IN WHICH ONE OF LITTLE BOPEEP'S SHEEP COMES HOME AGAIN, AND VARIOUS
THEORIES ARE ENTERTAINED RESPECTING CHARLES NUTTER AND LIEUTENANT
PUDDOCK.
And just on Monday morning, in the midst of this hurly-burly of
conjecture, who should arrive, of all the people in the world, and
re-establish himself in his old quarters, but Dick Devereux. The gallant
captain was more splendid and handsome than ever. But both his spirits
and his habits had suffered. He had quarrelled with his aunt, and she
was his bread and butter--ay, buttered on both sides. How lightly these
young fellows quarrel with the foolish old worshippers who lay their
gold, frankincense, and myrrh, at the feet of the handsome thankless
idols. They think it all independence and high spirit, whereas we know
it is nothing but a little egotistical tyranny, that unconsciously
calculates even in the heyday of its indulgence upon the punctual return
of the penitent old worshipper, with his or her votive offerings.
Perhaps the gipsy had thought better of it, and was already sorry he had
not kept the peace. At all events, though his toilet and wardrobe were
splendid--for fine fellows in his plight deny themselves nothing--yet
morally he was seedy, and in temper soured. His duns had found him out,
and pursued him in wrath and alarm to England, and pestered him very
seriously indeed. He owed money beside to several of his brother
officers, and it was not pleasant to face them without a guinea. An evil
propensity, at which, as you remember, General Chattesworth hinted, had
grown amid his distresses, and the sting of self-reproach exasperated
him. Then there was his old love for Lilias Walsingham, and the pang of
rejection, and the hope of a strong passion sometimes leaping high and
bright, and sometimes nickering into ghastly shadows and darkness.
Indeed, he was by no means so companionable just now as in happier
times, and was sometimes confoundedly morose and snappish--for, as you
perceive, things had not gone well with him latterly. Still he was now
and then tolerably like his old self.
Toole, passing by, saw him in the window. Devereux smiled and nodded,
and the doctor stopped short at the railings, and grinned up in return,
and threw out his arms to express surprise, and then snapped his
fingers, and cut a little caper, as though he would say--'Now, you're
come back--we'll have fun and fiddling again.' And forthwith he began to
bawl his enquiries and salutations. But Devereux called him up
peremptorily, for he wanted to hear the news--especially all about the
Walsinghams. And up came Toole, and they had a great shaking of hands,
and the doctor opened his budget and rattled away.
Of Sturk's tragedy and Nutter's disappearance he had already heard. And
he now heard some of the club gossip, and all about Dangerfield's
proposal for Gertrude Chattesworth, and how the old people were
favourable, and the young lady averse--and how Dangerfield was content
to leave the question in abeyance, and did not seem to care a jackstraw
what the townspeople said or thought--and then he came to the
Walsinghams, and Devereux for the first time really listened. The doctor
was very well--just as usual; and wondering what had become of his old
crony, Dan Loftus, from whom he had not heard for several months; and
Miss Lily was not very well--a delicacy here (and he tapped his
capacious chest), like her poor mother. 'Pell and I consulted about her,
and agreed she was to keep within doors.' And then he went on, for he
had a suspicion of the real state of relations between him and Lily, and
narrated the occurrence rather with a view to collect evidence from his
looks and manner, than from any simpler motive; and, said he, 'Only
think, that confounded wench, Nan--you know--Nan Glynn,' And he related
her and her mother's visit to Miss Lily, and a subsequent call made upon
the rector himself--all, it must be confessed, very much as it really
happened. And Devereux first grew so pale as almost to frighten Toole,
and then broke into a savage fury--and did not spare hard words, oaths,
or maledictions. Then off went Toole, when things grew quieter, upon
some other theme, giggling and punning, spouting scandal and all sorts
of news--and Devereux was looking full at him with large stern eyes, not
hearing a word more. His soul was cursing old Mrs. Glynn, of
Palmerstown--that mother of lies and what not--and remonstrating with
old Dr. Walsingham--and protesting wildly against everything.
General Chattesworth, who returned two or three weeks after, was not
half pleased to see Devereux. He had heard a good deal about him and his
doings over the water, and did not like them. He had always had a
misgiving that if Devereux remained in the corps, sooner or later he
would be obliged to come to a hard reckoning with him. And the handsome
captain had not been three weeks in Chapelizod, when more than the
general suspected that he was in nowise improved. So General
Chattesworth did not often see or talk with him; and when he did, was
rather reserved and lofty with him. His appointment on the staff was in
abeyance--in fact, the vacancy on which it was expectant had not
definitely occurred--and all things were at sixes and sevens with poor
Dick Devereux.
That evening, strange to say, Sturk was still living; and Toole reported
him exactly in the same condition. But what did that signify? 'Twas all
one. The man was dead--as dead to all intents and purposes that moment
as he would be that day twelvemonths, or that day hundred years.
Dr. Walsingham, who had just been to see poor Mrs. Sturk--now grown into
the habit of hoping, and sustained by the intense quiet fuss of the sick
room--stopped for a moment at the door of the Phoenix, to answer the
cronies there assembled, who had seen him emerge from the murdered man's
house.
