CHAPTER XVIII. A CONVIVIAL EVENING
While Tate busied himself in laying the table, Mr. Nickie, with bent brows and folded arms, passed up and down the apartments, still ruminating on the affront so openly passed upon him, and cogitating how best to avenge it. As passing and repassing he cast his eyes on the preparations, he halted suddenly, and said, “Lay another cover here.” Tate stood, uncertain whether he had heard aright the words, when Nickie repeated, “Don't you hear me? I said lay another cover. The gentleman will sup here.”
“Oh! indeed,” exclaimed Tate, as, opening his eyes to the fullest extent, he appeared to admit a new light upon his brain; “I beg pardon, sir, I was thinking that this gentleman might like to sup with the other gentleman, out in the kitchen beyond!”
“I said he 'd sup here,” said Nickie, vehemently, for he felt the taunt in all its bitterness.
“I say, old fellow,” said M'Dermot in Tate's ear, “you needn't be sparin' of the liquor. Give us the best you have, and plenty of it. It is all the same to yer master, you know, in a few days. I was saying, sir,” said he to Nickie, who, overhearing him, turned sharply round,-“I was saying, sir, that he might as well give up the ould bin with the cobweb over it. It's the creditors suffers now, and we've many a way of doin' a civil turn.”
“His mistress has shut the door on that,” said Nickie, savagely, “and she may take the consequences.”
“Oh, never mind him,” whispered M'Dermot to Tate; “he 's the best-hearted crayture that ever broke bread, but passionate, d' ye mind, passionate.”
Poor Tate, who had suddenly become alive to the characters and objects of his quests, was now aware that his mistress's refusal to admit the chief might possibly be productive of very disastrous consequences; for, like all low Irishmen, he had a very ample notion of the elastic character of the law, and thought that its pains and penalties were entirely at the option of him who executed it.
“Her Ladyship never liked to see much company,” said he, apologetically.
“Well, maybe so,” rejoined M'Dennot, “but in a quiet homely sort of a way, sure she need n't have refused Mr. Anthony; little she knows, there 's not the like of him for stories about the Court of Conscience and the Sessions.”
“I don't doubt it,” exclaimed Tate, who, in assenting, felt pretty certain that his fascinations would scarcely have met appreciation in the society of his mistress and her daughter.
“And if ye heerd him sing 'Hobson's Choice,' with a new verse of his own at the end!”
Tate threw a full expression of wondering admiration into his features, and went on with his arrangements in silence.
“Does he know anything of Dempsey, do you think?” said Nickie, in a whisper to his follower.
“Not he,” muttered the other, scornfully; “the crayture seems half a nat'ral.” Then, in a voice pitched purposely loud, he said, “Do you happen to know one Dempsey in these parts?”
“Paul Dempsey?” added Nickie.
“A little, short man, with a turned-up nose, that walks with his shoulders far back and his hands spread out? Ay, I know him well; he dined here one day with the master, and sure enough he made the company laugh hearty!”
“I 'd be glad to meet him, if he 's as pleasant as you say,” said Nickie, slyly.
“There's nothing easier, then,” said Tate; “since the boarding-house is closed there at Ballintray, he's up in Coleraine for the winter. I hear he waits for the Dublin mail, at M'Grotty's door, every evening, to see the passengers, and that he has a peep at the way-bill before the agent himself.”
“Has he so many acquaintances that he is always on the look out for one?”
“Faix, if they'd let him,” cried Tate, laughing, “I believe he 'd know every man, woman, and child in Ireland. For curiosity, he beats all ever I seen.”
As Tate spoke, a sudden draught of wind seemed to penetrate the chamber,—at least the canoe and its party shook perceptibly.
“We'll have a rare night of it,” said Nickie, drawing nearer to the fire. Then resuming, added, “And you say I'll have no difficulty to find him?”
“Not the least, bedad! It would be far harder to escape him, from all I hear. He watches the coach, and never leaves it till he sees the fore boot and the hind one empty; not only looking the passengers in the face, but tumbling over the luggage, reading all the names, and where they 're going. Oh, he's a wonderful man for knowledge!”
“Indeed,” said Nickie, with a look of attention to draw on the garrulity of the old man.
“I've reason to remember it well,” said Tate, putting both hands to his loins. “It was the day he dined here I got the rheumatiz in the small of my back. When I went to open the gate without there for him, he kept me talking for three quarters of an hour in the teeth of an east wind that would shave a goat,—asking me about the master and the mistress and Miss Helen, ay, and even about myself at last,—if I had any brothers, and what their names was, and who was Mister Daly, and whether he did n't keep a club-house. By my conscience, it's well for him ould Bagenal did n't hear him!”
