'Well, you know her answer; it was not lightly given, nor in haste, and first and last 'twas quite decided, and I sent it to you under my own hand.'

'I thought you were a friend to me, Dr. Walsingham, and now I'm sure you're none,' said the young fellow, in the same bitter tone.

'Ah, Captain Devereux, he can be no friend to you who is a friend to your faults; and you no friend to yourself if you be an enemy to him that would tell you of them. Will you like him the worse that would have you better?'

'We've _all_ faults, Sir; mine are not the worst, and I'll have neither shrift nor absolution. There's some reason here you won't disclose.'

He was proud, fierce, pale, and looked d.a.m.nably handsome and wicked.

'She gave _no_ reason, Sir;' answered Dr. Walsingham. No, she gave none; but, as I understood, she did not love you, and she prayed me to mention it no more.'

'She gave no reason; but you _know_ the reason,' glared out Devereux.

'Indeed, Sir, I do _not_ know the reason,' answered the rector.

'But you know--you _must_--you _meant_--_you_, at least had heard some ill of me, and you no longer wish my suit to prosper.'

'I have, indeed, of late, heard _much_ ill of you, Captain Devereux,'

answered Dr. Walsingham, in a very deliberate but melancholy way, 'enough to make me hold you no meet husband for any wife who cared for a faithful partner, or an honourable and a quiet home.'

'You mean--I know you do--that Palmerstown girl, who has belied me?'

cried Devereux.

'That unhappy young woman, Captain Devereux, her name is Glynn, whom you have betrayed under a promise of marriage.'

That moment Devereux was on his feet. It was the apparition of Devereux; a blue fire gleaming in his eyes, not a word from his white lips, while three seconds might have ticked from Mrs. Irons's prosy old clock on the stair-head; his slender hand was outstretched in appeal and defiance, and something half-celestial, half-infernal--the fallen angelic--in his whole face and bearing.

'May my merciful Creator strike me dead, here at your feet, Doctor Walsingham, but 'tis a lie,' cried he. 'I never promised--she'll tell you. I thought she told you long ago. 'Twas that devil incarnate, her mother, who forged the lie, why or where-fore, except for her fiendish love of mischief, I know not.'

'I cannot tell, Sir, about your promise,' said the doctor gravely; 'with or without it, the crime is heinous, the cruelty immeasurable.'

'Dr. Walsingham,' cried d.i.c.k Devereux, a strange scorn ringing in his accents, 'with all your learning you don't know the world; you don't know human nature; you don't see what's pa.s.sing in this very village before your eyes every day you live. I'm not worse than others; I'm not half so bad as fifty older fellows who ought to know better; but I'm _sorry_, and 'tisn't easy to say that, for I'm as proud, proud as the devil, proud as you; and if it were to my Maker, what more can I say?

I'm sorry, and if Heaven forgives us when we repent, I think our wretched fellow-mortals may.'

'Captain Devereux, I've nothing to forgive,' said the parson, kindly.

'But I tell you, Sir, this cruel, unmeaning separation will be my eternal ruin,' cried Devereux. 'Listen to me--by Heaven, you shall. I've fought a hard battle, Sir! I've tried to forget her--to _hate_ her--it won't do. I tell you, Dr. Walsingham, 'tis not in your nature to comprehend the intensity of my love--you can't. I don't blame you. But I think, Sir--I think I _might_ make her like me, Sir. They come at last, sometimes, to like those that love them so--so _desperately: that_ may not be for me, 'tis true. I only ask to plead my own sad cause. I only want to see her--gracious Heaven--but to see her--to show her how I was wronged--to tell her she can make me what she will--an honourable, pure, self-denying, devoted man, or leave me in the dark, alone, with nothing for it but to wrap my cloak about my head, and leap over the precipice.'

'Captain Devereux, why will you doubt me? I've spoken the truth. I have already said I must not give your message; and you are not to suppose I dislike you, because I would fain have your faults mended.'

'Faults! have I? To be sure I have. So have _you, more,_ Sir, and _worse_ than I, maybe,' cried Devereux, wild again; 'and you come here in your spiritual pride to admonish and to lecture, and to _insult_ a miserable man, who's better, perhaps, than yourself. You've heard ill of me? you hear I sometimes drink maybe a gla.s.s too much--who does not? you can drink a gla.s.s yourself, Sir; drink more, and show it less than I maybe; and you listen to every d.a.m.ned slander that any villain, to whose vices and idleness you pander with what you call your alms, may be pleased to invent, and you deem yourself charitable; save us from such charity! _Charitable_, and you refuse to deliver my miserable message: hard-hearted Pharisee!'

It is plain poor Captain Devereux was not quite himself--bitter, fierce, half-mad, and by no means so polite as he ought to have been. Alas! as Job says, 'ye imagine to reprove words; and the speeches of one that is desperate, which are as wind.'

