‘Yes, Sir, he’s a very pretty young, man,
and very well dressed,’ said his lordship, with
manifest dissatisfaction: ’but I don’t
like meeting him, you know. ’Tis not his
fault; but one can’t help thinking of—of
things! and I’d be glad his friends would advise
him not to dress in velvets, you know—particularly
black velvets you can understand. I could not
help thinking, at the time, of a pall, somehow.
I’m not—no—not pleasant
near him. No—I—I can’t—his
face is so pale—you don’t often,
see so pale a face—no—it looks
like a reflection from one that’s still paler—you
understand—and in short, even in his perfumes
there’s a taint of—of—you
know—a taint of blood, Sir. Then there
was a pause, during which he kept slapping his boot
peevishly with his little riding-whip. ‘One
can’t, of course, but be kind,’ he recommenced.
’I can’t do much—I can’t
make him acceptable, you know—but I pity
him, Dr. Walsingham, and I’ve tried to be kind
to him, you know that; for ten years I had
all the trouble, Sir, of a guardian without the authority
of one. Yes, of course we’re kind; but body
o’ me! Sir, he’d be better any where
else than here, and without occupation, you know,
quite idle, and so conspicuous. I promise you
there are more than I who think it. And he has
commenced fitting up that vile old house—that
vile house, Sir. It is ready to tumble down—upon
my life they say so; Nutter says so, and Sturk—Dr.
Sturk, of the Artillery here—an uncommon
sensible man, you know, says so too. ’Tis
a vile house, and ready to tumble down, and you know
the trouble I was put to by that corporation fellow—a—what’s
his name—about it; and he can’t let
it—people’s servants won’t
stay in it, you know, the people tell such stories
about it, I’m told; and what business has he
here, you know? It is all very fine for a week
or so, but they’ll find him out, they will, Sir.
He may call himself Mervyn, or Fitzgerald, or Thompson,
Sir, or any other name, but it won’t do, Sir.
No, Dr. Walsingham, it won’t do. The people
down in this little village here, Sir, are plaguy
sharp—they’re cunning; upon my life,
I believe they are too hard for Nutter.’
In fact, Sturk had been urging on his lordship the
purchase of this little property, which, for many
reasons ought to be had a bargain, and adjoined Lord
Castlemallard’s, and had talked him into viewing
it quite as an object. No wonder, then, he should
look on Mervyn’s restorations and residence,
in the light of an impertinence and an intrusion.
CHAPTER XIV.
RELATING HOW PUDDOCK PURGED O’FLAHERTY’S
HEAD—A CHAPTER WHICH, IT IS HOPED, NO GENTEEL
PERSON WILL READ.
Copyrights
The House by the Church-Yard from Project Gutenberg. Public domain.
