RELATING SOME AWFUL NEWS THAT REACHED THE VILLAGE, AND HOW DR.
WALSINGHAM VISITED CAPTAIN RICHARD DEVEREUX AT HIS LODGINGS.
And now there was news all over the town, to keep all the tongues there
in motion.
News--news--great news!--terrible news! Peter Fogarty, Mr. Tresham's
boy, had it that morning from his cousin, Jim Redmond, whose aunt lived
at Ringsend, and kept the little shop over against the 'Plume of
Feathers,' where you might have your pick and choice of all sorts of
nice and useful things--bacon, brass snuff-boxes, penny ballads, eggs,
candles, cheese, tobacco-pipes, pinchbeck buckles for knee and instep,
soap, sausages, and who knows what beside.
No one quite believed it--it was a tradition at third hand, and Peter
Fogarty's cousin, Jim Redmond's aunt, was easy of faith;--Jim, it was
presumed, not very accurate in narration, and Peter, not much better.
Though, however, it was not actually 'intelligence,' it was a startling
thesis. And though some raised their brows and smiled darkly, and shook
their heads, the whole town certainly pricked their ears at it. And not
a man met another without 'Well! anything more? You've heard the report,
Sir--eh?'
It was not till Doctor Toole came out of town, early that day, that the
sensation began in earnest.
'There could be no doubt about it--'twas a wonderful strange thing
certainly. After so long a time--and so well preserved too.'
'_What_ was it--what _is_ it?'
'Why, Charles Nutter's corpse is found, Sir!'
'Corpse--hey!'
'So Toole says. Hollo! Toole--Doctor Toole--I say. Here's Mr. Slowe
hasn't heard about poor Nutter.'
'Ho! neighbour Slowe--give you good-day, Sir--not heard it? By Jove,
Sir--poor Nutter!--'tis true--his body's found--picked up this morning,
just at sunrise, by two Dunleary fishermen, off Bullock. Justice Lowe
has seen it--and Spaight saw it too. I've just been speaking with him,
not an hour ago, in Thomas Street. It lies at Ringsend--and an inquest
in the morning.'
And so on in Doctor Toole's manner, until he saw Dr. Walsingham, the
good rector, pausing in his leisurely walk just outside the row of
houses that fronted the turnpike, in one of which were the lodgings of
Dick Devereux.
The good Doctor Toole wondered what brought his reverence there, for he
had an inkling of something going on. So he bustled off to him, and told
his story with the stern solemnity befitting such a theme, and that
pallid, half-suppressed smile with which an exciting horror is sometimes
related. And the good rector had many ejaculations of consternation and
sympathy, and not a few enquiries to utter. And at last, when the theme
was quite exhausted, he told Toole, who still lingered on, that he was
going to pay his respects to Captain Devereux.
'Oh!' said cunning little Toole, 'you need not, for I told him the whole
matter.'
'Very like, Sir,' answered the doctor; 'but 'tis on another matter I
wish to see him.'
'Oh!--ho!--certainly--very good, Sir. I beg pardon--and--and--he's just
done his breakfast--a late dog, Sir--ha! ha! Your servant, Doctor
Walsingham.'
Devereux puzzled his comrade Puddock more than ever. Sometimes he would
descend with his blue devils into the abyss, and sit there all the
evening in a dismal sulk. Sometimes he was gayer even than his old gay
self; and sometimes in a bitter vein, talking enigmatical ironies, with
his strange smile; and sometimes he was dangerous and furious, just as
the weather changes, without rhyme or reason. Maybe he was angry with
himself, and thought it was with others; and was proud, sorry, and
defiant, and let his moods, one after another, possess him as they came.
They were his young days--beautiful and wicked--days of clear, rich
tints, and sanguine throbbings, and _gloria mundi_--when we fancy the
spirit perfect, and the body needs no redemption--when, fresh from the
fountains of life, death is but a dream, and we walk the earth like
heathen gods and goddesses, in celestial egotism and beauty. Oh, fair
youth!--gone for ever. The parting from thee was a sadness and a
violence--sadder, I think, than death itself. We look behind us, and
sigh after thee, as on the pensive glories of a sunset, and our march is
toward the darkness. It is twilight with us now, and will soon be
starlight, and the hour and place of slumber, till the reveille sounds,
and the day of wonder opens. Oh, grant us a good hour, and take us to
Thy mercy! But to the last those young days will be remembered and worth
remembering; for be we what else we may, young mortals we shall never be
again.
Of course Dick Devereux was now no visitor at the Elms. All _that_ for
the present was over. Neither did he see Lilias; for little Lily was now
a close prisoner with doctors, in full uniform, with shouldered canes,
mounting guard at the doors. 'Twas a hard winter, and she needed care
and nursing. And Devereux chafed and fretted; and, in truth, 'twas hard
to bear this spite of fortune--to be so near, and yet so far--quite out
of sight and hearing.
A word or two from General Chattesworth in Doctor Walsingham's ear, as
they walked to and fro before the white front of Belmont, had decided
the rector on making this little call; for he had now mounted the stair
of Devereux's lodging, and standing on the carpet outside, knocked, with
a grave, sad face on his door panel, glancing absently through the lobby
window, and whistling inaudibly the while.
The doctor was gentle and modest, and entirely kindly. He held good
Master Feltham's doctrine about reproofs. 'A man,' says he, 'had better
be convinced in private than be made guilty by a proclamation. Open
rebukes are for Magistrates, and Courts of Justice! for Stelled Chambers
and for Scarlets, in the thronged Hall Private are for friends; where
all the witnesses of the offender's blushes are blinde and deaf and
dumb. We should do by them as Joseph thought to have done by Mary, seeke
to cover blemishes with secrecy. Public reproofe is like striking of a
Deere in the Herd; it not only wounds him to the loss of enabling blood,
but betrays him to the Hound, his Enemy, and makes him by his fellows be
pusht out of company.'
So on due invitation from within, the good parson entered, and the
handsome captain in all his splendours--when you saw him after a little
absence 'twas always with a sort of admiring surprise--you had forgot
how _very_ handsome he was--this handsome slender fellow, with his dark
face and large, unfathomable violet eyes, so wild and wicked, and yet so
soft, stood up surprised, with a look of welcome quickly clouded and
crossed by a gleam of defiance.
They bowed, and shook hands, however, and bowed again, and each was the
other's 'servant;' and being seated, they talked _de generalibus_; for
the good parson would not come like an executioner and take his prisoner
by the throat, but altogether in the spirit of the shepherd, content to
walk a long way about, and wait till he came up with the truant, and
entreating him kindly, not dragging or beating him back to the flock,
but leading and carrying by turns, and so awaiting his opportunity. But
Devereux was in one of his moods. He thought the doctor no friend to his
suit, and was bitter, and formal, and violent.