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-glass 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 principal 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 muffled gusts of the storm, and the close
soft beat of the snow, so she listened and listened, but nothing came of
it.
'Tis only the vapours,' said Betty, drawing a long breath, and doing
her best to be cheerful; and so she finished her labours, stopping every
now and then to listen, and humming tunes very loud, in fits and starts. Then it came to her turn to take her candle and go up stairs; she was a good half-hour later than Moggy—all was quiet within the house—only the sound of the storm—the creak and rattle of its strain, and the hurly-burly of the gusts over the roof and chimneys.
Over her shoulder she peered jealously this way and that, as with
flaring candle she climbed the stairs. How black the window looked on
the lobby, with its white patterns of snow flakes in perpetual
succession sliding down the panes. Who could tell what horrid face might
be looking in close to her as she passed, secure in the darkness and
that drifting white lace veil of snow? So nimbly and lightly up the
stairs climbed Betty, the cook.
If listeners seldom hear good of themselves, it is also true that
peepers sometimes see more than they like; and Betty, the cook, as she
reached the landing, glancing askance with ominous curiosity, beheld a
spectacle, the sight of which nearly bereft her of her senses.