exorcised for ever the unquiet spirit of intrigue, but wound up the tale of his days.  It was true that he was never more to step from that bed, and that his little children would, ere many days, be brought there by kindly, horror-loving maids, to look their last on ‘the poor master,’ and kiss awfully his cold stern mouth before the coffin lid was screwed down, and the white-robed image of their father hidden away for ever from their sight.

CHAPTER LVIII.

IN WHICH ONE OF LITTLE BOPEEP’S SHEEP COMES HOME AGAIN, AND VARIOUS THEORIES ARE ENTERTAINED RESPECTING CHARLES NUTTER AND LIEUTENANT PUDDOCK.

And just on Monday morning, in the midst of this hurly-burly of conjecture, who should arrive, of all the people in the world, and re-establish himself in his old quarters, but Dick Devereux.  The gallant captain was more splendid and handsome than ever.  But both his spirits and his habits had suffered.  He had quarrelled with his aunt, and she was his bread and butter—­ay, buttered on both sides.  How lightly these young fellows quarrel with the foolish old worshippers who lay their gold, frankincense, and myrrh, at the feet of the handsome thankless idols.  They think it all independence and high spirit, whereas we know it is nothing but a little egotistical tyranny, that unconsciously calculates even in the heyday of its indulgence upon the punctual return of the penitent old worshipper, with his or her votive offerings.

Perhaps the gipsy had thought better of it, and was already sorry he had not kept the peace.  At all events, though his toilet and wardrobe were splendid—­for fine fellows in his plight deny themselves nothing—­yet morally he was seedy, and in temper soured.  His duns had found him out, and pursued him in wrath and alarm to England, and pestered him very seriously indeed.  He owed money beside to several of his brother officers, and it was not pleasant to face them without a guinea.  An evil propensity, at which, as you remember, General Chattesworth hinted, had grown amid his distresses, and the sting of self-reproach exasperated him.  Then there was his old love for Lilias Walsingham, and the pang of rejection, and the hope of a strong passion sometimes leaping high and bright, and sometimes nickering into ghastly shadows and darkness.

Indeed, he was by no means so companionable just now as in happier times, and was sometimes confoundedly morose and snappish—­for, as you perceive, things had not gone well with him latterly.  Still he was now and then tolerably like his old self.

Toole, passing by, saw him in the window.  Devereux smiled and nodded, and the doctor stopped short at the railings, and grinned up in return, and threw out his arms to express surprise, and then snapped his fingers, and cut a little caper, as though he would say—­’Now, you’re come back—­we’ll have fun and fiddling again.’  And forthwith he began to bawl his enquiries and salutations.  But Devereux called him up peremptorily, for he wanted to hear the news—­especially all about the Walsinghams.  And up came Toole, and they had a great shaking of hands, and the doctor opened his budget and rattled away.