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
good-night, 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
back-bone--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.'
'Well, Sir, I do confide it altogether to you. I know I might, through
ignorance, do a mischief.'
And so they bid a mutual good-night, and Loftus scaled his garret stair
and snuffed his candle, and plunged again into the business of two
thousand years ago.
'Here's a purty business,' says the priest, extending both his palms,
with a face of warlike importance, and shutting the door behind him
with what he called 'a cow's kick;' 'a jewel, my dear Pat, no less;
bloody work I'm afeared.'
Mr. Mahony, who had lighted a pipe during his entertainer's absence,
withdrew the fragrant tube from his lips, and opened his capacious mouth
with a look of pleasant expectation, for he, like other gentlemen of his
day--and, must we confess, not a few jolly clerics of my creed, as well
as of honest Father Roach's--regarded the ordeal of battle, and all its
belongings, simply as the highest branch of sporting. Not that the
worthy father avowed any such sentiment; on the contrary, his voice and
his eyes, if not his hands, were always raised against the sanguinary
practice; and scarce a duel occurred within a reasonable distance
unattended by his reverence, in the capacity, as he said, of 'an
unauthorised, but airnest, though, he feared, unavailing peacemaker.'
There he used to spout little maxims of reconciliation, and Christian
brotherhood and forbearance; exhorting to forget and forgive; wringing
his hands at each successive discharge; and it must be said, too, in
fairness, playing the part of a good Samaritan towards the wounded, to
whom his green hall-door was ever open, and for whom the oil of his
consolation and the wine of his best bin never refused to flow.
'Pat, my child,' said his reverence, 'that Nutter's a divil of a
fellow--at least he _was_, by all accounts; he'll be bad enough, I'm
afeared, and hard enough to manage, if everything goes smooth; but if
he's kept waiting there, fuming and boiling over, do ye mind, without a
natural vent for his feelings, or a _friend_, do ye see, at his side
to--to _resthrain_ him, and bring about, if possible, a friendly mutual
understanding--why, my dear child, he'll get into that state of
exasperation an' violence, he'll have half a dozen jewels on his hands
before morning.'
'Augh! 'tid be a murther to baulk them for want of a friend,' answered
Mr. Mahony, standing up like a warrior, and laying the pipe of peace
upon the chimney. 'Will I go down, Father Denis, and offer my sarvices?'
'With a view to a _reconciliation_, mind,' said his reverence, raising
his finger, closing his eyes, and shaking his florid face impressively.
'Och, bother! don't I know--of coorse, reconciliation;' and he was
buttoning his garments where, being a little 'in flesh,' as well as
tall, he had loosed them. '_Where_ are the gentlemen now, and who will I
ask for?'
'I'll show you the light from the steps. Ask for Dr. Toole; and he's
_certainly_ there; and if he's not, for Mr. Nutter; and just say you
came from my house, where you--a--pooh! accidentally heard, through Mr.
Loftus, do ye mind, there was a difficulty in finding a friend
to--a--strive to make up matters between thim.'
By this time they stood upon the door-steps; and Mr. Mahony had clapt on
his hat with a pugnacious cock o' one side; and following, with a
sporting and mischievous leer, the direction of the priest's hand, that
indicated the open door of the Phoenix, through which a hospitable
light was issuing.
'There's where you'll find the gentlemen, in the front parlour,' says
the priest. 'You remember Dr. Toole, and _he'll_ remember _you_. An'
_mind_, dear, it's to make it up you're goin'.' Mr. Mahony was already
under weigh, at a brisk stride, and with a keen relish for the business.
'And the blessing of the peacemaker go with you, my child!' added his
reverence, lifting his hands and his eyes towards the heavens, 'An' upon
my fainy!' looking shrewdly at the stars, and talking to himself,
'they'll have a fine morning for the business, _if_, unfortunately'--and
here he re-ascended his door-steps with a melancholy shrug--'if
_unfortunately_, Pat Mahony should fail.'
When Mr. Pat Mahony saw occasion for playing the gentleman, he certainly
did come out remarkably strong in the part. It was done in a noble,
florid, glowing style, according to his private ideal of the complete
fine gentleman. Such bows, such pointing of the toes, such graceful
flourishes of the three-cocked hat--such immensely engaging smiles and
wonderful by-play, such an apparition, in short, of perfect
elegance-valour, and courtesy, were never seen before in the front
parlour of the Phoenix.
'Mr. Mahony, by jingo!' ejaculated Toole, in an accent of thankfulness
amounting nearly to rapture. Nutter seemed relieved, too, and advanced
to be presented to the man who, instinct told him, was to be his friend.
Cluffe, a man of fashion of the military school, eyed the elegant
stranger with undisguised disgust and wonder, and Devereux with that
sub-acid smile with which men will sometimes quietly relish absurdity.
Mr. Mahony, 'discoursin' a country neighbour outside the half-way-house
at Muckafubble, or enjoying an easy _tête-à-tête_ with Father Roach, was
a very inferior person, indeed, to Patrick Mahony, Esq., the full-blown
diplomatist and pink of gentility astonishing the front parlour of the
Phoenix.
_There_, Mr. Mahony's periods were fluent and florid, and the words
chosen occasionally rather for their grandeur and melody than for their
exact connexion with the context or bearing upon his meaning. The
consequence was a certain gorgeous haziness and bewilderment, which made
the task of translating his harangues rather troublesome and
conjectural.
Having effected the introduction, and made known the object of his
visit, Nutter and he withdrew to a small chamber behind the bar, where
Nutter, returning some of his bows, and having listened without deriving
any very clear ideas to two consecutive addresses from his companion,
took the matter in hand himself, and said he--
'I beg, Sir, to relieve you at once from the trouble of trying to
arrange this affair amicably. I have been grossly insulted, he's not
going to apologise, and nothing but a meeting will satisfy me. He's a
mere murderer. I have not the faintest notion why he wants to kill me;
but being reduced to this situation, I hold myself obliged, if I can, to
rid the town of him finally.'
'Shake hands, Sir,' cried Mahony, forgetting his rhetoric in his
enthusiasm; 'be the hole in the wall, Sir, I honour you.'