A clattering sound from the canoe suddenly interrupted Tate's narrative; he stopped short, and muttered, in a tone of unfeigned terror,—
“That's the way always,-may I never see glory! ye can't speak of him but he hears ye!”
A rude laugh from Nickie, chorused still more coarsely by M'Dermot, arrested Tate's loquacity, and he finished his arrangements without speaking, save in a few broken sentences.
If Mr. Nickie could have been conciliated by material enjoyments, he might decidedly have confessed that the preparations for his comfort were ample and hospitable. A hot supper diffused its savory steam on a table where decanters and flasks of wine of different sorts and sizes attested that the more convivial elements of a feast were not forgotten. Good humor was, however, not to be restored by such amends. He was wounded in his self-love, outraged in his vanity; and he sat down in a dogged silence to the meal, a perfect contrast in appearance to the coarse delight of his subordinate.
While Tate remained to wait on them, Nickie's manner and bearing were unchanged. A sullen, sulky expression sat on features which, even when at the best, conveyed little better than a look of shrewd keenness; nor could the appetite with which he eat suggest a passing ray of satisfaction to his face.
“I am glad we are rid of that old fellow at last,” said he, as the door closed upon Tate. “Whether fool or knave, I saw what he was at; he would have been disrespectful if he dared.”
“I did n't mind him much, sir,” said M'Dermot, honestly confessing that the good cheer had absorbed his undivided attention.
“I did, then; I saw his eyes fixed effectually on us,—on you particularly. I thought he would have laughed outright when you helped yourself to the entire duck.”
Nickie spoke this with an honest severity, meant to express his discontent with his companion fully as much as with the old butler.
“Well, it was an excellent supper, anyhow,” said M'Dermot, taking the bottle which Nickie pushed towards him somewhat rudely; “and here 's wishing health and happiness and long life to ye, Mr. Anthony. May ye always have as plentiful a board, and better company round it.”
There was a fawning humility in the fellow's manner that seemed to gratify the other, for he nodded a return to the sentiment, and, after a brief pause, said,—“The servants in these grand houses,—and that old fellow, you may remark, was with the Darcys when they were great people,—they give themselves airs to everybody they think below the rank of their master.”
“Faix, they might behave better to you, Mr. Anthony,” said M'Dermot.
“Well, they're run their course now,” said Nickie, not heeding the remark. “Both master and man have had their day. I 've seen more executions on property in the last six months than ever I did in all my life before. Creditors won't wait now as they used to do. No influence now to make gaugers and tide-waiters and militia officers; no privilege of Parliament to save them from arrest!”
“My blessings on them for that, anyhow,” said M'Dermot, finishing his glass. “The Union 's a fine thing.”
“The fellows that got the bribes—and, to be sure, there was plenty of money going—won't stay to spend it in Ireland; devil a one will remain here, but those that are run out and ruined.”
“Bad luck to it for a Bill!” said M'Dermot, who felt obliged to sacrifice his consistency in his desire to concur with each new sentiment of his chief.
“The very wine we're drinking, maybe, was given for a vote. Pitt knew well how to catch them.”
“Success attend him!” chimed in M'Dermot.
“And just think of them now,” continued Nickie, whose ruminations were never interrupted by the running commentary,—“just think of them! selling the country, trade, prosperity, everything, for a few hundred pounds.”
“The blackguards!”
“Some, to be sure, made a fine thing out of it. Not like old Darcy here; they were early in the market, and got both rank and money too.”
“Ay, that was doin' it in style!” exclaimed Mike, who expressed himself this time somewhat equivocally, for safety's sake.
“There 's no denying it, Castlereagh was a clever fellow!”
“The best man ever I seen—I don't care who the other is.”
“He knew when to bid, and when to draw back; never became too pressing, but never let any one feel himself neglected; watched his opportunities slyly, and when the time came, pounced down like a hawk on his victim.”
“Oh, the thieves' breed! What a hard heart he had!” muttered M'Dermot, perfectly regardless of whom he was speaking.
