“Well,” said Phil, “so far everything is turning out very fortunate for us—but I think, Captain, that you are one of those men who are born under what they call a lucky planet;—eh? old boy?”
“Well, I think so; but in the meantime see Poll Doolin, and after that pay a visit to my father. The old scoundrel is upon his last legs, and there can be no harm in paying him some attention now. You are not a favorite of his; so smooth him down as much as you can. I don't myself expect that he will remember either of us in his will; but, as he is hasty and capricious, it is difficult to say what effect a favorable impression might have upon him.”
“Neither are you a favorite with Isabel, or Jezabel, as he calls her.”
“No, I made a bad move there—but, after all, what did I, or rather, what could I lose by neglecting her? Did she not succeed in banishing every one of his relatives from about him? It was neither her interest nor her inclination to keep in with his friends:—go and see him, at all events; reconnoitre, and report accordingly—and now if these fellows are come let them be sent in.”
Phil accordingly withdrew to follow up his own speculations, and in a few minutes our friends, who so bravely distinguished themselves in the widow's cabin, entered the office. Val, like most men of his class and experience, was forced to undergo strong contests between the vanity occasioned by his success in life, and his own shrewd sense and acute perception of character. Whenever he could indulge that vanity without allowing its gratification to be perceived by others, he always did so; but if he happened to have a person to deal with, whom he suspected of a sufficiently keen penetration, his own sagacity always checked its display. No man ever puzzled him so thoroughly as O'Drive, who so varied and timed his flattery, as to keep him in a state of perpetual alternation between a perception of the fellow's knavery, and a belief in his simplicity of heart. On one occasion he would exclaim to himself or Phil, “This O'Drive is a desperate knave,—it's impossible that he can be honest;” and again, “Well, well; there is too much simplicity there, too much truth unnecessarily told, to allow me to consider that poor devil a rogue—no, he is honest.” The consequence was, that Darby flattered him, and he relished it so strongly because he did not imagine it was intentional, that Darby understood his weak points, in that respect, better than any man living. This, in a country where the people are shrewd observers in general, could scarcely be supposed to escape their observation; nor did it. Darby's manner was so naturally imitated by others, that even the keen and vigilant Valentine M'Olutchy was frequently over-reached without being at all conscious of the fact.
When the men of the Castle Cumber corps came in, they found their captain sitting, or rather lolling, in a deep-seated arm-chair, dressed in a morning-gown and red morocco slippers. He was, or appeared to be, deeply engaged over a pile of papers, parchments, and letters, and for about a minute raised not his head. At length he drew a long breath, and exclaimed in a soliloquy—“just so, my lord, just so; every man that scruples to support the Protestant interests will meet no countenance from you;—'nor shall he, Mr. M'Clutchy, from you, as my representative,' you add—'and I beg you'”—he went on to road a few lines further—“'to transmit me the names and capacities of all those who are duly active on my property in suppressing disturbance, convicting criminals, and preserving the peace; especially those who are remarkable for loyal and constitutional principles; such are the men we will cherish, such are the men we must and ought to serve.' It is very true, my lord, it is very true indeed, and—oh! my friends, I beg your pardon! I hadn't noticed you—oh, dear me! how is this? why I didn't imagine you had been so sadly abused as all this comes to—this is dreadful, and all in resisting the king's warrant against the murderer. But how did it happen that this Harman murdered our poor friend Harpur?”
“Harpur is done for, captain, sure enough; there's no doubt of that.”
“Well, it's one comfort that we live in a country where there is justice, my friends. Of course you will prosecute him for this diabolical murder; I sent for you to receive your informations, and we shall lodge him in gaol before night.”
“I would rather prosecute that Blackguard Rimon-a-hattha,” said a man, whose head was awfully swollen, and bound up with a handkerchief, “Rimon, Captain, is the greatest rascal of the two—he is, by, Japurs.”
“Yes, but is he not an idiot, Johnston? In point of law he is only a fiction, and cannot be prosecuted.”