IN WHICH DOCTOR TOOLE AND DIRTY DAVY CONFER IN THE BLUE-ROOM.
The coach rumbled along toward Dublin at a leisurely jog.
Notwithstanding the firm front Mr. Lowe had presented, Dangerfield's
harangue had affected him unpleasantly. Cluffe's little bit of
information respecting the instrument he had seen the prisoner lay up in
his drawer on the night of the murder, and which corresponded in
description with the wounds traced upon Sturk's skull, seemed to have
failed. The handle of Dangerfield's harmless horsewhip, his mind misgave
him, was all that would come of _that_ piece of evidence; and it was
impossible to say there might not be something in all that Dangerfield
had uttered. Is it a magnetic force, or a high histrionic vein in some
men, that makes them so persuasive and overpowering, and their passion
so formidable? But, with Dangerfield's presence, the effect of his
plausibilities and his defiance passed away. The pointed and consistent
evidence of Sturk, perfectly clear as he was upon every topic he
mentioned, and the corroborative testimony of Irons, equally distinct
and damning--the whole case blurred and disjointed, and for a moment
grown unpleasantly hazy and uncertain in the presence of that white
sorcerer, readjusted itself now that he was gone, and came out in iron
and compact relief--impregnable.
'Run boys, one of you, and open the gate of the Mills,' said Lowe, whose
benevolence, such as it was, expanded in his intense feeling of relief.
''Twill be good news for poor Mistress Nutter. She'll see her husband in
the morning.'
So he rode up to the Mills, and knocked his alarm, as we have seen and
heard, and there told his tidings to poor Sally Nutter, vastly to the
relief of Mistress Matchwell, the Blind Fiddler, and even of the sage,
Dirt Davy; for there are persons upon the earth to whom a sudden summons
of any sort always sounds like a call to judgment, and who, in any such
ambiguous case, fill up the moments of suspense with wild conjecture,
and a ghastly summing-up against themselves; can it be this--or that--or
the other old, buried, distant villainy, that comes back to take me by
the throat?
Having told his good news in a few dry words to Mrs. Sally, Mr. Lowe
superadded a caution to the dark lady down stairs, in the face of which
she, being quite reassured by this time, grinned and snapped her
fingers, and in terms defied, and even cursed the tall magistrate
without rising from the chair in which she had re-established herself in
the parlour. He mounted his hunter again, and followed the coach at a
pace which promised soon to bring him up with that lumbering conveyance;
for Mr. Lowe was one of those public officers who love their work, and
the tenant of the Brass Castle was no common prisoner, and well worth
seeing, though at some inconvenience, safely into his new lodging.
Next morning, you may be sure, the news was all over the town of
Chapelizod. All sorts of cross rumours and wild canards, of course, were
on the wind, and every new fact or fib borne to the door-step with the
fresh eggs, or the morning's milk and butter, was carried by the eager
servant into the parlour, and swallowed down with their toast and tea by
the staring company.
Upon one point all were agreed: Mr. Paul Dangerfield lay in the county
gaol, on a charge of having assaulted Dr. Sturk with intent to kill him.
The women blessed themselves, and turned pale. The men looked queer when
they met one another. It was altogether so astounding--Mr. Dangerfield
was so rich--so eminent--so moral--so charitable--so above temptation.
It had come out that he had committed, some said three, others as many
as fifteen secret murders. All the time that the neighbours had looked
on his white head in church as the very standard of probity, and all the
prudential virtues rewarded, they were admiring and honouring a masked
assassin. They had been bringing into their homes and families an
undivulged and terrible monster. The wher-wolf had walked the homely
streets of their village. The ghoul, unrecognised, had prowled among the
graves of their church-yard. One of their fairest princesses, the lady
of Belmont, had been on the point of being sacrificed to a vampire.
Horror, curiosity, and amazement, were everywhere.
Charles Nutter, it was rumoured, was to be discharged on bail early, and
it was mooted in the club that a deputation of the neighbours should
ride out to meet him at the boundaries of Chapelizod, welcome him there
with an address, and accompany him to the Mills as a guard of honour;
but cooler heads remembered the threatening and unsettled state of
things at that domicile, and thought that Nutter would, all things
considered, like a quiet return best; which view of the affair was,
ultimately, acquiesced in.
For Mary Matchwell, at the Mills, the tidings which had thrown the town
into commotion had but a solitary and a selfish interest. She was glad
that Nutter was exculpated. She had no desire that the king should take
his worldly goods to which she intended helping herself: otherwise he
might hang or drown for ought she cared. Dirty Davy, too, who had quaked
about his costs, was greatly relieved by the turn which things had
taken; and the plain truth was that, notwithstanding his escape from the
halter, things looked very black and awful for Charles Nutter and his
poor little wife, Sally.
