Kitabı oku: «The Knight Of Gwynne, Vol. 2», sayfa 14

CHAPTER XVII. MR. ANTHONY NICKIE, ATTORNEY-AT-LAW

We have said that Mr. Dempsey had barely time to conceal himself when the door was opened, – so narrow indeed was his escape, that had the new arrival been a second sooner, discovery would have been inevitable; as it was, the pictorial Daly and Sandy rocked violently to and fro, making their natural ferocity and grimness something even more terrible than usual. Mr. Nickie remarked nothing of this. His first care was to divest himself of certain travelling encumbrances, like one who proposes to make a visit of some duration, and then, casting a searching look around the premises, he proceeded, —

“Now for Mr. Darcy – ”

“If ye ‘r maning the Knight of Gwynne, sir, his honor – ”

“Well, is his honor at home?” said the other, interrupting with a saucy laugh.

“No, sir,” said Tate, almost overpowered at the irreverence of his questioner.

“When do you expect him, then, – in an hour or two hours?”

“He ‘s in England,” said Tate, drawing a long breath.

“In England! What do you mean, old fellow? He has surely not left this lately?”

“Yes, sir, ‘twas the King sent for him, I heerd the mistress say.”

A burst of downright laughter from the stranger stopped poor Tate’s explanation.

“Why, it’s you his Majesty ought to have invited,” cried Mr. Nickie, wiping his eyes, “you yourself, man; devilish fit company for each other you ‘d be.”

Poor Tate had not the slightest idea of the grounds on which the stranger suggested his companionship for royalty, but he was not the less insulted at the disparagement of his master thus implied.

“‘T is little I know about kings or queens,” growled out the old man, “but they must be made of better clay than ever I seen yet, or they ‘re not too good company for the Knight of Gwynne.”

After a stare for some seconds, half surprise, half insolence, Nickie said, “You can tell me, perhaps, if this cottage is called ‘The Corvy’?”

“Ay, that’s the name of it.”

“The property of one Bagenal Daly, Esquire, isn’t it?”

Tate nodded an assent.

“Maybe he is in England too,” continued Nickie. “Perhaps it was the Queen sent for him, – he ‘s a handsome man, I suppose?”

“Faix, you can judge for yourself,” said Tate, “for there he is, looking at you this minute.”

Nickie turned about hastily, while a terrible fear shot through him that his remarks might have been heard by the individual himself; for, though a stranger to Daly personally, he was not so to his reputation for hare-brained daring and rashness, nor was it till he had stared at the wooden representative for some seconds that he could dispel his dread of the original.

“Is that like him?” asked he, affecting a sneer.

“As like as two pays,” said Tate, “barring about the eyes; Mr. Daly’s is brighter and more wild-looking. The Blessed Joseph be near us!” exclaimed the old man, crossing himself devoutly, “one would think the crayture knew what we were saying. Sorra lie in ‘t, there ‘s neither luck nor grace in talking about you!”

This last sentiment, uttered in a faint voice, was called forth by an involuntary shuddering of poor Mr. Dempsey, who, feeling that the whole scrutiny of the party was directed towards his hiding-place, trembled so violently that the plumes nodded, and the bone necklace jingled with the motion.

While Mr. Nickie attributed these signs to the wind, he at the same time conceived a very low estimate of poor Tate’s understanding, – an impression not altogether un-warranted by the sidelong and stealthy looks which he threw at the canoe and its occupants.

“You seem rather afraid of Mr. Daly,” said he, with a sneering laugh.

“And so would you be, too, if he was as near you as that chap is,” replied Tate, sternly. “I ‘ve known braver-looking men than either of us not like to stand before him. I mind the day – ”

Tate-s reminiscences were brought to a sudden stop by perceiving his mistress and Miss Darcy approaching the cottage; and hastening forward, he threw open the door, while by way of introduction he said, —

“A gentleman for the master, my Lady.”

Lady Eleanor flushed up, and as suddenly grew pale. She guessed at once the man and his errand.

“The Knight of Gwynne is from home, sir,” said she, in a voice her efforts could not render firm.

