‘Oh! I thought it might be professionally, Sir,’ said Toole, a little grandly; for he had seen the gentleman before, and had, by this time, found out all about him, and perceived he had no chance of a fee.
‘It is professionally, Sir,’ quoth Dirty Davy, ‘if you’ll be so obleeging as to give me five minutes.’
With that amiable egotism which pervades human nature, it will be observed, each gentleman interpreted ‘professionally’ as referring to his own particular calling.
So Toole declared himself ready and prepared to do his office, and Dirty Davy commenced.
‘You know me, I believe, Sir?’
‘Mr. David O’Reegan, as I believe,’ answered Toole.
‘The same, Sir,’ replied Davy. ‘I’m on my way, Sir, to the Mills, where my client, Mrs. Nutter (here Toole uttered a disdainful grunt), resides; and I called at your house, doctor, and they sent me here; and I am desirous to prove to you, Sir, as a friend of Miss Sarah Harty, styling herself Mrs. Nutter, that my client’s rights are clear and irresistible, in order that you may use any interest you may have with that ill-advised faymale — and I’m told she respects your advice and opinion highly — to induce her to submit without further annoyance; and I tell you, in confidence, she has run herself already into a very sarious predicament.’
‘Well, Sir, I’ll be happy to hear you,’ answered Toole.
‘’Tis no more, Sir, than I expected from your well-known candour,’ replied Dirty Davy, with the unctuous politeness with which he treated such gentlemen as he expected to make use of. ‘Now, Sir, I’ll open our case without any reserve or exaggeration to you, Sir, and that, Doctor Toole, is what I wouldn’t do to many beside yourself. The facts is in a nutshell. We claim our conjugal rights. Why, Sir? Because, Sir, we married the oppugnant, Charles Nutter, gentleman, of the Mills, and so forth, on the 7th of April, Anno Domini, 1750, in the Church of St. Clement Danes, in London, of which marriage this, Sir, is a verbatim copy of the certificate. Now, Sir, your client — I mane your friend — Misthress Mary Harty, who at present affects the state and usurps the rights of marriage against my client — the rightful Mrs. Nutter, performed and celebrated a certain pretended marriage with the same Charles Nutter, in Chapelizod Church, on the 4th of June, 1758, seven years and ten months, wanting three days, subsequent to the marriage of my client. Well, Sir, I see exactly, Sir, what you’d ask: “Is the certificate genuine?”’
Toole grunted an assent.
‘Well, Sir, upon that point I have to show you this,’ and he handed him a copy of Mr. Luke Gamble’s notice served only two days before, to the effect that, having satisfied himself by enquiring on the spot of the authenticity of the certificate of the marriage of Charles Nutter of the Mills, and so forth, to Mary Duncan, his client did not mean to dispute it. ‘And, Sir, further, as we were preparing evidence in support of my client’s and her maid’s affidavit, to prove her identity with the Mary Duncan in question, having served your client — I mane, Sir, asking your pardon again — your friend, with a notice that such corroboratory evidence being unnecessary, we would move the court, in case it were pressed for, to give us the costs of procuring it, Mr. Luke Gamble fortwith struck, on behalf of his client, and admitted the sufficiency of the evidence. Now, Sir, I mention these things, not as expecting you to believe them upon my statement, you see, but simply to enquire of Mr. Gamble whether they be true or no; and if true, Sir, upon his admission, then, Sir, I submit we’re entitled to your good offices, and the judicious inthurfarence of the Rev. Mr. Roach, your respectable priest, Sir.’
‘My friend, Sir, not my priest. I’m a Churchman, Sir, as everybody knows.’
‘Of course, Sir — I ask your pardon again, Doctor Toole — Sir, your friend to induce your client — friend I mane again, Sir — Mistress Sarah Harty, formerly housekeeper of Mr. Charless (so he pronounced it) Nutther, gentleman, of the Mills, and so forth, to surrendher quiet and peaceable possession of the premises and chattels, and withdraw from her tortuous occupation dacently, and without provoking the consequences, which must otherwise follow in the sevarest o’ forms;’ or, as he pronounced it, ‘fawrums.’
‘The sevarest o’ grandmothers. Humbug and flummery! Sir,’ cried Toole, most unexpectedly incensed, and quite scarlet.