'Yes, hard-hearted, unrelenting Pharisee.' The torrent roared on, and the wind was up; it was night and storm with poor Devereux. 'You who pray every day--oh--d.a.m.nable hypocrisy--lead us not into temptation--you neither care nor ask to what courses your pride and obstinacy are driving me--your fellow-creature.'

'Ah, Captain Devereux, you are angry with me, and yet it's not my doing; the man that is at variance with himself will hardly be at one with others. You have said much to me that is unjust, and, perhaps, unseemly; but I won't reproach you; your anger and trouble make wild work with your words. When one of my people falls into sin, I ever find it is so through lack of prayer. Ah! Captain Devereux, have you not of late been remiss in the duty of private prayer?'

The captain laughed, not pleasantly, into the ashes in the grate. But the doctor did not mind, and only said, looking upward--.

'Lord, if thou hadst been here, my brother had not died.'

There was kindness, and even tenderness, in the tone in which simple Dr.

Walsingham spoke the appellative, brother; and it smote Devereux now, as sometimes happens with wayward fellows, and his better nature was suddenly moved.

'I'm _sorry_, Sir--I am. You're too patient--I'm _very_ sorry; 'tis like an angel--you're n.o.ble, Sir, and I such an outcast. I--I wish you'd strike me, Sir--you're too kind and patient, Sir, and so pure--and how have I spoken to you? A _trial_, Sir, if you _can_ forgive me--one trial--my vice--you shall see me changed, a new man. Oh, Sir, let me swear it. I _am_, Sir--I'm reformed; don't believe me till you see it.

Oh! good Samaritan,--don't forsake me--I'm all one wound.'

Well! they talked some time longer, and parted kindly.

CHAPTER LXVII.

IN WHICH A CERTAIN TROUBLED SPIRIT WALKS.

Mr. Dangerfield was at the club that night, and was rather in spirits than otherwise, except, indeed, when poor Charles Nutter was talked of.

Then he looked grave, and shrugged, and shook his head, and said--

'A bad business, Sir; and where's his poor wife?'

'Spending the night with us, poor soul,' said Major O'Neill, mildly, 'and hasn't an idaya, poor thing; and indeed, I hope, she mayn't hear it.'

'Pooh! Sir, she must hear it; but you know she might have heard worse, Sir, eh?' rejoined Dangerfield.

'True for you, Sir,' said the major, suspending the filling of his pipe to direct a quiet glance of significance at Dangerfield, and then closing his eyes with a nod.

And just at this point in came Spaight.

'Well, Spaight!'

'Well, Sir.'

'You saw the body, eh?' and a dozen other interrogatories followed, as, cold and wet with melting snow, dishevelled, and storm-beaten--for it was a plaguy rough night--the young fellow, with a general greeting to the company, made his way to the fire.

''Tis a tremendous night, gentlemen, so by your leave I'll stir the fire--and, yes, I seen him, poor Nutter--and, paugh, an ugly sight he is, I can tell you; here Larry, bring me a rummer-gla.s.s of punch--his right ear's gone, and a'most all his right hand--and screeching hot, do you mind--an', phiew--altogether 'tis sickening--them fishes, you know--I'm a'most sorry I went in--you remember Dogherty's whiskey shop in Ringsend--he lies in the back parlour, and wondherful little changed in appearance.'

And so Mr. Spaight, with a little round table at his elbow, and his heels over the fender, sipped his steaming punch, and thawed inwardly and outwardly, as he answered their questions and mixed in their speculations.

Up at the Mills, which had heard the awful news, first from the Widow Macan, and afterwards from Pat Moran, the maids sat over their tea in the kitchen in high excitement and thrilling chat--'The poor master!'

'Oh, the poor man!' 'Oh, la, what's that?' with a start and a peep over the shoulders. 'And oh, dear, and how in the world will the poor little misthress ever live over the news?' And so forth, made a princ.i.p.al part of their talk. There was a good accompaniment of wind outside, and a soft pelting of snow on the window panes, 'and oh, my dear life, but wasn't it dark!'

Up went Moggy, with her thick-wicked kitchen candle, to seek repose; and Betty, resolving not to be long behind, waited only 'to wash up her plates' and slack down the fire, having made up her mind, for she grew more nervous in solitude, to share Moggy's bed for that night.

Moggy had not been twenty minutes gone, and her task was nearly ended, when--'Oh, blessed saints!' murmured Betty, with staring eyes, and dropping the sweeping-brush on the flags, she heard, or thought she heard, her master's step, which was peculiar, crossing the floor overhead.

She listened, herself as pale as a corpse, and nearly as breathless; but there was nothing now but the m.u.f.fled gusts of the storm, and the close soft beat of the snow, so she listened and listened, but nothing came of it.