“I understand as much, madam,” said Nickie, who was struggling to recover the easy self-possession of his manner with the butler, but whose awkwardness increased at every instant. “I believe you expect him in a day or two?”

This was said to elicit if there might be some variance in the statement of Lady Eleanor and her servant.

“You are misinformed, sir. He is not in the kingdom, nor do I anticipate his speedy return.”

“So I told him, my Lady,” broke in the old butler. “I said the King wanted him – ”

“You may leave the room, Tate,” said Lady Eleanor, who perceived with annoyance the sneering expression old Tate’s simplicity had called up in the stranger’s face. “Now, sir,” said she, turning towards him, “may I ask if your business with the Knight of Gwynne is of that nature that cannot be transacted in his absence or through his law agent?”

“Scarcely, madam,” said Nickie, with a sententious gravity, who, in the vantage-ground his power gave him, seemed rather desirous of prolonging the interview. “Mr. Darcy’s part can scarcely be performed by deputy, even if he found any one friendly enough to undertake it.”

Lady Eleanor never spoke, but her hand grasped her daughter’s more closely, and they both stood pale and trembling with agitation. Helen was the first to rally from this access of terror, and with an assured voice she said, —

“You have heard, sir, that the Knight of Gwynne is absent; and as you say your business is with him alone, is there any further reason for your presence here?”

Mr. Nickie seemed for a moment taken aback by this unexpected speech, and for a few seconds made no answer; his nature and his calling, however, soon supplied presence of mind, and with an air of almost insolent familiarity he answered, —

“Perhaps there may be, young lady.” He turned, and opening the door, gave a sharp whistle, which was immediately responded to by a cry of “Here we are, sir,” and the two followers already mentioned entered the cottage.

“You may have heard of such a thing as an execution, ma’am,” said Nickie, addressing Lady Eleanor, in a voice of mock civility, “the attachment of property for debt. This is part of my business at the present moment.”

“Do you mean here, sir – in this cottage?” asked Lady Eleanor, in an accent scarcely audible from terror.

“Yes, ma’am, just so. The law allows fourteen days for redemption, with payment of costs, until which time these men here will remain on the premises; and although these gimcracks will scarcely pay my client’s costs, we must only make the best of it.”

“But this property is not ours, sir. This cottage belongs to a friend.”

“I am aware of that, ma’am. And that friend is about to answer for his own sins on the present occasion, and not yours. These chattels are attached as the property of Bagenal Daly, Esquire, at the suit of Peter Hickman, formerly of Loughrea, surgeon and apothecary.”

“Is Mr. Daly aware-does he know of these proceedings?” gasped Lady Eleanor, faintly.

“In the multiplicity of similar affairs, ma’am, it is quite possible he may have let this one escape his memory; for if I don’t mistake, he has two actions pending in the King’s Bench, an answer in equity, three cases of common assault, and a contempt ol court, – all upon his hands for this present session, not to speak of what this may portend.”

Here he took a newspaper from his pocket, and having doubled down a paragraph, handed it to Lady Eleanor.

Overwhelmed by grief and astonishment, she made no motion to take the paper, and Mr. Nickie, turning to Helen, read aloud, —

‘“There is a rumor prevalent in the capital this morning, to which we cannot, in the present uncertainty as to fact, make any more than a guarded allusion. It is indeed one of those strange reports which we can neither credit nor reject, – the only less probable thing than its truth being that any one could deliberately fabricate so foul a calumny. The story in its details we forbear to repeat; the important point, however, is to connect the name of a well-known and eccentric late M. P. for an Irish borough with the malicious burning of Newgate, and the subsequent escape of the robber Freney.

“‘The reasons alleged for this most extraordinary act are so marvellous, absurd, and contradictory that we will not trifle with our readers’ patience by recounting them. The most generally believed one, however, is, that the senator and the highwayman had maintained, for years past, an intercourse of a very confidential nature, the threat to reveal which, on his trial, Freney used as compulsory means of procuring his escape.’

“Carrick goes further,” added Mr. Nickie, as he restored the paper to his pocket, “and gives the name of Bagenal Daly, Esq., in full; stating, besides, that he sailed for Halifax on Sunday last.”

Lady Eleanor and Helen exchanged looks of intelligent meaning, as he finished the paragraph. To them Daly’s hurried departure had a most significant importance.

