MR. MERVYN IN HIS INN.
The morning was fine--the sun shone out with a yellow splendour--all
nature was refreshed--a pleasant smell rose up from tree, and flower,
and earth. The now dry pavement and all the row of village windows were
glittering merrily--the sparrows twittered their lively morning gossip
among the thick ivy of the old church tower--here and there the village
cock challenged his neighbour with high and vaunting crow, and the bugle
notes soared sweetly into the air from the artillery ground beside the
river.
Moore, the barber, was already busy making his morning circuit, servant
men and maids were dropping in and out at the baker's, and old Poll
Delany, in her weather-stained red hood, and neat little Kitty Lane,
with her bright young careful face and white basket, were calling at the
doors of their customers with new laid eggs. Through half-opened hall
doors you might see the powdered servant, or the sprightly maid in her
mob-cap in hot haste steaming away with the red japanned 'tea kitchen'
into the parlour. The town of Chapelizod, in short, was just sitting
down to its breakfast.
Mervyn, in the meantime, had had his solitary meal in the famous back
parlour of the Phoenix, where the newspapers lay, and all comers were
welcome. He was by no means a bad hero to look at, if such a thing were
needed. His face was pale, melancholy, statuesque--and his large
enthusiastic eyes, suggested a story and a secret--perhaps a horror.
Most men, had they known all, would have wondered with good Doctor
Walsingham, why, of all places in the world, he should have chosen the
little town where he now stood for even a temporary residence. It was
not a perversity, but rather a fascination. His whole life had been a
flight and a pursuit--a vain endeavour to escape from the evil spirit
that pursued him--and a chase of a chimera.
He was standing at the window, not indeed enjoying, as another man
might, the quiet verdure of the scene, and the fragrant air, and all the
mellowed sounds of village life, but lost in a sad and dreadful reverie,
when in bounced little red-faced bustling Dr. Toole--the joke and the
chuckle with which he had just requited the fat old barmaid still
ringing in the passage--'Stay there, sweetheart,' addressed to a dog
squeezing by him, and which screeched out as he kicked it neatly round
the door-post.
'Hey, your most obedient, Sir,' cried the doctor, with a short but grand
bow, affecting surprise, though his chief object in visiting the back
parlour at that moment was precisely to make a personal inspection of
the stranger. 'Pray, don't mind me, Sir,--your--ho! Breakfast ended, eh?
Coffee not so bad, Sir; rather good coffee, I hold it, at the Phoenix.
Cream very choice, Sir?--I don't tell 'em so though (a wink); it might
not improve it, you know. I hope they gave you--eh?--eh? (he peeped into
the cream-ewer, which he turned towards the light, with a whisk). And no
disputing the eggs--forty-eight hens in the poultry yard, and ninety
ducks in Tresham's little garden, next door to Sturk's. They make a
precious noise, I can tell you, when it showers. Sturk threatens to
shoot 'em. He's the artillery surgeon here; and Tom Larkin said, last
night, it's because they only dabble and quack--and two of a trade, you
know--ha! ha! ha! And what a night we had--dark as Erebus--pouring like
pumps, by Jove. I'll remember it, I warrant you. Out on business--a
medical man, you know, can't always choose--and near meeting a bad
accident too. Anything in the paper, eh? ho! I see, Sir, haven't read
it. Well, and what do you think--a queer night for the purpose, eh?
you'll say--we had a funeral in the town last night, Sir--some one from
Dublin. It was Tressel's men came out. The turnpike rogue--just round
the corner there--one of the talkingest gossips in the town--and a
confounded prying, tattling place it is, I can tell you--knows the
driver; and Bob Martin, the sexton, you know--tells me there were two
parsons, no less--hey! Cauliflowers in season, by Jove. Old Dr.
Walsingham, our rector, a pious man, Sir, and does a world of good--that
is to say, relieves half the blackguards in the parish--ha! ha! when
we're on the point of getting rid of them--but means well, only he's a
little bit lazy, and queer, you know; and that rancid, raw-boned parson,
Gillespie--how the plague did they pick him up?--one of the mutes told
Bob 'twas he. He's from Donegal; I know all about him; the sourest dog I
ever broke bread with--and mason, if you please, by Jove--a prince
pelican! He supped at the Grand Lodge after labour, one night--_you're_
not a mason, I see; tipt you the sign--and his face was so pinched, and
so yellow, by Jupiter, I was near squeezing it into the punch-bowl for a
lemon--ha! ha! hey?'