Doctor Toole, at half-past nine, was entertaining two or three of the
neighbours, chiefly in oracular whispers, by the fire in the great
parlour of the Phoenix, when he was interrupted by Larry, the waiter,
with--
'Your horse is at the door, docther' (Toole was going into town, but was
first to keep an appointment at Doctor Sturk's with Mr. Lowe), 'and,'
continued Larry, 'there's a fat gentleman in the blue room wants to see
you, if you plase.'
'Hey?--ho! let's see then,' said little Toole, bustling forth with an
important air. 'The blue room, hey?'
When he opened the door of that small apartment there stood a stout,
corpulent, rather seedy and dusty personage, at the window, looking out
and whistling with his hat on. He turned lazily about as Toole entered,
and displayed the fat and forbidding face of Dirty Davy.
'Oh! I thought it might be professionally, Sir,' said Toole, a little
grandly; for he had seen the gentleman before, and had, by this time,
found out all about him, and perceived he had no chance of a fee.
'It _is_ professionally, Sir,' quoth Dirty Davy, 'if you'll be so
obleeging as to give me five minutes.'
With that amiable egotism which pervades human nature, it will be
observed, each gentleman interpreted 'professionally' as referring to
his own particular calling.
So Toole declared himself ready and prepared to do his office, and Dirty
Davy commenced.
'You know me, I believe, Sir?'
'Mr. David O'Reegan, as I believe,' answered Toole.
'The same, Sir,' replied Davy. 'I'm on my way, Sir, to the Mills, where
my client, Mrs. Nutter (here Toole uttered a disdainful grunt), resides;
and I called at your house, doctor, and they sent me here; and I am
desirous to prove to you, Sir, as a friend of Miss Sarah Harty, styling
herself Mrs. Nutter, that my client's rights are clear and irresistible,
in order that you may use any interest you may have with that
ill-advised faymale--and I'm told she respects your advice and opinion
highly--to induce her to submit without further annoyance; and I tell
you, in confidence, she has run herself already into a very sarious
predicament.'
'Well, Sir, I'll be happy to hear you,' answered Toole.
''Tis no more, Sir, than I expected from your well-known candour,'
replied Dirty Davy, with the unctuous politeness with which he treated
such gentlemen as he expected to make use of. 'Now, Sir, I'll open our
case without any reserve or exaggeration to you, Sir, and that, Doctor
Toole, is what I wouldn't do to many beside yourself. The facts is in a
nutshell. We claim our conjugal rights. Why, Sir? Because, Sir, we
married the oppugnant, Charles Nutter, gentleman, of the Mills, and so
forth, on the 7th of April, Anno Domini, 1750, in the Church of St.
Clement Danes, in London, of which marriage this, Sir, is a verbatim
copy of the certificate. Now, Sir, your client--I mane your
friend--Misthress Mary Harty, who at present affects the state and
usurps the rights of marriage against my client--the rightful Mrs.
Nutter, performed and celebrated a certain pretended marriage with the
same Charles Nutter, in Chapelizod Church, on the 4th of June, 1758,
seven years and ten months, wanting three days, subsequent to the
marriage of my client. Well, Sir, I see exactly, Sir, what you'd ask:
"Is the certificate genuine?"'
Toole grunted an assent.
'Well, Sir, upon that point I have to show you this,' and he handed him
a copy of Mr. Luke Gamble's notice served only two days before, to the
effect that, having satisfied himself by enquiring on the spot of the
authenticity of the certificate of the marriage of Charles Nutter of the
Mills, and so forth, to Mary Duncan, his client did not mean to dispute
it. 'And, Sir, further, as we were preparing evidence in support of my
client's and her maid's affidavit, to prove her identity with the Mary
Duncan in question, having served your client--I mane, Sir, asking your
pardon again--your friend, with a notice that such corroboratory
evidence being unnecessary, we would move the court, in case it were
pressed for, to give us the costs of procuring it, Mr. Luke Gamble
fortwith struck, on behalf of his client, and admitted the sufficiency
of the evidence. Now, Sir, I mention these things, not as expecting you
to believe them upon my statement, you see, but simply to enquire of Mr.
Gamble whether they be true or no; and if true, Sir, upon his admission,
then, Sir, I submit we're entitled to your good offices, and the
judicious inthurfarence of the Rev. Mr. Roach, your respectable priest,
Sir.'
