“I’d have you ducked for a witch, for
two-pence,” roared the Captain up the staircase,
with his hand on the banisters, standing on the lobby.
But the door of the chamber of death clapped angrily,
and he went down to the parlour, where he examined
the holy candle for a while, with a tipsy gravity,
and then with something of that reverential feeling
for the symbolic, which is not uncommon in rakes and
scamps, he thoughtfully locked it up in a press, where
were accumulated all sorts of obsolete rubbish—soiled
packs of cards, disused tobacco pipes, broken powder
flasks, his military sword, and a dusky bundle of
the “Flash Songster,” and other questionable
literature.
He did not trouble the dead lady’s room any
more. Being a volatile man it is probable that
more cheerful plans and occupations began to entertain
his fancy.
My Uncle Watson Visits Wauling
So the poor lady was buried decently, and Captain
Walshawe reigned alone for many years at Wauling.
He was too shrewd and too experienced by this time
to run violently down the steep hill that leads to
ruin. So there was a method in his madness; and
after a widowed career of more than forty years, he,
too, died at last with some guineas in his purse.
Forty years and upwards is a great edax rerum,
and a wonderful chemical power. It acted forcibly
upon the gay Captain Walshawe. Gout supervened,
and was no more conducive to temper than to enjoyment,
and made his elegant hands lumpy at all the small
joints, and turned them slowly into crippled claws.
He grew stout when his exercise was interfered with,
and ultimately almost corpulent. He suffered from
what Mr. Holloway calls “bad legs,” and
was wheeled about in a great leathern-backed chair,
and his infirmities went on accumulating with his
years.
I am sorry to say, I never heard that he repented,
or turned his thoughts seriously to the future.
On the contrary, his talk grew fouler, and his fun
ran upon his favourite sins, and his temper waxed
more truculent. But he did not sink into dotage.
Considering his bodily infirmities, his energies and
his malignities, which were many and active, were
marvellously little abated by time. So he went
on to the close. When his temper was stirred,
he cursed and swore in a way that made decent people
tremble. It was a word and a blow with him; the
latter, luckily, not very sure now. But he would
seize his crutch and make a swoop or a pound at the
offender, or shy his medicine-bottle, or his tumbler,
at his head.
It was a peculiarity of Captain Walshawe, that he,
by this time, hated nearly everybody. My uncle,
Mr. Watson, of Haddlestone, was cousin to the Captain,
and his heir-at-law. But my uncle had lent him
money on mortgage of his estates, and there had been
a treaty to sell, and terms and a price were agreed
upon, in “articles” which the lawyers
said were still in force.