‘D’ye mane I’m a liar, Sir? Is that what you mane?’ demanded Dirty Davy, suddenly, like the doctor, getting rid of his ceremonious politeness.
‘I mane what I mane, and that’s what I mane,’ thundered Toole, diplomatically.
‘Then, tell your friend to prepare for consequences,’ retorted Dirty Davy, with a grin.
‘And make my compliments to your client, or conjuror, or wife, or whatever she is, and tell her that whenever she wants her dirty work done, there’s plenty of other Dublin blackguards to be got to do it, without coming to Docther Thomas Toole, or the Rev. Father Roach.’
Which sarcasm he delivered with killing significance, but Dirty Davy had survived worse thrusts than that.
‘She’s a conjuror, is she? I thank you, Sir.’
‘You’re easily obliged, Sir,’ says Toole.
‘We all know what that manes. And these documents sworn to by my client and myself, is a pack o’ lies! Betther and betther! I thank ye again, Sir.’
‘You’re welcome, my honey,’ rejoined Toole, affectionately.
‘An’ you live round the corner. I know your hall-door, Sir — a light brown, wid a brass knocker.’
‘Which is a fine likeness iv your own handsome face, Sir,’ retorted Toole.
‘An’ them two documents, Sir, is a fabrication and a forgery, backed up wid false affidavits?’ continued Mr. O’Reegan.
‘Mind that, Larry,’ says the doctor, with a sudden inspiration addressing the waiter, who had peeped in; ‘he admits that them two documents you see there, is forgeries, backed up with false affidavits; you heard him say so, and I’ll call you to prove it.’
‘You lie!’ said Dirty Davy, precipitately, for he was quite disconcerted at finding his own sophistical weapons so unexpectedly turned against him.
‘You scum o’ the airth!’ cried Toole, hitting him, with his clenched fist, right upon the nose, so vigorous a thump, that his erudite head with a sonorous crash hopped off the wainscot behind it; ‘you lying scullion!’ roared the doctor, instantaneously repeating the blow, and down went Davy, and down went the table with dreadful din, and the incensed doctor bestrode his prostrate foe with clenched fists and flaming face, and his grand wig all awry, and he panting and scowling.
‘Murdher, murdher, murdher!’ screamed Dirty Davy, who was not much of a Spartan, and relished nothing of an assault and battery but the costs and damages.
‘You — you — you’
‘Murdher — help — help — murdher — murdher!’
‘Say it again, you cowardly, sneaking, spying viper; say it again, can’t you?’
It was a fine tableau, and a noble study of countenance and attitude.
‘Sich a bloody nose I never seen before,’ grinned Larry rubbing his hands over the exquisite remembrance. ‘If you only seed him, flat on his back, the great ould shnake, wid his knees and his hands up bawling murdher; an’ his big white face and his bloody nose in the middle, like nothin’ in nature, bedad, but the ace iv hearts in a dirty pack.’
How they were separated, and who the particular persons that interposed, what restoratives were resorted to, how the feature looked half an hour afterwards, and what was the subsequent demeanour of Doctor Toole, upon the field of battle, I am not instructed; my letters stop short at the catastrophe, and run off to other matters.
Doctor Toole’s agitations upon such encounters did not last long. They blew off in a few thundering claps of bravado and defiance in the second parlour of the Phœnix, where he washed his hands and readjusted his wig and ruffles, and strutted forth, squaring his elbows, and nodding and winking at the sympathising waiters in the inn hall; and with a half grin at Larry —
‘Well, Larry, I think I showed him
Chapelizod, hey?’ said the doctor, buoyantly, to that functionary, and marched diagonally across the broad street toward Sturk’s house, with a gait and a countenance that might have overawed an army.
CHAPTER XCIV.
WHAT DOCTOR STURK BROUGHT TO MIND, AND ALL THAT DOCTOR TOOLE HEARD AT MR. LUKE GAMBLE’S.
Just as he reached Sturk’s door, wagging his head and strutting grimly — and, palpably, still in debate with Dirty Davy — his thoughts received a sudden wrench in a different direction by the arrival of Mr. Justice Lowe, who pulled up his famous gray hunter at the steps of the house by the churchyard.
‘You see, Doctor Toole, it won’t do, waiting. The thing’s too momentous.’
And so they walked up stairs and into the drawingroom, and sent their compliments to Mrs. Sturk, who came down in deshabille, with her things pinned about her, and all over smiles. Poor little woman! Toole had not observed until now how very thin she had grown.