'My friend, Sir, not my priest. I'm a Churchman, Sir, as everybody
knows.'
'Of course, Sir--I ask your pardon again, Doctor Toole--Sir, your friend
to induce your client--_-friend_ I mane again, Sir--Mistress Sarah
Harty, formerly housekeeper of Mr. Charless (so he pronounced it)
Nutther, gentleman, of the Mills, and so forth, to surrendher quiet and
peaceable possession of the premises and chattels, and withdraw from her
tortuous occupation dacently, and without provoking the consequences,
which must otherwise follow in the sevarest o' forms;' or, as he
pronounced it, 'fawrums.'
'The sevarest o' grandmothers. Humbug and flummery! Sir,' cried Toole,
most unexpectedly incensed, and quite scarlet.
'D'ye mane I'm a liar, Sir? Is that what you mane?' demanded Dirty Davy,
suddenly, like the doctor, getting rid of his ceremonious politeness.
'I mane what I mane, and that's what I mane,' thundered Toole,
diplomatically.
'Then, tell your _friend_ to prepare for consequences,' retorted Dirty
Davy, with a grin.
'And make my compliments to your client, or conjuror, or wife, or
whatever she is, and tell her that whenever she wants her dirty work
done, there's plenty of other Dublin blackguards to be got to do it,
without coming to Docther Thomas Toole, or the Rev. Father Roach.'
Which sarcasm he delivered with killing significance, but Dirty Davy had
survived worse thrusts than that.
'She's a conjuror, is she? I thank you, Sir.'
'You're easily obliged, Sir,' says Toole.
'We all know what that manes. And these documents _sworn_ to by my
client and myself, is a pack o' lies! Betther and betther! I thank ye
again, Sir.'
'You're welcome, my honey,' rejoined Toole, affectionately.
'An' you live round the corner. I know your hall-door, Sir--a light
brown, wid a brass knocker.'
'Which is a fine likeness iv your own handsome face, Sir,' retorted
Toole.
'An' them two documents, Sir, is a fabrication and a forgery, backed up
wid false affidavits?' continued Mr. O'Reegan.
'Mind that, Larry,' says the doctor, with a sudden inspiration
addressing the waiter, who had peeped in; 'he admits that them two
documents you see there, is forgeries, backed up with false affidavits;
you heard him say so, and I'll call you to prove it.'
'_You lie!_' said Dirty Davy, precipitately, for he was quite
disconcerted at finding his own sophistical weapons so unexpectedly
turned against him.
'You scum o' the airth!' cried Toole, hitting him, with his clenched
fist, right upon the nose, so vigorous a thump, that his erudite head
with a sonorous crash hopped off the wainscot behind it; 'you lying
scullion!' roared the doctor, instantaneously repeating the blow, and
down went Davy, and down went the table with dreadful din, and the
incensed doctor bestrode his prostrate foe with clenched fists and
flaming face, and his grand wig all awry, and he panting and scowling.
'Murdher, murdher, _murdher!_' screamed Dirty Davy, who was not much of
a Spartan, and relished nothing of an assault and battery but the costs
and damages.
'You--you--you'
'Murdher--help--help--murdher--murdher!'
'Say it again, you cowardly, sneaking, spying viper; say it _again_,
can't you?'
It was a fine tableau, and a noble study of countenance and attitude.
'Sich a bloody nose I never seen before,' grinned Larry rubbing his
hands over the exquisite remembrance. 'If you only seed him, flat on his
back, the great ould shnake, wid his knees and his hands up bawling
murdher; an' his big white face and his bloody nose in the middle, like
nothin' in nature, bedad, but the ace iv hearts in a dirty pack.'
How they were separated, and who the particular persons that interposed,
what restoratives were resorted to, how the feature looked half an hour
afterwards, and what was the subsequent demeanour of Doctor Toole, upon
the field of battle, I am not instructed; my letters stop short at the
catastrophe, and run off to other matters.
Doctor Toole's agitations upon such encounters did not last long. They
blew off in a few thundering claps of bravado and defiance in the second
parlour of the Phoenix, where he washed his hands and readjusted his
wig and ruffles, and strutted forth, squaring his elbows, and nodding
and winking at the sympathising waiters in the inn hall; and with a half
grin at Larry--
'Well, Larry, I think I showed him Chapelizod, hey?' said the doctor,
buoyantly, to that functionary, and marched diagonally across the broad
street toward Sturk's house, with a gait and a countenance that might
have overawed an army.