Mervyn, in the meantime, had had his solitary meal in the famous back
parlour of the Phoenix, where the newspapers lay, and all comers were
welcome. He was by no means a bad hero to look at, if such a thing were
needed. His face was pale, melancholy, statuesque--and his large
enthusiastic eyes, suggested a story and a secret--perhaps a horror.
Most men, had they known all, would have wondered with good Doctor
Walsingham, why, of all places in the world, he should have chosen the
little town where he now stood for even a temporary residence. It was
not a perversity, but rather a fascination. His whole life had been a
flight and a pursuit--a vain endeavour to escape from the evil spirit
that pursued him--and a chase of a chimera.
He was standing at the window, not indeed enjoying, as another man
might, the quiet verdure of the scene, and the fragrant air, and all the
mellowed sounds of village life, but lost in a sad and dreadful reverie,
when in bounced little red-faced bustling Dr. Toole--the joke and the
chuckle with which he had just requited the fat old barmaid still
ringing in the passage--'Stay there, sweetheart,' addressed to a dog
squeezing by him, and which screeched out as he kicked it neatly round
the door-post.
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