‘Twill pass away. Ma’am.’
Toole was standing by the bedside, looking rather woefully and frightened on Sturk’s face, and patting and smoothing the coverlet with the palm of his stumpy, red hand; and whispering to himself from time to time, ‘Yes, yes,’ although with rather a troubled and helpless air.
Just then came the roll of a coach to the door, and a long peal at the knocker; and little Toole ran down to meet the great Doctor Pell in the hall. He was in, in a moment, and turned aside with Toole into the drawingroom. And Toole’s voice was heard pretty volubly. It was only a conference of about two minutes. And Dr. Pell said in his usual tall way, as they came out —
‘How long ago, Sir?’
‘About ten — no, hardly so much — eight minutes ago,’ answered Toole, as he followed that swift phantom up the stairs.
‘Your most obedient, Ma’am,’ said the slim and lofty doctor, parenthetically saluting the good lady; and he stood by the bedside, having laid his muff on the chair.
‘Well, Sir, and how do you feel? There now, that will do, Sir; don’t mind speaking; I see. And he put his hand under the clothes, and laid it on Sturk’s arm, and slid it down to his hand, and felt his pulse.
‘And he’s been near ten minutes this way?’ said the doctor.
‘Oh, he was a great deal worse; ’tis a vast deal better now; isn’t it, Doctor Toole?’
‘The rigor is subsiding, then. Has he had a sweat, Ma’am?’ said Pell.
‘Oh, no — nothing like — quite nice and cool, doctor — and no fever; nice quiet sleep; and his appetite wonderful; tell him, Doctor Toole.’
‘Oh, yes, Ma’am — Doctor Pell knows; I told him all, Ma’am,’ said Toole, who was looking with a blank and dismal sort of contemplation upon Sturk’s fallen countenance.
‘Well, Ma’am,’ said Pell, as he looked on his watch, ‘this rigor, you see, will soon pass away, and you’re doing everything we could wish, and (for he found he had time to scribble a prescription), we’ll just order him a trifle. Good-day, Sir. Your most obedient, Ma’am.’
‘Pen and ink in the drawingroom, Doctor Pell,’ said Toole, reverentially.
‘Oh! no, no, Madam, excuse me,’ murmured Doctor Pell, gently pressing back Mrs. Sturk’s fee, the residuum of Dangerfield’s bounty, with his open palm.
‘Oh, but Doctor Pell,’ urged she, in a persuasive aside, half behind him, in the shadow of the doorway.
‘Pray, Madam, no more — pardon me,’ and Doctor Pell, with a peremptory bow, repelled his fee.
Why do physicians take their honest earnings in this clandestine way — transacted like favours, secret, sweet, and precious; and pocketed in dark corners, and whispers, like the wages of sin? Cold Doctor Pell here refused a very considerable fee. He could on occasion behave handsomely; but I can’t learn that blustering, hilarious Doctor Rogerson ever refused his.
And the doctor descended, not hastily, but very swiftly, and was in the drawingroom, and the door shut.
‘Gone, poor gentleman!’ said Toole, in an under tone — his phraseology became refined in Pell’s presence; he’d have said ‘poor devil,’ or ‘poor dog,’ if he had been with Doctor Rogerson.
Pell held the pen in his thin lips, while he tore off half-a-sheet of paper, and only shook his head funereally.
So, taking the pen in his fingers, he said, ‘We’ll give him so and so, if you approve.’
‘Very good, Sir,’ said Toole, deferentially; and Pell, not seeming to hear, dashed off a few spattered lines, with necromantic circles and zigzags at the end of each.
When Sturk afterwards saw that paper in the fingers of the maid, being very weak, he did not care to speak; but he signed with a little motion of his head, and she leaned down to listen.
‘Recipe?’ whispered the doctor; ‘put it — in — the fire;’ and he shut his eyes — tired.
Pell, looking again at his watch, was Doctor Toole’s very obedient servant, and was waylaid by poor little Mrs. Sturk on the lobby.
‘Well, Madam, we’ve put our heads together, and ordered a little matter, and that rigor — that shivering fit — will subside; and we trust he’ll be easier then; and you’ve a very competent adviser in Doctor a — a — — ‘
‘Toole,’ suggested the eager little woman.
