The House by the Churchyard, Page 53

And she heard the maid’s step crossing the floor, and then there was a groan from Sturk.

  'Here, take another spoonful, and don’t mind talking for a while. It’s doing mighty well. There, don’t let him slip over—that’s enough.'

  Just then Toole opened the door enough to put his head through, and gently restraining poor Mrs. Sturk with his hand, he said with a vigorous whisper—

  ''Twill all go well, Ma’am, we hope, if he’s not agitated; you must not go in, Ma’am, nor talk to him—by–and–by you may see him, but he must be quiet now; his pulse is very regular at present—but you see, Ma’am, we can’t be too cautious.'

  While Toole was thus discoursing her at the door, she heard Dr. Dillon washing his hands, and Sturk’s familiar voice, sounding so strange after the long silence, say very languidly and slowly—

  'Take a pen, Sir—some one—take and write—write down what I say.'

  'Now, Ma’am, you see he’s bent on talking,' said Toole, whose quick ear caught the promise of a revelation. 'I must be at my post, Ma’am—the bed post—hey! We may joke now, Ma’am, that the patient’s recovered his speech; and, you know, you mustn’t come in—not till we tell you it’s safe—there now—rely on me—I give you my word of honour he’s doing as well as we could have hoped for.'

  And Toole shook her trembling little hand very cordially, and there was a very good–natured twinkle in his eye.

  And Toole closed the door again, and they heard Sturk murmur something more; and then the maid, who was within, was let out by Toole, and the door closed and bolted again, and a sort of cooing and murmuring recommenced.

  After a while, Toole, absolutely pale, and looking very stern, opened the door, and, said he, in a quiet way—

  'Ma’am, may I send Katty down to the King’s House, with a note to Mr.—a note to the King’s House, Ma’am—I thank you—and see, Katty, good girl, ask to see the gentleman himself, and take his answer from his own lips.'

  And he tore off the back of a letter, and pencilled on it these words—

  'MY DEAR SIR,—Dr. Sturk has been successfully operated upon by me and another gentleman; and being restored to speech and recollection, but very weak, desires earnestly to see you, and make an important disclosure to you as a justice of the peace. 'I am, Sir, your very obedient, humble servant, 'THOMAS TOOLE.

  Upon this note he clapt a large seal with the Toole arms, and when it was complete, placed it in the hands of Katty, who, with her riding–hood on and her head within it teeming with all sorts of wild conjectures and horrible images, and her whole soul in a whirl of curiosity, hurried along the dark street, now and then glinted on by a gleam through a shutter, or enlivened by the jingle of a harpsichord, or a snatch of talk and laughter heard faintly through the windows, and along the Dublin–road to the gate of the King’s House. The hall–door of this hospitable mansion stood open, and a flood of red candle–light fell upon one side of the gray horse, saddle, and holster pipes, which waited the descent of Mr. Lowe, who was shaking hands with the hospitable colonel at the threshold.

  Katty was just in time, and the booted gentleman, in his surtout and cape, strode back again into the light of the hall–door, and breaking the seal, there read, with his clear cold eye, the lines which Toole had pencilled, and thrusting it into his coat pocket, and receiving again the fuddled butler’s benedictions—he had given him half–a–crown—he mounted his gray steed, and at a brisk trot, followed by his servant, was, in little more than two minutes' time, at Dr. Sturk’s door.

  Moore, the barber, functus officio, was now sitting in the hall, with his razors in his pocket, expecting his fee, and smelling pleasantly of the glass of whiskey which he had just drunk to the health and long life of the master—God bless him—and all the family.

  Doctor Toole met Mr. Lowe on the lobby; he was doing the honours of the ghastly eclaircissement, and bowed him up to the room, with many an intervening whisper, and a sort of apology for Dillon, whom he treated as quite unpresentable, and resolved to keep as much as practicable in the background.

  But that gentleman, who exulted in a good stroke of surgery, and had no sort of professional delicacy, calling his absent fathers and brethren of the scalpel and forceps by confounded hard names when he detected a blunder or hit a blot of theirs, met Mr. Lowe on the upper lobby.

  'Your servant, Sir,' said he, rubbing his great red hands with a moist grin; 'you see what I’ve done. Pell’s no surgeon, no more than that—(Toole, he was going to say, but modified the comparison in time)—that candlestick! to think of him never looking at the occiput; and he found lying on his back—'twas well Mr. Dangerfield pitched on me—though I say it—why shouldn’t I say it—a depression, the size of a shilling in the back of the head—a bit of depressed bone, you see, over the cerebellum—the trepan has relieved him.'