“This, ma’am, among other reasons,” resumed Nickie, “was another hint to my client to press his claim; for Mr. Daly’s departure once known, there would soon be a scramble for the little remnant of his property. With your leave, I ‘ll now put the keepers in possession. Perhaps you ‘ll not be offended,” added he, in a lower tone, “if I remark that it’s usual to offer the men some refreshment. Come here, M’Dermot,” said he, aloud, – “a very respectable man, and married, too, – the ladies will make you comfortable, Mick, and I ‘m sure you ‘ll be civil and obliging.”

A grunt and a gesture with both hands was the answer.

“Falls, we’ll station you in the kitchen; mind you behave yourself.

“I ‘ll just take a slight inventory of the principal things, – a mere matter of form, ma’am, – I know you ‘ll not remove one of them,” said Mr. Nickie, who, like most coarsely minded people, was never more offensive than when seeking to be complimentary. He did not notice, however, the indignant look with which his speech was received, but proceeded regularly in his office.

There is something insupportably offensive and revolting in the business-like way of those who execute the severities of the law. Like the undertaker, they can sharpen the pangs of misfortune by vulgarizing its sorrows. Lady Eleanor gazed, in but half-consciousness, at the scene; the self-satisfied assurance of the chief, the ruffian contented-ness of his followers, grating on every prejudice of her mind. Not so Helen; more quick to reason on impressions, she took in, at a glance, their sad condition, and saw that, in a few days at furthest, they should be houseless as well as friendless in the world, – no one near to counsel or to succor them! Such were her thoughts as almost mechanically her eyes followed the sheriff’s officer through the chamber.

“Not that, sir,” cried she, hastily, as he stopped in front of a miniature of her father, and was noting it down in his list, among the objects of the apartment, – “not that, sir.”

“And why not, miss?” said Nickie, with a leer of impudent familiarity.

“It is a portrait of the Knight of Gwynne, sir, and our property.”

“Sorry for it, miss, but the law makes no distinction with regard to property on the premises. You can always recover by a replevin.”

“Come, Helen, let us leave this,” said Lady Eleanor, faintly; “come away, child.”

“You said, sir,” said Helen, turning hastily about, – “you said, sir, that these proceedings were taken at the suit of Dr. Hickman. Was it his desire that we should be treated thus?”

“Upon my word, young lady, he gave no special directions on the subject, nor, if he had, would it signify much. The law, once set in motion, must take its course; I suppose you know that.”

Helen did not hear his speech out, for, yielding to her mother, she quitted the apartment.

Mr. Nickie stood for a few moments gazing at the door by which they had made their exit, and then, turning towards M’Dermot, with a knowing wink he said, “We’ll be better friends before we part, I ‘ll engage, little as she likes me now.”

“Faix, I never seen yer equal at getting round them,” answered the sub, in a voice of fawning flattery, the very opposite of his former gruff tone.

“That’s the way I always begin, when they take a saucy way with them,” resumed Nickie, who felt evidently pleased at the other’s admiration. “And when they ‘re brought down a bit to a sense of their situation, I can just be as kind as I was cruel.”

“Never fear ye!” said M’Dermot, with a sententious shake of the head. “Devil a taste of her would lave the room, if it wasn’t for the mother.”

“I saw that plain enough,” said Nickie, as he threw a self-approving look at himself in a tall mirror opposite.

“She’s a fine young girl, there’s no denying it,” said M’Dermot, who anticipated, as the result of his chief’s attention, a more liberal scale of treatment for himself. “But I don’t know how ye ‘ll ever get round her, though to be sure if you can’t, who can?”

“This inventory will keep me till night,” said Nickie, changing the theme quite suddenly, “and I’ll miss Dempsey, I ‘m afraid.”

“I hope not; sure you have his track, – haven’t you?”

“Yes, and I have four fellows after him, along the shore here, but they say he ‘s cunning as a fox. Well, I ‘ll not give him up in a hurry, that’s all. Is that rain I hear against the glass, Mick?”

“Ay, and dreadful rain too!” said the other, peeping through the window, which now rattled and shook with a sudden squall of wind. “You ‘ll not be able to leave this so late.”

