About poor Mrs. Nutter’s illness, and the causes of it, various stories were current in Chapelizod.  Some had heard it was a Blackamoor witch who had evoked the foul fiend in bodily shape from the parlour cupboard, and that he had with his cloven foot kicked her and Sally Nutter round the apartment until then screams brought in Charles Nutter, who was smoking in the garden; and that on entering, he would have fared as badly as the rest, had he not had presence of mind to pounce at once upon the great family Bible that lay on the window-sill, with which he belaboured the infernal intruder to a purpose.  Others reported ’twas the ghost of old Philip Nutter, who rose through the floor, and talked I know not what awful rhodomontade.  These were the confabulations of the tap-room and the kitchen; but the speculations and rumours current over the card-table and claret glasses were hardly more congruous or intelligible.  In fact, nobody knew well what to make of it.  Nutter certainly had disappeared, and there was an uneasy feeling about him.  The sinister terms on which he and Sturk had stood were quite well known, and though nobody spoke out, every one knew pretty well what his neighbour was thinking of.

Our blooming friend, the handsome and stalworth Magnolia, having got a confidential hint from agitated Mrs. Mack, trudged up to the mills, in a fine frenzy, vowing vengeance on Mary Matchwell, for she liked poor Sally Nutter well.  And when, with all her roses in her cheeks, and her saucy black eyes flashing vain lightnings across the room in pursuit of the vanished woman in sable, the Amazon with black hair and slender waist comforted and pitied poor Sally, and anathematised her cowardly foe, it must be confessed she looked plaguy handsome, wicked, and good-natured.

’Mary Matchwell, indeed! I’ll match her well, wait a while, you’ll see if I don’t.  I’ll pay her off yet, never mind, Sally, darling.  Arrah!  Don’t be crying, child, do you hear me. What’s that? Charles? Why, then, is it about Charles you’re crying?  Charles Nutter?  Phiat! woman dear! don’t you think he’s come to an age to take care of himself?  I’ll hold you a crown he’s in Dublin with the sheriff, going to cart that jade to Bridewell.  And why in the world didn’t you send for me, when you wanted to discourse with Mary Matchwell?  Where was the good of my poor dear mother?  Why, she’s as soft as butter.  ’Twas a devil like me you wanted, you poor little darling.  Do you think I’d a let her frighten you this way—­the vixen—­I’d a knocked her through the window as soon as look at her.  She saw with half an eye she could frighten you both, you poor things.  Oh! ho! how I wish I was here.  I’d a put her across my knee and—­no—­do you say?  Pooh! you don’t know me, you poor innocent little creature; and, do ye mind now, you must not be moping here.  Sally Nutter, all alone, you’ll just come down to us, and drink a cup of tea and play a round game and hear the news; and look up now and give me a kiss, for I like you, Sally, you kind old girl.’