'He is in a profound lethargy,' said the worthy divine. ''Tis a
subsidence--his life, Sir, stealing away like the fluid from the
clepsydra--less and less left every hour--a little time will measure all
out.'
'What the plague's a clepsydra?' asked Cluffe of Toole, as they walked
side by side into the club-room.
'Ho! pooh! one of those fabulous tumours of the epidermis mentioned by
Pliny, you know, exploded ten centuries ago--ha, ha, ha!' and he winked
and laughed derisively, and said, 'Sure you know Doctor Walsingham.'
And the gentlemen began spouting their theories about the murder and
Nutter, in a desultory way; for they all knew the warrant was out
against him.
'My opinion,' said Toole, knocking out the ashes of his pipe upon the
hob; for he held his tongue while smoking, and very little at any other
time; 'and I'll lay a guinea 'twill turn out as I say--the poor fellow's
drowned himself. Few knew Nutter--I doubt if _any_ one knew him as I
did. Why he did not seem to feel anything, and you'd ha' swore nothing
affected him, more than that hob, Sir; and all the time, there wasn't a
more thin-skinned, atrabilious poor dog in all Ireland--but honest,
Sir--thorough steel, Sir. All I say is, if he had a finger in that ugly
pie, you know, as some will insist, I'll stake my head to a china
orange, 'twas a fair front to front fight. By Jupiter, Sir, there wasn't
one drop of cur's blood in poor Nutter. No, poor fellow; neither sneak
nor assassin _there_--'
'They thought he drowned himself from his own garden--poor Nutter,' said
Major O'Neill.
'Well, that he did _not_,' said Toole. 'That unlucky shoe, you know,
tells a tale; but for all that, I'm clear of the opinion that drowned he
is. We tracked the step, Lowe and I, to the bank, near the horse-track,
in Barrack Street, just where the water deepens--there's usually five
feet of water there, and that night there was little short of ten. Now,
take it, that Nutter and Sturk had a tussle--and the thing happened, you
know--and Sturk got the worst of it, and was, in fact, despatched, why,
you know the kind of panic--and--and--the panic--you know--a poor dog,
finding himself so situated, would be in--with the bitter, old quarrel
between them--d'ye see? And this at the back of his vapours and
blue-devils, for he was dumpish enough before, and would send a man like
Nutter into a resolution of making away with himself; and that's how it
happened, you may safely swear.'
'And what do _you_ think, Mr. Dangerfield?' asked the major.
'Upon my life,' said Dangerfield, briskly, lowering his newspaper to his
knee, with a sharp rustle, 'these are questions I don't like to meddle
in. Certainly, he had considerable provocation, as I happen to know; and
there was no love lost--that I know too. But I quite agree with Doctor
Toole--if he was the man, I venture to say 'twas a fair fight. Suppose,
first, an altercation, then a hasty blow--Sturk had his cane, and a
deuced heavy one--he wasn't a fellow to go down without knowing the
reason why; and if they find Nutter, dead or alive, I venture to say
he'll show some marks of it about him.'
Cluffe wished the whole company, except himself, at the bottom of the
Red Sea; for he was taking his revenge of Puddock, and had already lost
a gammon and two hits. Little Puddock won by the force of the dice. He
was not much of a player; and the sight of Dangerfield--that repulsive,
impenetrable, moneyed man, who had 'overcome him like a summer cloud,'
when the sky of his fortunes looked clearest and sunniest, always led
him to Belmont, and the side of his lady-love.
If Cluffe's mind wandered in that direction, his reveries were rather
comfortable. He had his own opinion about his progress with Aunt
Rebecca, who had come to like his conversation, and talked with him a
great deal about Puddock, and always with acerbity; Cluffe, who was a
sort of patron of Puddock's, always, to do him justice, defended him
respectfully. And Aunt Rebecca would listen very attentively, and then
shake her head, and say, 'You're a great deal too good-natured,
captain; and he'll never thank you for your pains, _never_--_I_ can tell
you.'
Well, Cluffe knew that the higher powers favoured Dangerfield; and that,
beside his absurd sentiment, not to say passion, which could not but be
provoking, Puddock's complicity in the abortive hostilities of poor
Nutter and the gallant O'Flaherty rankled in Aunt Becky's heart. She
was, indeed, usually appeasable and forgiving enough; but in this case
her dislike seemed inveterate and vindictive; and she would say--
'Well, let's talk no more of him; 'tis easy finding a more agreeable
subject: but you can't deny, captain, that 'twas an unworthy hypocrisy
his pretending to sentiments against duelling to me, and then engaging
as second in one on the very first opportunity that presented.'
Then Cluffe would argue his case, and plead his excuses, and fumbled
over it a good while; not that he'd have cried a great deal if Puddock
had been hanged; but, I'm afraid, chiefly because, being a fellow of
more gaiety and accomplishment than quickness of invention, it was
rather convenient, than otherwise, to have a topic, no matter what,
supplied to him, and one that put him in an amiable point of view, and
in a kind of graceful, intercessorial relation to the object of his
highly prudent passion. And Cluffe thought how patiently she heard him,
though he was conscious 'twas rather tedious, and one time very like
another. But then, 'twasn't the talk, but the talker; and he was glad,
at all risks, to help poor Puddock out of his disgrace, like a generous
soul, as he was.