“So I ‘m thinking, Mick,” said Nickie, laying down his writing-materials, and turning his back to the fire; “I believe I must stay where I am.”

“‘T is yourself is the boy!” cried Mick, with a look of admiration at his master.

“You ‘re wrong, Mick,” said he, with a scarce repressed smile, “all wrong; I wasn’t thinking of her.”

“Maybe not,” said M’Dermot, shaking his head doubtfully; “maybe she’s not thinking of you this minute! But, afther all, I don’t know how ye ‘ll do it. Any one would say the vardic was again you.”

“So it is, man, but can’t we move for a new trial?” So saying, he turned suddenly about, and pulled the bell.

M’Dermot said nothing, but stood staring at his chief, with a well-feigned expression of wonderment, as though to say, “What is he going to do next?”

The summons was speedily answered by old Tate, who stood in respectful attention within the door. Not the slightest suspicion had crossed the butler’s mind of Mr. Nickie’s calling, or of his object with the Knight, or his manner would certainly have displayed a very different politeness. “Didn’t you ring, sir?” said he, with a bow to Nickie, who now seemed vacillating, and uncertain how to proceed.

“Yes – I did – ring – the – bell,” replied he, hesitating between each word of the sentence. “I was about to say that, as the night was so severe, – a perfect hurricane it seems, – I should remain here. Eh, did you speak?”

“No, sir,” replied Tate, respectfully.

“You can inform your mistress, then, and say, with Mr. Nickie’s respectful compliments, – mind that! – that if they have no objection, he would be happy to join them at supper.”

Tate stood as if transfixed, not a sign of anger, not even of surprise in his features. The shock had actually stupefied him.

“Do ye hear what the gentleman ‘s saying to you?” asked Mick, in a stern voice.

“Sir?” said Tate, endeavoring to recover his routed faculties, – “sir?”

“Tell the old fool what I said,” muttered Nickie, with angry impatience; and then, as if remembering that his message might possibly be not over-courteously worded by Mr. M’Dennot, he approached Tate, and said, “Give your mistress Mr. Nickie’s compliments, and say that, not being able to return to Coleraine, he hopes he may be permitted to pass the evening with her and Miss Darcy.” This message, uttered with great rapidity, as if the speaker dare not trust himself with more deliberation, was accompanied by a motion of the hand, which half pushed the old butler from the room.

Neither Mr. Nickie nor his subordinate exchanged a word during Tate’s absence. The former, indeed, seemed far less confident of his success than at first, and M’Dermot waited the issue, for his cue what part to take in the transaction.

If Tate’s countenance, when he left the room, exhibited nothing but confusion and bewilderment, when he reentered it his looks were composed and steadfast.

“Well?” said Nickie, as the old butler stood for a second without speaking, – “well?”

“Her Ladyship says that you and the other men, sir, may receive any accommodation the house affords.” He paused for a moment or two, and then added, “Her Ladyship declines Mr. Nickie’s society.”

“Did she give you that message herself?” asked Nickie, hastily; “are those her own words?”

“Them’s her words,” said Tate, dryly.

“I never heerd the likes – ”

“Stop, Mick, hold your tongue!” said Nickie, to his over-zealous follower; while he muttered to himself, “My name is n’t Anthony Nickie, or I ‘ll make her repent that speech! Ay, faith,” said he, aloud, as turning to the portrait of the Knight he appeared to address it, “you shall come to the hammer as the original did before you.” If Tate had understood the purport of this sarcasm, it is more than probable the discussion would have taken another form; as it was, he listened to Mr. Nickie’s orders about the supper with due decorum, and retired to make the requisite preparations. “I will make a night of it, by – ,” exclaimed Nickie, as with clinched fist he struck the table before him. “I hope you know how to sing, Mick?”

“I can do a little that way, sir,” grinned the ruffian, “when the company is pressin’. If it was n’t too loud – ”

“Too loud! you may drown the storm out there, if ye ‘re able. But wait till we have the supper and the liquor before us, as they might cut off the supplies.” And with this prudent counsel, they suffered Tate to proceed in his arrangements, without uttering another word.

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.”