IN WHICH AUNT BECKY AND DOCTOR TOOLE, IN FULL BLOW, WITH DOMINICK, THE
FOOTMAN, BEHIND THEM, VISIT MISS LILY AT THE ELMS.
After such leave-takings, especially where something like a revelation
takes place, there sometimes supervenes, I'm told, a sort of excitement
before the chill and ache of separation sets in. So, Lily, when she went
home, found that her music failed her, all but the one strange little
air, 'The river ran between them;' and then she left the harpsichord and
went into the garden through the glass door, but the flowers had only
half their interest, and the garden was solitary, and she felt restless,
as if she were going to make a journey, or looking for strange news; and
then she bethought her again of Mrs. Colonel Stafford, that she might
have by this time returned from Dublin, and there was some little
interest about the good old lady, even in this, that she had just
returned by the same road that he had gone away by, that she might have
chanced to see him as he passed; that at least she might happen to speak
of him, and to know something of the likelihood of his return, or even
to speculate about him; for now any talk in which his name occurred was
interesting, though she did not know it quite herself. So she went down
to the King's House, and did find old Mrs. Stafford at home: and after
an entertaining gossip about some 'rich Nassau damask,' at Haughton's in
the Coombe, that had taken her fancy mightily, and how she had chosen a
set of new Nankeen plates and fine oblong dishes at the Music Hall, and
how Peter Raby, the watchman, was executed yesterday morning, in web
worsted breeches, for the murder of Mr. Thomas Fleming, of
Thomas-street, she did come at last to mention Devereux: and she said
that the colonel had received a letter from General Chattesworth, 'who
by-the-bye,' and then came a long parenthesis, very pleasant, you may be
sure, for Lily to listen to; and the general, it appeared, thought it
most likely that Devereux would not return to Chapelizod, and the Royal
Irish Artillery; and then she went on to other subjects, and Lily staid
a long time, thinking she might return to Devereux, but she did not
mention him again. So home went little Lily more pensive than she came.
It was near eight o'clock, when who should arrive at the door, and
flutter the crows in the old elms with an energetic double knock, but
Aunt Rebecca, accompanied by no less a personage than Dr. Toole in full
costume, and attended by old Dominick, the footman.
The doctor was a little bit ruffled and testy, for having received a
summons from Belmont, he had attended in full blow, expecting to
prescribe for Aunt Rebecca or Miss Gertrude, and found, instead, that he
was in for a barren and benevolent walk of half a mile on the Inchicore
road, with the energetic Miss Rebecca, to visit one of her felonious
pensioners who lay sick in his rascally crib. It was not the first time
that the jolly little doctor had been entrapped by the good lady into a
purely philanthropic excursion of this kind. But he could not afford to
mutiny, and vented his disgust in blisters and otherwise drastic
treatment of the malingering scoundrels whom he served out after his
kind for the trouble and indignity they cost him.
'And here we are, Lily dear, on our way to see poor dear Pat Doolan,
who, I fear, is not very long for this world. Dominick!--he's got a
brain fever, my dear.'
The doctor said 'pish!' inaudibly, and Aunt Becky went on.
'You know the unhappy creature is only just out of prison, and if ever
mortal suffered unjustly, he's the man. Poor Doolan's as innocent as you
or I, my dear, or sweet little Spot, there;' pointing her fan like a
pistol at that interesting quadruped's head. 'The disgrace has broken
his heart, and that's at the bottom of his sickness. I wish you could
hear him speak, poor dear wretch--Dominick!' and she had a word for that
domestic in the hall.
'Hear him speak, indeed!' said Toole, taking advantage of her momentary
absence. 'I wish you could, the drunken blackguard. King Solomon could
not make sense of it. She gave that burglar, would you believe it,
Ma'am? two guineas, by Jupiter: the first of this month--and whiskey
only sixpence a pint--and he was drunk without intermission of course,
day and night for a week after. Brain fever, indeed, 'tis just as sweet
a little fit of delirium tremens, my dear Madam, as ever sent an
innocent burglar slap into bliss;' and the word popped out with a
venomous hiss and an angry chuckle.
'And so, my dear,' resumed Aunt Becky, marching in again; 'good Doctor
Toole--our good Samaritan, here--has taken him up, just for love, and
the poor man's fee--his blessing.'
The doctor muttered something about 'taking him up,' but inarticulately,
for it was only for the relief of his own feelings.
'And now, dear Lilias, we want your good father to come with us, just to
pray by the poor fellow's bedside: he's in the study, is he?'
'No, he was not to be home until to-morrow morning.'
'Bless me!' cried Aunt Becky, with as much asperity as if she had said
something different; 'and not a soul to be had to comfort a dying wretch
in your father's parish--yes, he's dying; we want a minister to pray
with him, and here we've a Flemish account of the rector. This tells
prettily for Dr. Walsingham!'
'Dr. Walsingham's the best rector in the whole world, and the holiest
man and the noblest,' cried brave little Lily, standing like a deer at
bay, with her wild shy eyes looking full in Aunt Becky's, and a flush in
her cheeks, and the beautiful light of truth beaming like a star from
her forehead. And for a moment it looked like battle; but the old lady
smiled a kind of droll little smile, and gave her a little pat on the
cheek, saying with a shake of her head, 'saucy girl!'
'And you,' said Lily, throwing her arms about her neck, 'are my own Aunt
Becky, the greatest darling in the world!' And so, as John Bunyan says,
'the water stood in their eyes,' and they both laughed, and then they
kissed, and loved one another the better. That was the way their little
quarrels used always to end.
'Well, doctor, we must only do what we can,' said Aunt Becky, looking
gravely on the physician: 'and I don't see why _you_ should not
read--you can lend us a prayer-book, darling--just a collect or two, and
the Lord's Prayer--eh?'
'Why, my dear Ma'am, the fellow's howling about King Lewis and the
American Indians, Dominick says, and ghosts and constables, and devils,
and worse things, Madam, and--pooh--punch and laudanum's his only
chance; don't mind the prayer-book, Miss Lily--there's no use in it,
Mistress Chattesworth! I give you my honour, Ma'am, he could not make
head or tale of it.'
In fact, the doctor was terrified lest Aunt Rebecca should compel him to
officiate, and he was thinking how the fellows at the club, and the
Aldermen of Skinner's-alley, would get hold of the story, and treat the
subject less gravely than was desirable.
So Aunt Becky, with Lily's leave, called in Dominick, to examine him
touching the soundness of Pat Doolan's mind, and the honest footman had
no hesitation in pronouncing him wholly _non compos_.
'Pleasant praying with a chap like that, by Jove, as drunk as an owl,
and as mad as a March hare! my dear Ma'am,' whispered Toole to Lilias.
'And, Lily dear', there's poor Gertrude all alone--'twould be good
natured in you to go up and drink a dish of tea with her; but, then,
you're cold--you're afraid?'
She was not afraid--she had been out to-day--and it had done her all the
good in the world, and it was very good of Aunt Becky to think of it,
for she was lonely too: and so off went the elder Miss Chattesworth,
with her doctor and Dominick, in their various moods, on their mission
of mercy; and Lily sent into the town for the two chairmen, Peter Brian
and Larry Foy, the two-legged ponies, as Toole called them.