In which Mr. Paul Dangerfield Mounts the Stairs of the House by the Church-Yard, and Makes Some Arrangements.

The white figure glided duskily over the bridge. The river rushed beneath in Egyptian darkness. The air was still, and a thousand celestial eyes twinkled down brightly through the clear deep sky upon the actors in this true story. He kept the left side, so that the road lay between him and the Phoenix door, which gaped wide with a great hospitable grin, and crimsoned the night air with a glow of candle-light.

The white figure turned the corner, and glided onward in a straight, swift line — straight and swift as fate — to the door of Doctor Sturk.

He knocked softly at the hall-door, and swiftly stepped in and shut it.

‘How’s your master?’

‘Jist the same way, plaze yer honour; jist sleepin’— still sleepin’— sleepin’ always,’ answered the maid.

‘Has the Dublin doctor come?’

‘No.’

‘The mistress — where’s she?’

‘In the room, Sir, with the masther.’

‘Present my service to her — Mr. Dangerfield’s compliments, you know — and say I await her permission to come up stairs.’

Presently the maid returned, with poor Mrs. Sturk’s invitation to Mr. Dangerfield to walk up.

Up he went, leaving his white surtout and cocked hat in the hall, and entered the chamber where pale little Mrs. Sturk, who had been crying a great deal, sat in a dingy old tabby saque, by the light of a solitary mould-candle at the bed-side of the noble Barney.

The mutton-fat wanted snuffing; but its light danced and splintered brilliantly over Mr. Dangerfield’s resplendent shoe-buckles, and up and down his cut-steel buttons, and also glimmered in a more phosphoric way upon his silver spectacles, as he bowed at the door, arrayed in a puce cut velvet coat, lined with pink, long embroidered satin waistcoat, fine lace ruffles and cravat, his well-shaped leg gleaming glossily in silk, and altogether, in his glimmering jewellery, and purple and fine linen, resembling Dives making a complimentary visit to the garret of Lazarus.

Poor little Mrs. Sturk felt her obligations mysteriously enlarged by so much magnificence, and wondered at the goodness of this white-headed angel in point, diamonds, and cut velvet, who had dropped from the upper regions upon the sad and homely floor of her Barney’s sick chamber.

‘Dr. Dillon not yet arrived, Madam? Well, ’tis precisely his hour; we shall have him soon. How does the patient? Ha! just as usual. How?— why there’s a change, isn’t there?’

‘As how, Sir?’ enquired Mrs. Sturk, with a scared look.

‘Why, don’t you see? But you mustn’t be frightened; there’s one coming in whom I have every confidence.’

‘I don’t see, Sir. What is it, Mr. Dangerfield? Oh, pray, Sir?’

‘Why — a — nothing very particular, only he looks more languid than when I saw him last, and discoloured somewhat, and his face more sunk, I think — eh?’

‘Oh, no, Sir —’tis this bad light — nothing more, indeed, Sir. This evening, I assure you, Mr. Dangerfield, at three o’clock, when the sun was shining, we were all remarking how well he looked. I never saw — you’d have said so — such a wonderful improvement.’

And she snuffed the candle, and held it up over Barney’s grim features.

‘Well, Madam, I hope we soon may find it. ’Twill be a blessed sight — eh?— when he sits up in that bed, Madam, as I trust he may this very night, and speak — eh?’

‘Oh! my precious Barney!’ and the poor little woman began to cry, and fell into a rhapsody of hopes, thanksgiving, anecdote and prayer.

In the meanwhile Dangerfield was feeling his pulse, with his watch in the hollow of his hand.

‘And aren’t they better — his pulse, Sir — they were stronger this morning by a great deal than last night — it was just at ten o’clock — don’t you perceive, Sir?’

‘H’m — well, I hope, Ma’am, we’ll soon find all better. Now, have you got all things ready — you have, of course, a sheet well aired?’

‘A sheet — I did not know ’twas wanted.’

‘Hey, this will never do, my dear Madam — he’ll be here and nothing ready; and you’ll do well to send over to the mess-room for a lump of ice. ’Tis five minutes past nine. If you’ll see to these things, I’ll sit here, Madam, and take the best care of the patient — and, d’ye see, Mistress Sturk, ’twill be necessary that you take care that Toole hears nothing of Dr. Dillon’s coming.’

It struck me, when originally reading the correspondence which is digested in these pages, as hardly credible that Doctor Sturk should have continued to live for so long a space in a state of coma. Upon this point, therefore, I took occasion to ask the most eminent surgeon of my acquaintance, who at once quieted my doubts by detailing a very remarkable case cited by Sir A. Cooper in his lectures, Vol. I., p. 172. It is that of a seaman, who was pressed on board one of his Majesty’s ships, early in the revolutionary war; and while on board this vessel, fell from the yard-arm, and was taken up insensible, in which state he continued living for thirteen months and some days!

So with a little more talk, Mrs. Sturk, calling one of her maids, and leaving the little girl in charge of the nursery, ran down with noiseless steps and care-worn face to the kitchen, and Mr. Dangerfield was left alone in the chamber with the spell-bound sleeper on the bed.

In about ten seconds he rose sharply from his chair and listened: then very noiselessly he stepped to the door and listened again, and gently shut it.

Then Mr. Dangerfield moved to the window. There was a round hole in the shutter, and through it he glanced into the street, and was satisfied.

By this time he had his white-pocket-handkerchief in his hands. He folded it deftly across and across into a small square, and then the spectacles flashed coldly on the image of Dr. Sturk, and then on the door; and there was a pause.

‘What’s that?’ he muttered sharply, and listened for a second or two.

It was only one of the children crying in the nursery. The sound subsided.

So with another long silent step, he stood by the capriole-legged old mahogany table, with the scallop shell containing a piece of soap and a washball, and the basin with its jug of water standing therein. Again he listened while you might count two, and dipped the handkerchief, so folded, into the water, and quietly squeezed it; and stood white and glittering by Sturk’s bed-side.

People moved very noiselessly about that house, and scarcely a minute had passed when the door opened softly, and the fair Magnolia Macnamara popped in her glowing face and brilliant glance, and whispered.

‘Are you there, Mrs. Sturk, dear?’

At the far side of the bed, Dangerfield, with his flashing spectacles and snowy aspect, and a sort of pant, rose up straight, and looked into her eyes, like a white bird of prey disturbed over its carrion.

She uttered a little scream — quit............