  'And was it Mr. Dangerfield?' enquired Lowe, who was growing to admire that prompt, cynical hero more and more every hour.

  'By gannies, it just was. He promised me five hundred guineas to make him speak. What all them solemn asses could not compass, that’s sweeping in their thousands every quarter, thanks to a discerning public. Baugh! He had heard of a rake–helly dog, with some stuff in his brain–pan, and he came to me—and I done it—Black Dillon done it—ha, ha! that’s for the pack of them. Baugh!'

  Doctor Dillon knew that the profession slighted him; and every man’s hand against him, his was against every man.

  Sturk was propped up and knew Lowe, and was, in a ghastly sort of way, glad to see him. He looked strangely pale and haggard, and spoke faintly.

  'Take pen and ink,' said he.

  There were both and paper ready.

  'He would not speak till you came,' whispered Toole, who looked hotter than usual, and felt rather small, and was glad to edge in a word.

  'An' don’t let him talk too long; five minutes or so, and no more,' said Doctor Dillon; 'and give him another spoonful now—and where’s Mr. Dangerfield?'

  'And do you really mean to say, Sir, he promised you a fee of five—eh?' said Toole, who could not restrain his somewhat angry curiosity.

  'Five hundred guineas—ha, ha, ha! be gannies, Sir, there’s a power of divarsion in that.'

  ''Tis a munificent fee, and prompted by a fine public spirit. We are all his debtors for it! and to you, Sir, too. He’s an early man, Sir, I’m told. You’ll not see him to–night. But, whatever he has promised is already performed; you may rely on his honour.'

  'If you come out at nine in the morning, Dr. Dillon, you’ll find him over his letters and desk, in his breakfast parlour,' said Toole, who, apprehending that this night’s work might possibly prove a hit for the disreputable and savage luminary, was treating him, though a good deal stung and confounded by the prodigious amount of the fee, with more ceremony than he did at first. 'Short accounts, you know,' said Dillon, locking the lid of his case down upon his instruments. 'But maybe, as you say, 'tis best to see him in the morning—them rich fellows is often testy—ha! ha! An' a word with you, Dr. Toole,' and he beckoned his brother aside to the corner near the door—and whispered something in his ear, and laughed a little awkwardly, and Toole, very red and grave, lent him—with many misgivings, two guineas.

  'An' see—don’t let them give him too much of that—the chicken broth’s too sthrong—put some wather to that, Miss, i' you plaze—and give him no more to–night—d’ye mind—than another half a wine–glass full of clar’t unless the docthor here tells you.'

  So Dr. Dillon took leave, and his fiery steeds, whirling him onward, devoured, with their resounding hoofs, the road to Dublin, where he had mentally devoted Toole’s two guineas to the pagan divinities whose worship was nightly celebrated at the old St. Columbkill.

  'We had best have it in the shape of a deposition, Sir, at once,' said Lowe, adjusting himself at the writing–table by the bed–side, and taking the pen in his fingers, he looked on the stern and sunken features of the resuscitated doctor, recalled, as it were, from 'the caverns of
the dead and the gates of darkness,' to reveal an awful secret, and point his cold finger at the head of the undiscovered murderer.

  'Tell it as shortly as you can, Sir, but without haste,' said Toole, with his finger on his pulse. Sturk looked dismal and frightened, like a man with the hangman at his elbow.

  'It was that d—d villain—Charles Archer—write that down—'twas a foul blow—Sir, I’m murdered—I suppose.'

  And then came a pause.

  'Give me a spoonful of wine—I was coming out of town at dusk—this evening—'

  'No, Sir; you’re here some time, stunned and unconscious.'

  'Eh! how long?'

  'No matter, Sir, now. Just say the date of the night it happened.'

  Sturk uttered a deep groan.

  'Am I dying?' said he.

  'No, Sir, please goodness—far from it,' said Toole.

  'Fracture?' asked Sturk, faintly.

  'Why—yes—something of the sort—indeed—altogether a fracture; but going on mighty well, Sir.'

  'Stabbed anywhere—or gunshot wound?' demanded Sturk.

  'Nothing of the kind, Sir, upon my honour.'