‘He’s going on delightfully, gentlemen; he drank a whole cup of tea, weak of course, Doctor Toole, as you bid me; and he eat a slice of toast, and liked it, and two Naples biscuits, Mr. Lowe, and I know he’ll be delighted to see you.’
‘Very good, Madam, very good,’ said Toole.
‘And he’s looking better already. He waked out of that sweet sleep not ten minutes after you left this morning.’
‘Ay, he was sleeping very quietly,’ said Toole to Lowe. ‘May we go up, Ma’am?’
‘Oh! he’ll be overjoyed, gentlemen, to see you, and ‘twill do him an infinity of good. I can scarce believe my eyes. We’ve been tidying the study, the maid and I, and airing the cushions of his chair;’ and she laughed a delighted little giggle. ‘And even the weather has taken up such beautiful sunshine; everything favourable.’
‘Well, Doctor Sturk,’ said Toole, cheerily, ‘we have a good account of you — a vastly good account, doctor; and, by St. George, Sir, we’ve been tidying— ‘
He was going to say the study, but little Mrs. Sturk put her finger to her lip in a wonderful hurry, raising her eyebrows and drawing a breath through her rounded lips, in such sort as arrested the sentence; for she knew how Barney’s wrath always broke out when he thought the women had been in his study, and how he charged every missing paper for a month after upon their cursed meddling. But Sturk was a good deal gentler now, and had a dull and awful sort of apathy upon him; and I think it was all one to him whether the women had been in the study or not. So Toole said instead —
‘We’ve been thinking of getting you down in a little while, doctor, if all goes pleasantly; ’tis a lovely day, and a good omen — see how the sun shines in at the curtain.’
But there was no responsive sunshine upon Sturk’s stern; haggard face, as he said very low — still looking on the foot-board— ‘I thank you, doctor.’
So after a few more questions, and a little bit of talk with Mrs. Sturk, they got that good lady out of the room, and said Lowe to the patient —
‘I’m sorry to trouble you, Dr. Sturk, but there’s a weighty matter at which you last night hinted; and Dr. Toole thought you then too weak; and in your present state, I would not now ask you to speak at any length, were the matter of less serious moment.’
‘Yes, Sir,’ said Sturk, but did not seem about to speak any more; and after a few seconds, Lowe continued.
‘I mean, Dr. Sturk, touching the murder of Mr. Beauclerc, which you then said was committed by the same Charles Archer, who assaulted you in the park.’
‘Ay, Sir,’ said Sturk.
‘The same murder of which Lord Dunoran was adjudged guilty.’
Sturk moved his lips with a sort of nod.
‘And, Doctor Sturk, you remember you then said you had yourself seen Charles Archer do that murder.’
Sturk lifted his hand feebly enough to his forehead, and his lips moved, and his eyes closed. They thought he was praying — possibly he was; so they did not interrupt him; and he said, all on a sudden, but in a low dejected way, and with many pauses —
‘Charles Archer. I never saw another such face; ’tis always before me. He was a man that everybody knew was dangerous — a damnable profligate besides — and, as all believed, capable of anything, though nobody could actually bring anything clearly home to him but his bloody duels, which, however, were fairly fought. I saw him only thrice in my life before I saw him here. In a place, at Newmarket, where they played hazard, was once; and I saw him fight Beau Langton; and I saw him murder Mr. Beauclerc. I saw it all!’ And the doctor swore a shuddering oath.
‘I lay in the small room or closet, off the chamber in which he slept. I was suffering under a bad fracture, and dosed with opium. ’Tis all very strange, Sir. I saw everything that happened. I saw him stab Beauclerc. Don’t question me; it tires me. I think ’twas a dagger. It looked like a small bayonet I’ll tell you how — all, by-and-by.’
He sipped a little wine and water, and wiped his lips with a very tremulous handkerchief.
‘I never spoke of it, for I could not. The whole of that five minutes’ work slipped from my mind, and was gone quite and clean when I awoke. What I saw I could not interrupt. I was in a cataleptic state, I suppose. I could not speak; but I saw like a lynx, and heard every whisper. When I awakened in the morning I remembered nothing. I did not know I had a secret. The knowledge was sealed up until the time came. A sight of Charles Archer’s face at any time would have had, as I suppose, the same effect. When I saw him here, the first time, it was at the general’s at Belmont; though he was changed by time, and carefully disguised, all would not do. I felt the sight of him was fatal. I was quite helpless; but my mind never stopped working upon it till — till— ‘
Sturk groaned.