Thus did Mr. Nickie ramble on, in the popular cant, over the subject of the day; for although the Union was now carried, and its consequences—whatever they might be—so far inevitable, the men whose influence effected the measure were still before the bar of public opinion,—an ordeal not a whit more just and discriminating than it usually is. While the current of these reminiscences ran on, varied by some anecdote here or some observation there, both master and man drank deeply. So long as good liquor abounded, Mr. M'Dermot could have listened with pleasure, even to a less entertaining companion; and as for Nickie, he felt a vulgar pride in discussing, familiarly and by name, the men of rank and station who took a leading part in Irish politics. The pamphlets and newspapers of the day had made so many private histories public, had unveiled so many family circumstances before the eyes of the world, that his dissertations had all the seeming authenticity of personal knowledge.
It was at the close of a rather violent denunciation of the “Traitors”—as the Government party was ever called—that Nickie, striking the table with his fist, called on M'Dermot to sing.
“I say, Mac,” cried he, with a faltering tongue, and eyes red and bleared from drink,—“the old lady—wouldn't accept my society—she did n't think—An-tho-ny Nickie, Esquire—good enough—to sit down—at her table. Let us show her what she has lost, my boy. Give her 'Bob Uniake's Boots' or 'The Major's Prayer.'”
“Or what d' ye think of the new ballad to Lord Castlereagh, sir?” suggested M'Dermot, modestly. “It was the last thing Rhoudlim had when I left town.”
“Is it good?” hiccuped Nickie.
“If ye heerd Rhoudlim—”
“D——n Rhoudlim!—she used to sing that song Parsons made on the attorneys. Parsons never liked us, Mac. You know what he said to Holmes, who went to him for a subscription of five shillings, to help to bury Mat Costegan. 'Was n't he an attorney?' says Parsons. 'He was,' says the other. 'Well, here 's a pound,' says he; 'take it and bury four!'”
“Oh, by my conscience, that was mighty nate!” said M'Dermot, who completely forgot himself.
Nickie frowned savagely at his companion, and for a moment seemed about to express his anger more palpably, when he suddenly drank off his glass, and said, “Well, the song,-let us have it now.”
“I 'm afraid—I don't know more than a verse here and there,” said Mac, bashfully stroking down his hair, and mincing his words; “but with the help of a chorus—”
“Trust me for that,” cried Nickie, who now drank glass after glass without stopping; “I'm always ready for a song.” So saying he burst out into a half-lachryinose chant,—
“An old maid had a roguish eye!
And she was call'd the great Kamshoodera!
Rich was she and poor was I!
Fol de dol de die do!
“I forget the rest, Mickie, but it goes on about a Nabob and a bear, and—a—what's this ye call it, a pottle of green gooseberries that Lord Clangoff sold to Mrs. Kelfoyle.”
“To be sure; I remember it well,” said Mac, humoring the drunken lucubrations; “but my chant is twice as aisy to sing,—the air is the 'Black Joke;' and any one can chorus.”
“Well, open the proceedings,” hiccuped Nickie; “state the case.”
And thus encouraged, Mr. M'Dermot cleared his throat, and in a voice loud and coarse enough to be heard above the howling din, began:—
“Though many a mile he's from Erin away,
Here 's health and long life to my Lord Castlereagh,
With his bag full of guineas so bright!
'T was he that made Bishops and Deans by the score,
And Peers, of the fashion of Lord Donoughmore!
And a Colonel of horse of our friend Billy Lake,
And Wallincourt a Lord,—t'other day but Joe Blake,
With his bag full of guineas so bright.
“Come Beresford, Bingham, Luke Fox, and Tyrone,
Come Kearney, Bob Johnston, and Arthur Malone,
With your bag full of guineas so bright;
Lord Charles Fitzgerald and Kit Fortescue,
And Henry Deane Grady,—we 'll not forget you,
Come Cuffe, Isaac Corry, and General Dunne,
And you Jemmy Vandeleur,—come every one,
With your bag full of guineas so bright.
Come Talbot and Townsend, Come Toler and Trench,
Tho' made for the gallows, ye 're now on the Bench,
With your bag full of guineas so bright
But if ever again this black list I 'll begin,
The first name I 'll take is the ould Knight of Gwynne,
Who, robb'd of his property, stripped of his pelf,
Would be glad to see Erin as poor as himself.
With no bag full of guineas so bright.
“If the Parliament 's gone, and the world it has scoffed us,
What a blessing to think that we 've Tottenham Loftus,
With his bag full of guineas so bright.
Oh, what consolation through every disaster,
To know that your Lordship is made our Postmaster,
And your uncle a Bishop, your aunt—but why mention,
Two thousand a year, 'of a long service pension'
Of a bag full of guineas so bright.
“But what is the change, since your Lordship appears!
You found us all Paupers, you left us all Peers,
With your bag full of guineas so bright.