  'You think—I have a chance?' and Sturk’s cadaverous face was moist with the dews of an awful suspense.

  'Chance,' said Toole, in an encouraging tone, 'well, I suppose you have, Sir—ha, ha! But, you know, you must not tire yourself, and we hope to have you on your legs again, Sir, in a reasonable time.'

  'I’m very bad—the sight’s affected,' groaned Sturk.

  'See, Sir, you tire yourself to no purpose. You’re in good hands, Sir—and all will go well—as we expect—Pell has been with you twice—'

  'H’m! Pell—that’s good.'

  'And you’re going on mighty well, Sir, especially to–night.'

  'Doctor, upon your honour, have I a chance?'

  'You have, Sir,—certainly—yes—upon my honour.'

  'Thank God!' groaned Sturk, turning up the whites of his eyes, and lifting up two very shaky hands.

  'But you must not spoil it—and fatigue will do that for you,' remarked Toole.

  'But, Sir, Sir—I beg pardon, Doctor Toole—but this case is not quite a common one. What Doctor Sturk is about to say may acquire an additional legal value by his understanding precisely the degree of danger in which he lies. Now, Doctor Sturk, you must not be over much disturbed,' said Lowe.

  'No, Sir—don’t fear me—I’m not much disturbed,' said Sturk.

  'Well, Doctor Toole,' continued Lowe, 'we must depart a little here from regular medical routine—tell Doctor Sturk plainly all you think.'

  'Why—a'—and Doctor Toole cleared his voice, and hesitated.

  'Tell him what you and Doctor Dillon think, Sir. Why, Doctor Dillon spoke very plainly to me.'

  'I don’t like his pulse, Sir. I think you had better not have agitated him,' muttered Toole with an impatient oath.

  ''Tis worse to keep his mind doubtful, and on the stretch,' said Lowe. 'Doctor Toole, Sir, has told you the bright side of the case. It is necessary, making the deposition you propose, that you should know t’other.'

  'Yes, of course—quite right—go on,' said Sturk faintly.

  'Why, you know,' said Toole, sniffing, and a little sulkily, 'you know, Doctor Sturk, we, doctors, like to put the best foot foremost; but you can’t but be aware, that with the fractures—two fractures—along the summit of the skull, and the operation by the trepan, behind your head, just accomplished, there must be, of course, some danger.'

  'I see. Sir,' said Sturk, very quietly, but looking awfully cadaverous; 'all I want to know is, how long you think I may live?'

  'You may recover altogether, Sir—you may—but, of course—you may—there’s a chance; and things might not go right,' said Toole, taking snuff.

  'I see—Sir—'tis enough'—and there was a pause. 'I’d like to have the sacrament, and pray with the clergyman a little—Lord help me!—and my will—only a few words—I don’t suppose there’s much left me; but there’s a power of appointment—a reversion of £600, stock—I’m tired.'

  'Here, take this,' said Toole, and put half–a–dozen spoonsful of claret and water into his lips, and he seemed to revive a little. 'There’s no immediate hurry—upon my honour, Doctor Sturk, there isn’t,' said Toole. 'Just rest aisy a bit; you’re disturbed a good deal, Sir; your pulse shows it; and you need not, I assure you, upon my conscience and honour—'tis quite on the cards you may recover.'

  And as he spoke, Toole was dropping something from a phial into a wine–glass—sal volatile—ether—I can’t say; but when Dr. Sturk swallowed it there was a 'potter–carrier’s' aroma about the room.

  Then there was a pause for a while, and Toole kept his fingers on his pulse; and Sturk looked, for some time, as if he were on the point of fainting, which, in his case, might have proved very like dying.

  'Have you the claret bottle in the room?' demanded Toole, a little flurried; for Sturk’s pulses were playing odd pranks, and bounding and sinking in a dance of death.

  'The what, Sir?' asked the maid.

  'The wine, woman—this instant,' said the doctor, with a little stamp.

  So, the moment he had the bottle, he poured out half a large glass, and began spooning it into Sturk’s white parted lips.

  Lowe looked on very uneasily; for he expected, as Toole did also, prodigious revelations; though each had a suspicion that he divined their nature tolerably clearly.

  'Give him some more,' said Toole, with his fingers on the sick man’s wrist, and watching his countenance. 'D—— it, don’t be afraid—more, some more—more!'

