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In short, an individual as peculiar to England as her chalk cliffs. "I don't know how I shall meet him," Reuben Sharp said; "I'm not quite certain about myself. The man I'm going to see this Matthew Glendore has done me and mine a bitter wrong. The villain brought dishonour on my family. I knew he was in difficulties when he came into our parts, and took two rooms in Mother Gaselee's cottage.
"On the contrary," mildly pursued Hanger, sipping his grog, and nicely balancing it with sugar to his taste "on the contrary, my good sir, she says he is a brave fellow what she calls a brave garçon." "Doesn't know him then, Mounseer Glendore! I wonder how many disguises he has worn in his life how many women he has trapped and ruined! Ask her how long he has been here?"
"Daker Herbert Daker!" Sharp cried. The door was suddenly thrown open, and an English clergyman, unruffled and full of dignity, stood in the entrance. Sharp was a bold, untutored man; but he dared not force his way past the priest. "Quiet, gentlemen be quiet. Step in but quiet quiet." We were in the chamber of Matthew Glendore in a moment. A lady rose from the bedside.
Sharp shouted; "just like him." I now ventured to interfere. Reuben Sharp was becoming violent with passion inflamed by brandy. The landlady was certain poor Monsieur Glendore would never rise from his bed again. I said to Sharp "Whatever the wrong may be this man has done you, Mr. Sharp, pray remember he is dying. He is passing beyond your judgment." "Is he? Passing from my grip, is he?
Ask her Does she know anything of this Matthew Glendore?" The farmer mixed himself a stiff glass of brandy-and-water, while he watched Hanger questioning the landlady with many bows and smiles. "Plenty of palavering," Sharp muttered; then shouted "Does she know the scoundrel?"
When it came into his possession in 1838, it was, as many Irish estates are now, suffering from local congestion of population. Mr. Crosbie's father had inherited from the Earl of Glendore, who had given leases under the old penal laws.
"I am not: never will, nor can be," was my reply. Sharp wrung my hand till it felt bloodless. "Herbert Daker is Matthew Glendore Mounseer Glendore. When did you meet him?" "On the Boulogne steamer, about three years ago, when he was crossing with his wife." "Then!" Sharp exclaimed, and again he took a draught of brandy-and-water.
"One minute, my friend," Hanger mildly observed, meaning to convey to Sharp that he was asking a favour of gentlemen, not roaring his order to slaves. "Permit me to get the good woman's answers. Yes; she knows Monsieur Glendore." "Mounseer Glendore! She knows no good of him."
At this moment Hanger, who had been talking with the landlady, joined us, and whispered "Be calm, gentlemen; this is a time for calmness. Glendore is at hand in a little cottage on Monsieur Guibert's works. Madame says if we wish to see him alive, we had better lose no time. The clergyman from Boulogne arrived about an hour ago, and is with him now. His wife! "His wife!"
Sharp shouted, pressing with his whole weight against the door. "Let me see her! the villain! Mounseer Glendore! No, no, Herbert Daker!" The power of observation is at its quickest in moments of intense excitement. I remember looking with the utmost calmness at Sharp's face and figure, as he stood gasping before the door of Herbert Daker's lodging. It was the head of a satyr in anger.
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