Nutter knows; but I can’t — I’ve refused too often; besides, you’ll want me professionally, you know; for Sturk must attend that Royal Hospital enquiry tomorrow all day — but hang it, where’s the difficulty? Isn’t there? — pooh! — why there must be lots of fellows at hand. Just — a — just think for a minute.’
‘I don’t care who,’ said Nutter, with dry ferocity, ‘so he can load a pistol.’
‘Tom Forsythe would have done capitally, if he was at home,’ said one.
‘But he’s not,’ remarked Cluffe.
‘Well,’ said Toole, getting close up to Devereux, in a coaxing undertone, ‘suppose we try Loftus.’
‘Dan Loftus!’ ejaculated Devereux.
‘Dan Loftus,’ repeated the little doctor, testily; ‘remember, it’s just eleven o’clock. He’s no great things, to be sure; but what better can we get.’
‘Allons, donc!’ said Devereux, donning his cocked-hat, with a shrug, and the least little bit of a satirical smile, and out bustled the doctor beside him.
‘Where the deuce did that broganeer, O’Flaherty, come from?’ said Cluffe, confidentially, to old Major O’Neill.
‘A Connaughtman,’ answered the major, with a grim smile, for he was himself of that province and was, perhaps, a little bit proud of his countryman.
‘Toole says he’s well connected,’ pursued Cluffe; ‘but, by Jupiter! I never saw so-mere a Teague; and the most cross-grained devil of a cat-a-mountain.’
‘I could not quite understand why he fastened on Mr. Nutter,’ observed the major, with a mild smile.
‘I’ll rid the town of him,’ rapped out Nutter, with an oath, leering at his own shoebuckle, and tapping the sole with asperity on the floor.
‘If you are thinking of any unpleasant measures, gentlemen, I’d rather, if you please, know nothing of them,’ said the sly, quiet major; ‘for the general, you are aware, has expressed a strong opinion about such affairs; and as ’tis past my bed-hour, I’ll wish you, gentlemen, a goodnight,’ and off went the major.
‘Upon my life, if this Connaught rapparee is permitted to carry on his business of indiscriminate cut-throat here, he’ll make the service very pleasant,’ resumed Cluffe, who, though a brisk young fellow of eight-and-forty, had no special fancy for being shot. ‘I say the general ought to take the matter into his own hands.’
‘Not till I’m done with it,’ growled Nutter.
‘And send the young gentleman home to Connaught,’ pursued Cluffe.
‘I’ll send him first to the other place,’ said Nutter, in allusion to the Lord Protector’s well-known alternative.
In the open street, under the sly old moon, red little Dr. Toole, in his great wig, and Gipsy Devereux, in quest of a squire for the good knight who stood panting for battle in the front parlour of the ‘Phœnix,’ saw a red glimmer in Loftus’s dormant window.
‘He’s alive and stirring still,’ said Devereux, approaching the hall door with a military nonchalance.
‘Whisht!’ said Toole, plucking him back by the sash: ‘we must not make a noise — the house is asleep. I’ll manage it — leave it to me.’
And he took up a handful of gravel, but not having got the range, he shied it all against old Tom Drought’s bedroom window.
‘Deuce take that old sneak,’ whispered Toole vehemently, ‘he’s always in the way; the last man in the town I’d have — but no matter:’ and up went a pebble, better directed, for this time it went right through Loftus’s window, and a pleasant little
shower of broken glass jingled down into the street.
‘Confound you, Toole,’ said Devereux, ‘you’ll rouse the town.
‘Plague take the fellow’s glass — it’s as thin as paper,’ sputtered Toole.
‘Loftus, we want you,’ said Toole, in a hard whispered shout, and making a speaking trumpet of his hands, as the wild head of the student, like nothing in life but a hen’s nest, appeared above.
‘Cock-Loftus, come down, d’ye hear?’ urged Devereux.
‘Dr. Toole and Lieutenant Devereux — I — I — dear me! yes. Gentlemen, your most obedient,’ murmured Loftus vacantly, and knocking his head smartly on the top of the window frame, in recovering from a little bow. ‘I’ll be wi’ ye, gentlemen, in a moment.’ And the hen’s nest vanished.
Toole and Devereux drew back a little into the shadow of the opposite buildings, for while they were waiting, a dusky apparition, supposed to be old Drought in his nightshirt, appeared at that gentleman’s windows, saluting the ambassadors with mop and moe, in a very threatening and energetic way. Just as this demonstration subsided, the hall door opened wide — and indeed was left so — while our friend Loftus, in a wonderful tattered old silk coat, that looked quite indescribable by moonlight, the torn linings hanging down in loops inside the skirts, pale and discoloured, like the shreds of banners in a cathedral; his shirt loose at the neck, his breeches unbuttoned at the knees, and a gigantic, misshapen, and mouldy pair of slippers clinging and clattering about his feet, came down the steps, his light, round little eyes and queer, quiet face peering at them into the shade, and a smokified volume of divinity tucked under his arm, with his finger between the leaves to keep the place.
When Devereux saw him approaching, the whole thing — mission, service, man, and all — struck him in so absurd a point of view, that he burst out into an explosion of laughter, which only grew more vehement and uproarious the more earnestly and imploringly Toole tried to quiet him, pointing up with both hands, and all his fingers extended, to the windows of the sleeping townsfolk, and making horrible grimaces, shrugs, and ogles. But the young gentleman was not in the habit of denying himself innocent indulgences, and shaking himself loose of Toole, he walked down the dark side of the street in peals of laughter, making, ever and anon, little breathless remarks to himself, which his colleague could not hear, but which seemed to have the effect of setting him off again into new hemi-demi-semiquavers and roars of laughter, and left the doctor to himself, to conduct the negociation with Loftus.
‘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 Phœnix.’
‘Pooh, Sir! they’re all tailors and greengrocers,’ 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 Phœnix.
‘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 bloodthirsty 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 goodnight, 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 backbone — 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.’
Delphi Complete Works of Sheridan Le Fanu Page 102