Mervyn's large eyes expressed a well-bred surprise. Dr. Toole paused for
nearly a minute, as if expecting something in return; but it did not
come.
So the doctor started afresh, never caring for Mervyn's somewhat
dangerous looks.
'Mighty pretty prospects about here, Sir. The painters come out by
dozens in the summer, with their books and pencils, and scratch away
like so many Scotchmen. Ha! ha! ha! If you draw, Sir, there's one
prospect up the river, by the mills--upon my conscience--but you don't
draw?'
No answer.
'A little, Sir, maybe? Just for a maggot, I'll wager--like _my_ good
lady, Mrs. Toole.' A nearer glance at his dress had satisfied Toole that
he was too much of a maccaroni for an artist, and he was thinking of
placing him upon the lord lieutenant's staff. 'We've capital horses
here, if you want to go on to Leixlip,' (where--this between ourselves
and the reader--during the summer months His Excellency and Lady
Townshend resided, and where, the old newspapers tell us, they 'kept a
public day every Monday,' and he 'had a levée, as usual, every
Thursday.') But this had no better success.
'If you design to stay over the day, and care for shooting, we'll have
some ball practice on Palmerstown fair-green to-day. Seven baronies to
shoot for ten and five guineas. One o'clock, hey?'
At this moment entered Major O'Neill, of the Royal Irish Artillery, a
small man, very neatly got up, and with a decidedly Milesian cast of
countenance, who said little, but smiled agreeably--
'Gentlemen, your most obedient. Ha, doctor; how goes it?--anything
new--anything _on_ the _Freeman_?'
Toole had scanned that paper, and hummed out, as he rumpled it
over,--'nothing--very--particular. Here's Lady Moira's ball: fancy
dresses--all Irish; no masks; a numerous appearance of the nobility and
gentry--upwards of five hundred persons. A good many of your corps
there, major?'
'Ay, Lord Blackwater, of course, and the general, and Devereux, and
little Puddock, and----'
'_Sturk_ wasn't,' with a grin, interrupted Toole, who bore that
practitioner no good-will. 'A gentleman robbed, by two foot-pads, on
Chapelizod-road, on Wednesday night, of his watch and money, together
with his hat, wig and cane, and lies now in a dangerous state, having
been much abused; one of them dressed in an old light-coloured coat,
wore a wig. By Jupiter, major, if I was in General Chattesworth's place,
with two hundred strapping fellows at my orders, I'd get a commission
from Government to clear that road. It's too bad, Sir, we can't go in
and out of town, unless in a body, after night-fall, but at the risk of
our lives. [The convivial doctor felt this public scandal acutely.] The
bloody-minded miscreants, I'd catch every living soul of them, and burn
them alive in tar-barrels. By Jove! here's old Joe Napper, of
Dirty-lane's dead. Plenty of dry eyes after _him_. And stay, here's
another row.' And so he read on.
In the meantime, stout, tightly-braced Captain Cluffe of the same corps,
and little dark, hard-faced, and solemn Mr. Nutter, of the Mills, Lord
Castlemallard's agents, came in, and half a dozen more, chiefly members
of the club, which met by night in the front parlour on the left,
opposite the bar, where they entertained themselves with agreeable
conversation, cards, backgammon, draughts, and an occasional song by Dr.
Toole, who was a florid tenor, and used to give them, 'While gentlefolks
strut in silver and satins,' or 'A maiden of late had a merry design,'
or some other such ditty, with a recitation by plump little
stage-stricken Ensign Puddock, who, in 'thpite of hith lithp,' gave
rather spirited imitations of some of the players--Mossop, Sheridan,
Macklin, Barry, and the rest. So Mervyn, the stranger, by no means
affecting this agreeable society, took his cane and cocked-hat, and went
out--the dark and handsome apparition--followed by curious glances from
two or three pairs of eyes, and a whispered commentary and criticism
from Toole.
So, taking a meditative ramble in 'His Majesty's Park, the Phoenix;'
and passing out at Castleknock gate, he walked up the river, between the
wooded slopes, which make the valley of the Liffey so pleasant and
picturesque, until he reached the ferry, which crossing, he at the other
side found himself not very far from Palmerstown, through which village
his return route to Chapelizod lay.