Not a man in the island, however he boast,
But has a good reason to fill to the toast,—
From Cork to the Causeway, from Howth to Clue Bay,
A health and long life to my Lord Castlereagh,
With his bag full of guineas so bright.”
The boisterous accompaniment by which Mr. Nickie testified his satisfaction at the early verses had gradually subsided into a low droning sound, which at length, towards the conclusion, lapsed into a prolonged heavy snore. “Fast!” exclaimed M'Dermot, holding the candle close to his eyes. “Fast!” Then taking up the decanter, he added, “And if ye had gone off before, it would have been no great harm. Ye never had the bottle out of yer grip for the last hour and half!” He heaped some wood on the grate, refilled his glass, and then disposing himself so as to usurp a very large share of the blazing fire, prepared to follow the good example of his chief. Long habit had made an arm-chair to the full as comfortable as a bed to the worthy functionary, and his arrangements were scarcely completed, when his nose announced by a deep sound that he was a wanderer in the land of dreams.
Poor Mr. Dempsey—for if the reader may have forgotten him all this while, we must not—listened long and watchfully to the heavy notes, nor was it without considerable fear that he ventured to unveil his head and take a peep under Daly's arm at the sleepers. Reassured by the seeming heaviness of the slumberers, he dared a step farther, and at last seated himself bolt upright in the canoe, glad to relieve his cramped-up legs, even by this momentary change of position. So cautious were all his movements, so still and noiseless every gesture, that had there been a waking eye to mark him, it would have been hard enough to distinguish between his figure and those of his inanimate neighbors.
The deep and heavy breathing of the sleepers was the only sound to be heard; they snored as if it were a contest between them; still it was long before Dempsey could summon courage enough to issue from his hiding-place, and with stealthy steps approach the table. Cautiously lifting the candle, he first held it to the face of one and then of the other of the sleepers. His next move was to inspect the supper-table, where, whatever the former abundance, nothing remained save the veriest fragments: the bottles too were empty, and poor Dempsey shook his head mournfully as he poured out and drank the last half-glass of sherry in a decanter. This done, he stood for a few minutes reflecting what step he should take next. A sudden change of position of Nickie startled him from these deliberations, and Dempsey cowered down beneath the table in terror. Scarcely daring to breathe, Paul waited while the sleeper moved from side to side, muttering some short and broken words; at length he seemed to have settled himself to his satisfaction, for so his prolonged respiration bespoke. Just as he had turned for the last time, a heavy roll of papers fell from his pocket to the floor. Dempsey eyed the packet with a greedy look, but did not dare to reach his hand towards it, till well assured that the step was safe.
Taking a candle from the table, Paul reseated himself on the floor, and opened a large roll of documents tied with red tape; the very first he unrolled seemed to arrest his attention strongly, and although passing on to the examination of the remainder, he more than once recurred to it, till at length creeping stealthily towards the fire, he placed it among the burning embers, and stirred and poked until it became a mere mass of blackened leaves.
“There,” muttered he, “Paul Dempsey 's his own man again. And now what can he do for his friends? Ha, ha! 'Execution against Effects of Bagenal Daly, Esq.,'” said he, reading half aloud; “and this lengthy affair here, 'Instructions to A. N. relative to the enclosed'-let us see what that may be.” And so saying, he opened the scroll; a bright flash of flame burst out from among the slumbering embers, and ere it died away Paul read a few lines of the paper. “What scoundrels!” muttered he, as he wiped the perspiration from his forehead, for already had honest Paul's feelings excited him to the utmost. The flame was again flickering, in another moment it would be out, when, stealing forth his hand, he placed an open sheet upon it, and then, as the blaze caught, he laid the entire bundle of papers on the top, and watched them till they were reduced to ashes.
“Maybe it's a felony—I'm sure it's a misdemeanor at least—what I 've done now,” muttered he; “but there was no resisting it. I wish I thought it was no heavier crime to do the same by these worthy gentlemen here.”
Indeed, for a second or two, Paul's hesitation seemed very considerable. Fear, or something higher in principle, got the victory at length, and after a long silence he said,—
“Well, I 'll not harm them.” And with this benevolent sentiment he stood up, and detaching Darcy's portrait from the wall, thrust it into his capacious pocket. This done, he threw another glance over the table, lest some unseen decanter might still remain; but no, except a water-jug of pure element, nothing remained.
“Good-night, and pleasant dreams t'ye both,” muttered Paul, as, blowing out one candle, he took the other, and slipped, without the slightest noise, from the room.