‘Doctor Toole, Madam, and he’ll direct whatever may be necessary; and should he wish to consult again, you can send for me; but he’s quite competent, Madam, and he’ll tell you all we think.’
He had got to the end of the stairs while talking, and made his adieux, and glided down and out; and before poor little Mrs. Sturk bethought her how little she had got from him, she heard the roll of his coach wheels whirling him back again to Dublin. I believe few doctors grow so accustomed to the ghastly eclaircissement as not very willingly to shirk it when they may.
Toole shrank from it, too, and dodged, and equivocated, and evaded all he could; but he did admit there was an unfavourable change; and when he had gone — promising to be back at four o’clock — poor little Mrs. Sturk broke down — all alone in the drawingroom — and cried a passionate flood of tears; and thinking she was too long away, dried her eyes quickly, and ran up, and into Barney’s room with a smile on; and she battled with the evil fear; and hope, that faithful angel that clings to the last, hovered near her with blessed illusions, until an hour came, next day, in the evening, about four o’clock, when from Barney’s room there came a long, wild cry. It was ‘his poor foolish little Letty’ — the long farewell — and the ‘noble Barney’ was gone. The courtship and the married days — all a faded old story now; and a few days later, reversed arms, and muffled drums, and three volleys in the churchyard, and a little file of wondering children, dressed in black, whom the old general afterwards took up in his arms, one by one, very kindly, and kissed, and told them they were to come and play in Belmont whenever they liked, and to eat fruit in the garden, and a great deal more; for all which a poor little lady, in a widow’s cap, and a lonely room, hard-by, was very grateful.
CHAPTER XCVI.
ABOUT THE RIGHTFUL MRS. NUTTER OF THE MILLS, AND HOW MR. MERVYN RECEIVED THE NEWS.
Little Doctor Toole came out feeling rather queer and stunned from Sturk’s house. It was past three o’clock by this time, and it had already, in his eyes, a changed and empty look, as his upturned eye for a moment rested upon its gray front, and the window-panes glittering in the reddening sun. He looked down the street towards the turnpike, and then up it, towards Martin’s-row and the Mills. And he bethought him suddenly of poor Sally Nutter, and upbraided himself, smiting the point of his cane with a vehement stab upon the pavement, for having forgotten to speak to Lowe upon her case. Perhaps, however, it was as well he had not, inasmuch as there were a few not unimportant facts connected with that case about which he was himself in the dark.
Mr. Gamble’s conducting clerk had gone up stairs to Mrs. Nutter’s door, and being admitted, had very respectfully asked leave to open, for that lady’s instruction, a little statement which he was charged to make.
This was in substance, that Archibald Duncan, Mary Matchwell’s husband, was in Dublin, and had sworn informations against her for bigamy; and that a warrant having been issued for her arrest upon that charge, the constables had arrived at the Mills for the purpose of executing it, and removing the body of the delinquent, M. M., to the custody of the turnkey; that measures would be taken on the spot to expel the persons who had followed in her train; and that Mr. Charles Nutter himself would arrive in little more than an hour, to congratulate his good wife, Sally, on the termination of their troubles, and to take quiet possession of his house.
You can imagine how Sally Nutter received all this, with clasped hands and streaming eyes, looking in the face of the man of notices and attested copies, unable to speak — unable quite to believe. But before he came to the end of his dry and delightful narrative, a loud yell and a scuffle in the parlour were heard; a shrilly clamour of warring voices; a dreadful crash of g
lass: a few curses and oaths in basses and barytones; and some laughter from the coachmen, who viewed the fray from outside through the window; and a brief, wild, and garrulous uproar, which made little Sally Nutter — though by this time used to commotion — draw back with her hands to her heart, and hold her breath. It was the critical convulsion; the evil spirit was being eliminated, and the tenement, stunned, bruised, and tattered, about to be at peace.
Of Charles Nutter’s doings and adventures during the terrible interval between his departure on the night of Mary Matchwell’s first visit to the Mills, and his return on this evening to the same abode, there is a brief outline, in the first person, partly in answer to questions, and obviously intended to constitute a memorandum for his attorney’s use. I shall reprint it with your leave — as it is not very long — verbatim.
