Читать книгу The Fortunes of Hector O'Halloran, and His Man, Mark Antony O'Toole - W. H. Maxwell - Страница 20

Our career was short and brilliant. We managed to get up a row in Dame-street with a party of college men, bent on the same errand as ourselves. The watch interfered—we joined our quondam opponents in a treaty, offensive and defensive, to resist this impertinent intervention, and the fight for a short time was respectably maintained. But numbers succeeded. I was stretched hors de combat; sundry belligerents (the quaker included) were captured and carried to the watch-house, while the remainder, reserving themselves for deeds of valour on a future day, levanted, and left us to our fate.

Either owing to the severity of the blow, or from the shock of the fall, after having saluted my mother earth I lay perfectly motionless; while, alarmed at this proof of prowess, instead of conveying me to durance vile, the guardians of the night, declaring me dead as Julius Cæsar, carried me into a neighbouring apothecary’s, to ascertain whether that disciple of the healing god could minister to mortal wounds, and set defunct gentlemen safe upon their legs again. The doctor having wiped and mounted his spectacles, proceeded to what he believed would turn out a post mortem examination; for after a single glance, he started back and exclaimed—

“Why, ye villans—every sowl of ye will be hanged! Haven’t ye murdered a quaker?”

“Not at all,” responded the commander of the faithful. “Sure it was the quaker that murdered us.”

“Have done, ye scoundrels! He’s a man of peace.”

“Pace or war,” returned a watchman, “he’s the hardest hitter betune this and Bully’s acre, and that’s a big word. He give me one clip wid the left hand, and jist look at my eye, af ye plase. By this book,” and Charlie reverently held up his lantern, “I think it was the crown of my head that first titched the gravel. It was the clanest knock down I ivir got—and many’s the floorer I’ve had in my time from thim college divils. Bad luck attind them night and day—the thieves!”

“Who is the gentleman?” inquired the apothecary.

“Arrah! sorra one of us knows,” was the reply.

“Search his pockets,” said the leech;—“some paper will probably tell.”

The quaker’s coatee forthwith underwent a judicial investigation, and divers mercantile documents at once established the identity.

“Why,” said the apothecary, “he’s son of Mr. Pryme, the rich merchant, a man whom every body respects. By my conscience, I have one comfort for ye. If any thing goes wrong with the boy here, every man Jack of ye is sure of Botany Bay—ay! and the devil a rap it will cost any of ye for the passage out.”

“Oh!—murder! murder!” ejaculated sundry voices.

“Whish’t!” said the doctor, for I gave a twist upon the floor, and muttered—“Fill fair, and be d———d to you.”

“Holy Bridget!” ejaculated the chief of the Charlies—“if ivir I met a quaker of his kind. He drinks like a fish, and swears like a trooper!”

“All! he’s coming round again,” exclaimed the doctor. “See!—the colour’s on his cheek. I tell you what you’ll do. Call a chair, carry him home fur and asy; and, if ye can, smuggle him down the area steps, for the ould gentleman wouldn’t be overpleased to see him. I’ll drop the lad a line or two in the morning, and make all right for you.”

Instantly a charlie trotted off, and in a few minutes I was safely ensconced in a “leathern conveniency” now extinct, which at that time performed a double duty in transporting beauty to the ball-room, and drunkards to their cribs.

I was promptly conveyed to my destination; and, by some strange fatality, a new chief butler that very evening had succeeded the former “pantler” of Mr. Pryme. I was, of course, personally unknown to’ him; and having been discreetly slipped down the area steps, it was explained that “I was rather the worse of liquor, and had been mighty pugnacious into the bargain.” The butler took me on his back; and without let or hindrance, I was carried to the chamber of the absent Samuel—stripped—put to bed,—promised a bowl of whey—and left in undisputed possession of the dormitory of the drunken quaker.

Two or three hours passed; and how the secret transpired I cannot guess. I was buried in profound sleep, when lights, flashed across my eyes and awakened me. Through an opening in the curtains I saw three females beside the bed; and I also discovered that the apartment was a strange one.

