And they stood, each in his reverie, looking over
the battlement toward Belmont, and hearing the hushed
roll of the river, and seeing nothing but the deep
blue, and the stars, and the black outline of the trees
that overhung the bridge, until the enamoured Cluffe,
who liked his comforts, and knew what gout was, felt
the chill air, and remembered suddenly that they had
stopped, and ought to be in motion toward their beds,
and so he shook up Puddock, and they started anew,
and parted just at the Phoenix, shaking hands heartily,
like two men who had just done a good stroke of business
together.
IN WHICH MR. DANGERFIELD VISITS THE CHURCH OF CHAPELIZOD,
AND ZEKIEL IRONS GOES A FISHING.
Early next morning Lord Castlemallard, Dangerfield,
and Nutter, rode into Chapelizod, plaguy dusty, having
already made the circuit of that portion of his property
which lay west of the town. They had poked into
the new mills and the old mills, and contemplated the
quarries, and lime-kilns, and talked with Doyle about
his holding, and walked over the two vacant farms,
and I know not all besides. And away trotted his
lordship to his breakfast in town. And Dangerfield
seeing the church door open, dismounted and walked
in, and Nutter did likewise.
Bob Martin was up in the gallery, I suppose, doing
some good, and making a considerable knocking here
and there in the pews, and walking slowly with creaking
shoes. Zekiel Irons, the clerk, was down below
about his business, at the communion table at the
far end, lean, blue-chinned, thin-lipped, stooping
over his quarto prayer books, and gliding about without
noise, reverent and sinister. When they came in,
Nutter led the way to Lord Castlemallard’s pew,
which brought them up pretty near to the spot where
grave Mr. Irons was prowling serenely. The pew
would soon want new flooring, Mr. Dangerfield thought,
and the Castlemallard arms and supporters, a rather
dingy piece of vainglory, overhanging the main seat
on the wall, would be nothing the worse of a little
fresh gilding and paint.
’There was a claim—eh—to
one foot nine inches off the eastern end of the pew,
on the part of—of the family—at
Inchicore, I think they call it,’ said Dangerfield,
laying his riding-whip like a rule along the top to
help his imagination—’Hey—that
would spoil the pew.’
’The claim’s settled, and Mr. Langley
goes to the other side of the aisle,’ said Nutter,
nodding to Irons, who came up, and laid his long clay-coloured
fingers on the top of the pew door, and one long, thin
foot on the first step, and with half-closed eyes,
and a half bow, he awaited their pleasure.
‘The Langley family had this pew,’
said Dangerfield, with a side nod to that next his
lordship’s.
‘Yes, Sir,’ said Irons, with the same
immutable semblance of a smile, and raising neither
his head nor his eyes.
‘And who’s got it now?’