‘See now,’ said Toole, ‘there’s time enough, and don’t fatigue yourself. There, now, rest quiet a minute.’
And he made him swallow some more wine; and felt his pulse and shook his head despondingly at Lowe, behind his back.
‘How is it?’ said Sturk, faintly.
‘A little irritable — that’s all,’ said Toole.
‘‘Till one night, I say,’ — Sturk resumed, after a minute or two, ‘it came to me all at once, awake — I don’t know — or in a dream; in a moment I had it all. ’Twas like a page cut out of a book — lost for so many years.’ And Sturk moaned a despairing wish to Heaven that the secret had never returned to him again.
‘Yes, Sir — like a page cut out of a book, and never missed till ’twas found again; and then sharp and clear, every letter from first to last. Then, Sir — then — thinking ’twas no use at that distance of time taking steps to punish him, I — I foolishly let him understand I knew him. My mind misgave me from the first. I think it was my good angel that warned me. But ’tis no use now. I’m not a man to be easily frightened. But it seemed to me he was something altogether worse than a man, and like — like Satan; and too much for me every way. If I was wise I’d have left him alone. But ’tis no good fretting now. It was to be. I was too outspoken— ’twas always my way — and I let him know; and — and you see, he meant to make away with me. He tried to take my life, Sir; and I think he has done it. I’ll never rise from this bed, gentlemen. I’m done for.’
‘Come, Doctor Sturk, you mustn’t talk that way, Pell will be out this evening, and Dillon may be — though faith! I don’t quite know that Pell will meet him — but we’ll put our heads together, and deuce is in it or we’ll set you on your legs again.’
Sturk was screwing his lips sternly together, and the lines of his gruff haggard face were quivering, and a sullen tear or two started down from his closed eye.
‘I’m — I’m a little nervous, gentlemen — I’ll be right just now I’d like to see the — the children, if they’re in the way, that’s all — by-and-by, you know.’
‘I’ve got Pell out, you see — not that there’s any special need — you know; but he was here before, and it wouldn’t do to offend him; and he’ll see you this afternoon.’
‘I thank you, Si
r,’ said Sturk, in the same dejected way.
‘And, Sir,’ said Lowe, ‘if you please, I’ll get this statement into the shape of a deposition or information, for you see ’tis of the vastest imaginable importance, and exactly tallies with evidence we’ve got elsewhere, and ‘twouldn’t do, Sir, to let it slip.’
And Toole thought he saw a little flush mount into Sturk’s sunken face, and he hastened to say —
‘What we desire, Dr. Sturk, is to be able to act promptly in this case of my Lord Dunoran. Measures must be taken instantly, you see, for ’tis of old standing, and not a day to be lost, and there’s why Mr. Lowe is so urgent to get your statement in white and black.’
‘And sworn to,’ added Mr. Lowe.
‘I’ll swear it,’ said Sturk, in the same sad tones.
And Mrs. Sturk came in, and Toole gave leave for chicken broth at twelve o’clock, about two table-spoonsful, and the same at halfpast one, when he hoped to be back again. And on the lobby he gave her, with a cheery countenance, all the ambiguous comfort he could. And Lowe asked Mrs. Sturk for more pens and paper, and himself went down to give his man a direction at the door, and on the way, in the hall, Toole looking this way and that, to see they weren’t observed, beckoned him into the front parlour, and, said he, in a low key —
‘The pulse is up a bit, not very much, but still I don’t like it — and very hard, you see — and what we’ve to dread, you know’s inflammation; and he’s so shocking low, my dear Sir, we must let him have wine and other things, or we’ll lose him that way; and you see it’s a mighty unpleasant case.’
And coming into the hall, in a loud confident voice he cried— ‘And I’ll be here again by halfpast one o’clock.’
And so he beckoned to the boy with his horse to come up, and chatted in the interim with Mr. Lowe upon the steps, and told him how to manage him if he grew exhausted over his narrative; and then mounting his nag, and kissing his hand and waving his hat to Mrs. Sturk, who was looking out upon him from Barney’s window, he rode away for Dublin.
Delphi Complete Works of Sheridan Le Fanu Page 154