‘When that woman, Sir, came out to the Mills,’ says this document, ‘I could scarce believe my eyes; I knew her temper; she was always damnably wicked; but I had found out all about her long ago; and I was amazed at her audacity. What she said was true — we were married; or rather, we went through the ceremony, at St. Clement Danes, in London, in the year ‘50. I could not gainsay that; but I well knew what she thought was known but to herself and another. She had a husband living then. We lived together little more than three months. We were not a year parted when I found out all about him; and I never expected more trouble from her.
‘I knew all about him then. But seventeen years bring many changes; and I feared he might be dead. He was a saddler in Edinburgh, and his name was Duncan. I made up my mind to go thither straight. Next morning the Lovely Betty, packet, was to sail for Holyhead. I took money, and set out without a word to anybody. The wretch had told my poor wife, and showed her the certificate, and so left her half mad.
‘I swore to her ’twas false. I told her to wait a bit and she would see. That was everything passed between us. I don’t think she half understood what I said, for she was at her wits’ ends. I was scarce better myself first. ’Twas a good while before I resolved on this course, and saw my way, and worse thoughts were in my head; but so soon as I made up my mind to this I grew cool. I don’t know how it happened that my footprints by the river puzzled them; ’twas all accident; I was thinking of no such matter; I did not go through the village, but through the Knockmaroon gate; ’twas dark by that time; I only met two men with a cart — they did not know me — Dublin men, I think. I crossed the park in a straight line for Dublin; I did not meet a living soul; ’twas dark, but not very dark. When I reached the Butcher’s Wood, all on a sudden, I heard a horrid screech, and two blows quick, one after the other, to my right, not three score steps away — heavy blows — they sounded like the strokes of a man beating a carpet.
‘With the first alarm, I hollo’d, and ran in the direction shouting as I went; ’twas as I ran I heard the second blow; I saw no one, and heard no other sound; the noise I made myself in running might prevent it. I can’t say how many seconds it took to run the distance — not many; I ran fast; I was not long in finding the body; his white vest and small clothes showed under the shadow; he seemed quite dead. I thought when first I took his hand, there was a kind of a quiver in his fingers; but that was over immediately. His eyes and mouth were a bit open; the blood was coming very fast, and the wounds on his head looked very deep — frightful — as I conjectured they were done with a falchion (a name given to a heavy wooden sword resembling a New Zealand weapon); there was blood coming from one ear, and his mouth; there was no sign of life about him, and I thought him quite dead. I would have lifted him against a tree, but his head looked all in a smash, and I daren’t move him. I knew him for Dr. Sturk, of the Artillery; he wore his regimentals; I did not see his hat; his head was bare when I saw him.
‘When I saw ’twas Doctor Sturk, I was frightened; he had treated me mighty ill, and I resented it, which I did not conceal; and I thought ‘twould look very much against me if I were any way mixed up in this dreadful occurrence — especially not knowing who did it — and being alone with the body so soon after ’twas done. I crossed the park wall therefore; but by the time I came near Barrack-street, I grew uneasy in my mind, lest Doctor Sturk should still have life in him, and perish for want of help. I went down to the river-side, and washed my hands, for there was blood upon ‘em, and while so employed, by mischance I lost my hat in the water and could not recover it. I stood for a while by the river-bank; it was a lonely place; I was thinking of crossing there first, I was so frightened; I changed my mind, however, and went round by Bloody-bridge.
‘The further I went the more fearful I grew, lest Sturk should die for want of help that I might send him; and although I thought him dead, I got such a dread of this over me as I can’t describe. I saw two soldiers opposite the “Royal Oak” inn, and I told them I overheard a fellow speak of an officer that lay wounded in the Butcher’s Wood, not far from the park-wall, and gave them half-a-crown to have search made, which they promised, and took the money.
‘I crossed Bloody-bridge, and got into a coach, and so to Luke Gamble’s. I told him nothing of Sturk; I had talked foolishly to him, and did not know what even he might think. I told him all about M. M.’s, that is Mary Duncan’s turning up; she went by that name in London, and kept a lodging-house. I took his advice on the matter, and sailed next morning. The man Archie Duncan had left Edinburgh, but I traced him to Carlisle and thence to York, where I found him. He was in a very poor way, and glad to hear that Demirep was in Dublin, and making money. When I came back I was in the Hue-and-Cry for the assault on Sturk.
