The House by the Church-Yard Part 69

'But here, in this case,' said Black Dillon, 'there's no chance at all, do you see, there's _no_ chance, good, bad, or indifferent; none at all.'

'But _I_ believe there _is_,' replied Dangerfield, decisively.

'You believe, but _I_ know.'

'See, Sir,' said Dangerfield, darkening, and speaking with a strange snarl; 'I know what I'm about. I've a desire, Sir, that he should speak, if 'twere only two minutes of conscious articulate life, and then death--'tis not a pin's point to me how soon. Left to himself he must die; therefore, to shrink from the operation on which depends the discovery both of his actual murderer and of his money, Sir, otherwise lost to his family, is--is a d.a.m.ned affectation! _I_ think it--so do _you_, Sir; and I offer five hundred guineas as your fee, and Mrs.

Sturk's letter to bear you harmless.'

Then there was a pause. Dangerfield knew the man's character as well as his skill. There were things said about him darker than we have hinted at.

The surgeon looked very queer and gloomy down upon the table, and scratched his head, and he mumbled gruffly--

'You see--you know--'tis a large fee, to be sure; but then--'

'Come, Sir,' said Dangerfield, looking as though he'd pull him by the ear; 'it _is_ a large fee, and you'll get no more--you should not stick at trifles, when there's--a--a--justice and humanity--and, to be brief, Sir--yes or no?'

'_Yes_,' answered the doctor; 'but how's the fee secured?'

'Hey! I'd forgot. Right, Sir--you shall be satisfied.'

And he took a pen, and wrote on the back of a letter--

'SIR--Considering the hopeless condition in which Dr. Sturk now lies, and the vast importance of restoring him, Dr. Sturk, of the R.I.A., to the power of speech, even for a few minutes, I beg to second Mrs.

Sturk's request to you; and when you shall have performed the critical operation she desires, I hereby promise, whether it succeed or fail, to give you a fee of five hundred guineas.

PAUL DANGERFIELD.

'The Bra.s.s Castle, Chapelizod.'

And he dated it, and handed it to the surgeon, who read it through, and then looked with a gruff hesitation at the writer.

'Oh, you've only to enquire--anyone who knows Chapelizod will tell you who I am; and you'll want something--eh?--to take you out of this--how much?'

'Only seven guineas. There's a little score here, and some fees.

Eighteen will cover everything, unless something has come in this morning.'

So they went to 'the Hatch,' and made enquiries, and all being well, Mr.

Dangerfield dealt liberally with the surgeon, who promised to be in attendance at Dr. Sturk's house in Chapelizod, at seven o'clock next evening.

'And pray, Dr. Dillon, come in a coach,' said Dangerfield, 'and in costume--you understand. They've been accustomed, you know, to see Pell and other doctors who make a parade.'

And with these injunctions they parted; and the surgeon, whose luggage was trifling, jumped into a coach with it, and jingled home to his den and his liberty.

CHAPTER Lx.x.xIV.

IN WHICH CHRISTIANA GOES OVER; AND DAN LOFTUS COMES HOME.

This evening Lily Walsingham was early tired and very weak, Sally thought, and more glad than usual to lie down in her bed; and there her old and loving nurse fancied that she looked a little strange, and that her thoughts sometimes wandered.

She lay very quietly for a good while, and suddenly, with a beautiful look, and in a clear, glad voice, she said--

'Mother!'

And old Sally said--

'There's no one, dear Miss Lily, but me.'

But she was looking earnestly, and, with a wrapt smile, only said--

'Oh!'

She thought she saw her, I believe.

Are these always illusions? Or is it only that, as the twilight deepens, and the shapes of earth melt into night, the stars of heaven, changeless and serene, reveal themselves, and shine out to the darkened eyes of mortals?

As Aunt Becky sat that night in the drawing-room with her niece, a maid, with a whisper, placed a little note in Miss Gertrude's hand. There was a little pause.

'Oh! aunt--oh!' and she looked so terrified. 'Oh! aunt,' and she threw her arms round her aunt's neck, and began crying wildly. 'Poor Lily's gone--there's the note.'

