And then, with a solitary sneer, he sipped it.  And after awhile he drank one glass more—­they were the small glasses then in vogue—­and shoved it back, with—­

‘There; that’s the last.’

And then, perhaps, there was one other ‘last;’ and after that ’the very last.’  Hang it! it must be the last, and so on, I suppose.  And Devereux was pale, and looked wild and sulky on parade next morning.

CHAPTER LXIII.

IN WHICH A LIBERTY IS TAKEN WITH MR. NUTTER’S NAME, AND MR. DANGERFIELD STANDS AT THE ALTAR.

Poor Mrs. Nutter continued in a state of distracted and flighty tribulation, not knowing what to make of it, nor, indeed, knowing the worst; for the neighbours did not tell her half they might, nor drop a hint of the dreadful suspicion that dogged her absent helpmate.

She was sometimes up rummaging among the drawers, and fidgeting about the house, without any clear purpose, but oftener lying on her bed, with her clothes on, crying.  When she got hold of a friend, she disburthened her soul, and called on him or her for endless consolations and assurances, which, for the most part, she herself prescribed.  There were, of course, fits of despair as well as starts of hope; and bright ideas, accounting for everything, and then clouds of blackness, and tornadoes of lamentation.

Father Roach, a good-natured apostle, whose digestion suffered when anyone he liked was in trouble, paid her a visit; and being somehow confounded with Dr. Toole, was shown up to her bed-room, where the poor little woman lay crying under the coverlet.  On discovering where he was, the good father was disposed to flinch, and get down stairs, in tenderness to his ‘character,’ and thinking what a story ’them villians o’ the world’id make iv it down at the club there.’  But on second thoughts, poor little Sally being neither young nor comely, he ventured, and sat down by the bed, veiled behind a strip of curtain, and poured his mellifluous consolations into her open ears.

And poor Sally became eloquent in return.  And Father Roach dried his eyes, although she could not see him behind the curtain, and called her ‘my daughter,’ and ‘dear lady,’ and tendered such comforts as his housekeeping afforded.  ‘Had she bacon in the house?’ or ’maybe she’d like a fat fowl?’ ‘She could not eat?’ ’Why then she could make elegant broth of it, and dhrink it, an’ he’d keep another fattenin’ until Nutter himself come back.’

‘And then, my honey, you an’ himself’ll come down and dine wid ould Father Austin; an’ we’ll have a grand evenin’ of it entirely, laughin’ over the remimbrance iv these blackguard troubles, acuishla!  Or maybe you’d accept iv a couple o’ bottles of claret or canaries?  I see—­you don’t want for wine.’

So there was just one more offer the honest fellow had to make, and he opened with assurances ‘twas only between himself an’ her—­an’ not a sowl on airth ’id ever hear a word about it—­and he asked her pardon, but he thought she might chance to want a guinea or two, just till Nutter came back, and he brought a couple in his waistcoat pocket.