Surprise or fear will sometimes remove the consequences of inebriety, and men become suddenly sober. I felt this singular effect. In a moment after I awoke, I was conscious that I had been lately a victim to “the rosy god,” and that I was now, in Irish parlance, “just in the very centre of a hobble.” Dipping my face beneath the counterpane, I murmured in a growling voice—“The lights! the lights! my head, my head!”

“Ruth,” said the elder female, “remove the candles. Samuel! my son, what meaneth this? Art thou fallen?”

“Yes,” I groaned; “I had a heavy fall, indeed.”

“Ah! Samuel—would that that groan were the groan of sin, and not of suffering; and that thy conscience rather than thy stomach were moved. Speak! How did the enemy overtake thee? Where did he enclose thee in his net?”

I dipped my head beneath the bed coverings, and, in a husky voice, muttered—“The barracks in George’s-street.”

“Mercy on us!—Ruth—Rachel. It is the large brick building in which abide godless men in scarlet. And how, Samuel, did the evil one achieve thy fall?”

“One said I was floored by a charlie, and another left it upon a clip from a blackthorn.”

“No, no, Samuel; I ask the carnal means. Was it by that soul-destroying liquor, wine, or was it by worse?”

“Worse, worse,” I mumbled in reply.

“Oh dear!” ejaculated Mrs. Pryme.

“Ah me!” responded the gentle Rachel.

“Alack, alack! continued the conscientious Ruth.

“Name the snare of the tempter.”

“I’m too bashful,” I grumbled.

Nay, Samuel. Close thy ears, Ruth—avert thy head, Rachel; he would not have his shame revealed. Was it, Samuel, a dancing Herodias—or some Delilah, with bewitching looks!

“No, no; worse, worse.”

“Mercy on us! Speak, and name the fatal cause.”

“Punch—punch!—Whisky new—the kettle not boiled—and too much acid,” came grumbling from below the blankets.

“How fearful is inebriety! Thy very voice, my son, is changed. But verily, as it is thy first offending, I will pardon it, and give thee the kiss of peace.”

So saying, she popped her head through the curtains, and bestowed upon me the reconciliatory accolade. After thus sealing my pardon, the worthy gentlewoman sailed out of the apartment, accompanied by her handmaid Ruth.

I felt myself in a curious position,—located in a strange house, ensconced in a comfortable bed from which the right owner would presently eject me, and watched by a lovely girl of eighteen, on whose sweet countenance the very imprint of innocence was stamped. And what was I?—A regular impostor. Well, what was to be done? Should I admit my villany, and be bundled off direct to Newgate, under a charge of burglary, or some more felonious intentions? And to whom was this interesting confession to be made? The old dame?—no, faith—there no kiss of peace would ratify my pardon. The young one?—pshaw, the very idea that she had been seated beside the bed of a man in scarlet would annihilate Rachel on the spot. No doubt a discovery must ensue—but, like every thing a man dislikes, I determined to procrastinate it and trust to fortune.

“Samuel,” said the sweetest voice imaginable, “does thy head ache? Let me apply this essence and passing her hand gently through the curtains, she bathed my temples with eau-de-Cologne. My arm was outside the coverlid,—she took my hand in hers and pressed it affectionately.

“How feverish!” she murmured. “But here comes Ruth, with something our mother sends, which will allay thy thirst.”

The stiff-backed abigail deposited the liquid on a table.

“Come, Rachel, sleep will restore thy brother.” Then addressing herself to me, “Farewell, friend Samuel,—may this be the last of thy foolishness and after this flattering admonition, she exited from the chamber, stiff as a ramrod.

“Farewell, dear brother,”—and Rachel again clasped my hand in hers,—“good night! I trust sincerely I shall find thee better in the morning.”

“Stop!” I mumbled. “Rachel, dear,—dear Rachel!”

“What, my brother?”

“The—the—the kiss of peace!” I managed to stammer from beneath the bed coverings.

“Willingly, dear Samuel;” and lips, “full, rosy, ripe,” were artlessly pressed to mine, while a prayer, pure from a guileless heart, implored pardon for the past, and a blessing for the future. The next moment the door was softly closed, and I “left alone in my glory.”

Would it be credited that under such circumstances had the audacity to sleep? But sleep I did—and when I slept, my head was on a peaceful pillow, and the kiss of innocence still fragrant on my lips.