Then arose the wild wailing of unavailing grief, and sobs, mixed with early recollections of childhood, and all poor Lily's sweet traits poured out.

Old Aunt Rebecca took the note. Her stoicism was the point on which she piqued herself most. She looked very pale, and she told her niece to be composed; for Aunt Becky had a theory that feelings ought to be commanded, and that it only needed effort and resolution. So she read the note, holding her head very high, but the muscles of her face were quivering.

'Oh! Gertrude, if ever there was an angel--and the poor desolate old man----'

The theory broke down, and old Aunt Rebecca cried and sat down, and cried heartily, and went and put her thin arms round her niece, and kissed her, and cried, and cried, and kissed her again.

'She was such--such a darling--oh! Gertrude dear, we must never quarrel any more.'

Death had come so near, and all things less than itself were rebuked in that sublime presence; and Lily Walsingham was gone; and she who was so lately their gay companion, all at once so awfully angelic in the unearthly light of death.

'Who'd ha' thought it was so near, Ma'am,' said the maid; 'the poor little thing! Though to be sure, Ma'am, a winding sheet came three times in the candle last night, and I turns it round and picks it off, that way, with my nail, unknownst to Mrs. Heany, for fear she'd be frettin'

about the little boy that's lyin' at home in the small-pox; and indeed I thought 'twas for him it was; but man proposes, and G.o.d disposes--and death forgets none, the Lord be praised--and everyone has their hour, old and young, Ma'am; and as I was sayin', they had no notion or expectation up at the Elms, Ma'am, she was so bad, the heavens be her bed this night. 'Twas all in an instant like, Miss, she made as if she'd sit up, bein' leanin' on pillows--and so she put out them purty little hands of hers, with a smile, and that was all--the purty crature--everyone's sorry afther her. The man was cryin' in the hall that brought the note.'

The poor came to the door, and made their rude and kindly lamentations--they were all quite sincere--'His reverence was very good, but he couldn't have the thought, you know.' It was quite true--'everyone was sorry.' The brave Magnolia's eyes were red, when she looked out of the window next morning, and jolly little Doctor Toole said at the club--

'Ah, Sir, she was a bright little thing--a born lady--such a beauty--and the best little creature. The town might well be proud of her, in every way, Sir.' And he fell a blubbering; and old Major O'Neill, who was a quiet and silent officer, cried in a reserved way, looking into the fire, with his elbow on the mantelpiece. And Toole said, 'I don't know how I'll pa.s.s that house.'

And many felt the same. Little Lily was there no more--and the Elms were changed--the light and the grace were gone--and they were only dark old trees now.

And everyone felt a great desire to find some way--any way--to show their respect and affection for their good old rector. And I'm sure he understood it--for liking and reverence, one way or another, will tell their story. The hushed enquiries at the door, and little offers of useless services made by stealth through the servants, and such like foolish kindnesses at such a time--the evidence of a great but helpless sympathy--are sweet as angelic music.

And who should arrive at night, with all his trunks, or at least a considerable number of them, and his books and rattletraps, but honest, simple Dan Loftus. The news was true about his young charge. He had died of fever at Malaga, and d.i.c.k Devereux was at last a step, and a long one--nearer to the t.i.tle. So Dan was back again in his old garret.

Travel had not educated him in the world's ways. In them he was the same queer, helpless tyro. And his costume, though he had a few handsome articles--for, travelling with a sprig of n.o.bility, he thought it but right and seemed to dress accordingly--was on that account, perhaps, only more grotesque than ever. But he had acquired mountains of that lore in which he and good Doctor Walsingham delighted. He had transcribed old epitaphs and translated interminable extracts from archives, and bought five Irish ma.n.u.scripts, all highly ill.u.s.trative of that history on which he and the doctor were so pleasantly engaged. It was too late that night to go up to the Elms; but he longed to unpack his trunkful of ma.n.u.scripts, and to expound to his beloved doctor the treasures he had ama.s.sed.