The surgeon looked very queer and gloomy down upon
the table, and scratched his head, and he mumbled
gruffly—
‘You see—you know—’tis
a large fee, to be sure; but then—’
‘Come, Sir,’ said Dangerfield, looking
as though he’d pull him by the ear; ’it
is a large fee, and you’ll get no more—you
should not stick at trifles, when there’s—a—a—justice
and humanity—and, to be brief, Sir—yes
or no?’
‘Yes,’ answered the doctor; ‘but
how’s the fee secured?’
‘Hey! I’d forgot. Right, Sir—you
shall be satisfied.’
And he took a pen, and wrote on the back of a letter—
* * * *
*
’SIR—Considering the hopeless condition
in which Dr. Sturk now lies, and the vast importance
of restoring him, Dr. Sturk, of the R.I.A., to the
power of speech, even for a few minutes, I beg to second
Mrs. Sturk’s request to you; and when you shall
have performed the critical operation she desires,
I hereby promise, whether it succeed or fail, to give
you a fee of five hundred guineas.
PAUL
DANGERFIELD.
‘The Brass Castle, Chapelizod.’
And he dated it, and handed it to the surgeon, who
read it through, and then looked with a gruff hesitation
at the writer.
’Oh, you’ve only to enquire—anyone
who knows Chapelizod will tell you who I am; and you’ll
want something—eh?—to take you
out of this—how much?’
’Only seven guineas. There’s a little
score here, and some fees. Eighteen will cover
everything, unless something has come in this morning.’
So they went to ‘the Hatch,’ and made
enquiries, and all being well, Mr. Dangerfield dealt
liberally with the surgeon, who promised to be in
attendance at Dr. Sturk’s house in Chapelizod,
at seven o’clock next evening.
‘And pray, Dr. Dillon, come in a coach,’
said Dangerfield, ’and in costume—you
understand. They’ve been accustomed, you
know, to see Pell and other doctors who make a parade.’
And with these injunctions they parted; and the surgeon,
whose luggage was trifling, jumped into a coach with
it, and jingled home to his den and his liberty.
IN WHICH CHRISTIANA GOES OVER; AND DAN LOFTUS COMES
HOME.
This evening Lily Walsingham was early tired and very
weak, Sally thought, and more glad than usual to lie
down in her bed; and there her old and loving nurse
fancied that she looked a little strange, and that
her thoughts sometimes wandered.
She lay very quietly for a good while, and suddenly,
with a beautiful look, and in a clear, glad voice,
she said—
‘Mother!’
And old Sally said—
‘There’s no one, dear Miss Lily, but me.’
But she was looking earnestly, and, with a wrapt smile,
only said—
‘Oh!’
She thought she saw her, I believe.
