'I don't care to tell you, Sir, that 'tis partly on the evidence of that same Zekiel Irons that I've arrested _you_,' said Mr. Justice Lowe.

'Zekiel Irons, _me_! What Zekiel Irons charge me with the crime which he was here, not two hours since, fastening on oath upon Charles Nutter!

Why, Sir, he asked me to bring him to your residence in the morning, that he might swear to the information which he repeated in my presence, and of which there's a note in that desk. 'Pon my life, Sir, 'tis an agreeable society, this; bedlam broke loose--the mad directing the mad, and both falling foul of the sane. One word from Doctor Sturk, Sir, will blast you, so soon as, please Heaven, he shall speak.'

'He _has_ spoken, Sir,' replied Lowe, whose angry pa.s.sions were roused by the insults of Dangerfield, and who had, for the moment, lost his customary caution.

'Ha!' cried Dangerfield, with a sort of gasp, and a violent smirk, the joyousness of which was, however, counteracted by a lurid scowl and a wonderful livid glare in his wild eyes; 'ha! he has? Bravo, Sir, bravissimo!' and he smirked wider and wider, and beat his uninjured hand upon the table, like a man applauding the _denouement_ of a play. 'Well, Sir; and notwithstanding his declaration, you arrest me upon the monstrous a.s.sertion of a crazy clerk, you consummate blockhead!'

''Twon't do, Sir, you sha'n't sting me by insult into pa.s.sion; nor frighten me by big words and big looks into hesitation. My duty's clear, and be the consequences what they may, I'll carry the matter through.'

'Frighten you! ha, ha, ha!' and Dangerfield glared at his b.l.o.o.d.y shirt-sleeve, and laughed a chilly sneer; 'no, Sir, but I'll punish you, with Doctor Sturk's declaration against the babble of poor Zekiel Irons.

I'll quickly close your mouth.'

'Sir, I never made it a practice yet to hide evidence from a prisoner.

Why should I desire to put you out of the world, if you're innocent?

Doctor Sturk, Sir, has denounced you distinctly upon oath. Charles Archer, going by the name of Paul Dangerfield, and residing in this house, called the "Bra.s.s Castle," as the person who attempted to murder him in the Butcher's Wood.'

'_What_, Sir? Doctor Sturk denounce _me_! Fore heaven, Sir--it seems to me you've all lost your wits. Doctor Sturk!--? Doctor Sturk charge _me_ with having a.s.saulted him! why--curse it, Sir--it can't possibly be--you can't believe it; and, if he said it, the man's raving still.'

'He has said it, Sir.'

'Then, Sir, in the devil's name, didn't it strike you as going rather fast to shoot me on my own hearth-stone--_me_, knowing all you do about me--with no better warrant than the talk of a man with a shattered brain, awakening from a lethargy of months? Sir, though the laws afford no punishment exemplary enough for such atrocious precipitation, I promise you I'll exact the last penalty they provide; and now, Sir, take me where you will; I can't resist. Having shot me, do what you may to interrupt my business; to lose my papers and accounts; to prevent my recovery, and to blast my reputation--Sir, I shall have compensation for all.'

So saying, Dangerfield, with his left hand, clapt his c.o.c.ked hat on, and with a ghastly smile nodded a farewell to Mrs. Jukes, who, sobbing plentifully, had placed his white surtout, cloakwise over his shoulders, b.u.t.toning it about his throat. The hall-door stood open; the candles flared in the night air, and with the jaunty, resolute step of a man marching to victory and revenge, he walked out, and lightly mounted to his place. She saw the constables get in, and one glimpse more of the white grim face she knew so well, the defiant smirk, the blood-stained shirt-sleeve, and the coach-door shut. At the crack of the whip and the driver's voice, the horses scrambled into motion, the wheels revolved, and the master of the Bra.s.s Castle and the equipage glided away like a magic lantern group, from before the eyes and the candle of the weeping Mrs. Jukes.

CHAPTER XCIII.

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 pa.s.sion so formidable? But, with Dangerfield's presence, the effect of his plausibilities and his defiance pa.s.sed 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 d.a.m.ning--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 rea.s.sured 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 Bra.s.s 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 b.u.t.ter, 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 a.s.saulted 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 a.s.sa.s.sin. 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 nutsh.e.l.l. 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 a.s.sent.

'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 ident.i.ty 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 ent.i.tled 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 p.r.o.nounced 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 p.r.o.nounced 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.