g peal on the hall-door, and Dr.
Dillon, in dingy splendours, and a great draggled wig, with a
gold-headed cane in his bony hand, stepped in; and, diffusing a reek of
whiskey-punch, and with a case of instruments under his arm, pierced the
maid, who opened the door, through, with his prominent black eyes, and
frightened her with his fiery face, while he demanded to see Mrs. Sturk,
and lounged, without ceremony, into the parlour; where he threw himself
on the sofa, with one of his bony legs extended on it, and his great
ugly hand under his wig scratching his head.

CHAPTER LXXXVII.

IN WHICH TWO COMRADES ARE TETE-A-TETE IN THEIR OLD QUARTERS, AND DOCTOR
STURK'S CUE IS CUT OFF, AND A CONSULTATION COMMENCES.

The buzz of a village, like the hum of a city, represents a very
wonderful variety of human accent and feeling. It is marvellous how few
families thrown together will suffice to furnish forth this _dubia
coena_ of sweets and bitters.

The roar of many waters--the ululatus of many-voiced
humanity--marvellously monotonous, considering the infinite variety of
its ingredients, booms on through the dark. The story-teller alone can
take up the score of the mighty medley, and read at a glance what every
fife and fiddle-stick is doing. That pompous thrum-thrum is the talk of
the great white Marseilles paunch, pietate gravis; the whine comes from
Lazarus, at the area rails; and the bass is old Dives, roaring at his
butler; the piccolo is contributed by the studious school-boy, whistling
over his Latin Grammar; that wild, long note is poor Mrs. Fondle's
farewell of her dead boy; the ugly barytone, rising from the tap-room,
is what Wandering Willie calls a sculduddery song--shut your ears, and
pass on; and that clear soprano, in nursery, rings out a shower of
innocent idiotisms over the half-stripped baby, and suspends the bawl
upon its lips.

So, on this night, as usual, there rose up toward the stars a throbbing
murmur from our village--a wild chaos of sound, which we must strive to
analyse, extracting from the hurly-burly each separate tune it may
concern us to hear.

Captain Devereux was in his lodging. He was comparatively tranquil now;
but a savage and impious despair possessed him. Serene outwardly--he
would not let the vulgar see his scars and sores; and was one of those
proud spirits who build to themselves desolate places.

Little Puddock was the man with whom he had least reserve. Puddock was
so kindl