‘I took no precaution, not knowing what had happened; but ’twas night when we arrived, Duncan and I, and we went straight to Gamble’s and he concealed me. I kept close within his house, except on one night, when I took coach. I was under necessity, as you shall hear, to visit Chapelizod. I got out in the hollow of the road by the Knockmaroon pond, in the park; an awful night it was — the night of the snow-storm, when the brig was wrecked off the Black Rock, you remember. I wanted to get some papers necessary to my case against Mary Duncan. I had the key of the glass door; the inside fastening was broke, and there was no trouble in getting in. But the women had sat up beyond their hour, and saw me. I got the papers, however, and returned, having warned them not to speak. I ventured out of doors but once more, and was took on a warrant for assaulting Sturk. ’Twas the women talking as they did excited the officer’s suspicions.
‘I have lain in prison since. The date of my committal and discharge are, I suppose, there.’
And so ends this rough draft, with the initials, I think, in his own hands, C. N., at the foot.
At about halfpast four o’clock Nutter came out to the Mills in a coach. He did not drive through Chapelizod; he was shy, and wished to feel his way a little. So he came home privily by the Knockmaroon Park-gate. Poor little Sally rose into a sort of heroine. With a wild cry, and ‘Oh, Charlie!’ she threw her arms about his neck; and the ‘good little crayture,’ as Magnolia was wont to call her, had fainted. Nutter said nothing, but carried her in his arms to the sofa, and himself sobbed very violently for about a minute, supporting her tenderly. She came to herself very quickly, and hugged her Charlie with such a torrent of incoherent endearments, welcomes, and benedictions as I cannot at all undertake to describe. Nutter didn’t speak. His arms were about her, and with wet eyes, and biting his nether-lip, and smiling, he looked into her poor little wild, delighted face with an unspeakable world of emotion and affection beaming from the homely lines and knots of that old mahogany countenance; and the maids smiling, blessing, courtesying, and welcoming him home again, added to the pleasant uproar which amazed even the tipsy coachman from the hall.
‘Oh! Charlie, I have you fast, my darling. Oh! but it’s wonderful; you, yourself — my Charlie, your own self — never, never, oh! never to part again!’ and so on.
And so for a rapturous hour, it seemed as if they had passed the dark valley, and were immortal; and no more pain, sorrow, or
separation for them. And, perhaps, these blessed illusions are permitted now and again to mortals, like momentary gleams of paradise, and distant views of the delectable mountains, to cheer poor pilgrims with a foretaste of those meetings beyond the river, where the separated and beloved shall embrace.
It is not always that the person most interested in a rumour is first to hear it. It was reported in Chapelizod, early that day, that Irons, the clerk, had made some marvellous discovery respecting Lord Dunoran, and the murder of which an English jury had found that nobleman guilty. Had people known that Mervyn was the son of that dishonoured peer — as in that curious little town they would, no doubt, long since have, at least, suspected, had he called himself by his proper patronymic Mordaunt — he would not have wanted a visitor to enlighten him half-an-hour after the rumour had began to proclaim itself in the streets and public haunts of the village. No one, however, thought of the haughty and secluded young gentleman who lived so ascetic a life at the Tiled House, and hardly ever showed in the town, except in church on Sundays; and who when he rode on his black hunter into Dublin, avoided the village, and took the highroad by Inchicore.
When the report did reach him, and he heard that Lowe, who knew all about it, was at the Phœnix, where he was holding a conference with a gentleman from the Crown Office, half wild with excitement, he hurried thither. There, having declared himself to the magistrate and his companion, in that little chamber where Nutter was wont to transact his agency business, and where poor Sturk had told down his rent, guinea by guinea, with such a furious elation, on the morning but one before he received his deathblow, he heard, with such feelings as may be imagined, the magistrate read aloud, not only the full and clear information of Irons, but the equally distinct deposition of Doctor Sturk, and was made aware of the complete identification of the respectable and vivacious Paul Dangerfield with the dead and damned Charles Archer!
Delphi Complete Works of Sheridan Le Fanu Page 156