  And so the Artillery doctor’s spirit revived within him; though with flickerings and tremblings; and he heaved some great sighs, and moved his lips. Then he lay still for a while; and after that he spoke.

  'The pen, Sir,—write,' he said. 'He met me in the Butcher’s Wood; he said he was going to sleep in town,' and Sturk groaned dismally; 'and he began talking on business—and turned and walked a bit with me. I did not expect to see him there—he was frank—and spoke me fair. We were walking slowly. He looked up in the sky with his hands in his coat pockets and was a step, or so, in advance of me; and he turned short—I didn’t know—I had no more fear than you—and struck me a blow with something he had in his hand. He rose to the blow on his toes—'twas so swift, I had no time—I could not see what he struck with, 'twas like a short bit of rope.'

  'Charles Archer? Do you know him, Dr. Toole?' asked Lowe. Toole shook his head.

  'Charles Archer!' he repeated, looking at Sturk; 'where does he live?' and he winked to Toole, who was about speaking, to hold his peace.

  'Here—in this town—Chapelizod, up the river, a bit, with—with a—changed name,' answered Sturk. And at the name he mentioned, Lowe and Toole, in silence and steadfastly, exchanged a pale, grim glance that was awful to see.

  CHAPTER LXXXIX.

  IN WHICH A CERTAIN SONGSTER TREATS THE COMPANY TO A DOLOROUS BALLAD WHEREBY MR. IRONS IS SOMEWHAT MOVED.

  It seemed that Mr. Dangerfield had taken Zekiel Irons’s measure pretty exactly. The clerk had quite made up his mind to take the bold step urged upon him by that gentleman. He was a slow man. When one idea had fairly got into his head there was no room there for another. Cowardly and plotting; but when his cowardice was wrought upon to a certain pitch, he would wax daring and fierce from desperation.

  He walked down to the village from the little gate of the Brass Castle, where he had talked with Mr. Dangerfield, appointing eight o’clock next morning for making the deposition; late now for all purposes; but to nail him to a line of vivá voce evidence when he should come to be examined on Charles Nutter’s approaching trial. The whole way along he walked with the piece of silver, which Mr. Paul Dangerfield had given him, griped tight in his crooked fingers, in his breeches' pocket—no change in his grim and sinister face—no turn of the head—no side glance of the eye—all dark, rigid, and tense.

  The mechanism of long habit brought him round the
corner to the door of the Salmon House, the 'public' facing, but with the length of the street interposing, the Phoenix, whose lights were visible through and under the branches of the village tree. His mind wandered back to the Mills with a shock, and glided stealthily past the Brass Castle without dwelling there, and he looked down the street. Over the bridge at the Elms, lay death in its awful purity. At his left, in the Gray Stone House, was Doctor Sturk—the witness with sealed lips—the victim of Charles Archer’s mysterious prowess; and behind lay the church–yard, and the quiet little church with that vault and nameless coffin. Altogether, the suggestions and associations about him were not cheerful or comfortable. He squeezed the silver—Dangerfield’s little remembrance—with a furious strain, and ground his teeth.

  'I’m like a man surrounded. I wish I was out of it all!' he muttered, with a care–worn glance.

  So he entered the public–house.

  There was not much business doing. Three friends, Smithfield dealers, or some such folk, talking loudly over their liquor of prices and prospects; and one fat fellow, by the fire, smoking a pipe, with a large glass of punch at his elbow.

  'Ah, then, Mr. Irons, an' is it yourself that’s in it? and where in the world wor ye all this time?' said the landlady.

  'Business, Ma’am, business, Mrs. Molloy.'

  'An' there’s your chair waitin' for you beside the fire, Mr. Irons, this month an' more—a cowld evening—and we all wondherin' what in the wide world was gone widg ye—this I do’no how long.'

  'Thank ye, Ma’am—a pipe and a glass o' punch.'

  Irons was always a man of few words, and his laconics did not strike Mistress Molloy as anything very strange. So she wiped the little table at his side, and with one foot on the fender, and his elbow on his knee, he smoked leisurely into the fire–place.

  To look at his face you would have supposed he was thinking; but it was only that sort of foggy vacuity which goes by the name of 'a brown study.' He never thought very clearly or connectedly; and his apathetic reveries, when his mood was gloomy, were furnished forth in a barren and monotonous way, with only two or three frightful figures, and a dismal scenery that seldom shifted.