Sir--you know who they may be; there's some sleeps sound enough, like me
and you; and some that's sleep-walkers,' answered Irons; and his
enigmatical talk somehow subdued Mervyn, for he said more quietly--
'Well, what of all this, Sirrah?'
'A message,' answered Irons. The man's manner, though quiet, was dogged,
and somewhat savage.
'Give it me, then,' said Mervyn, expecting a note, and extending his
hand.
'I've nothing for your hand, Sir, 'tis for your ear,' said he.
'From whom, then, and what?' said Mervyn, growing impatient again.
'I ask your pardon, Mr. Mervyn; I have a good deal to do, back and
forward, sometimes early, sometimes late, in the church--Chapelizod
Church--all alone, Sir; and I often think of you, when I walk over the
south-side vault.'
'What's your message, I say, Sir, and who sends it,' insisted Mervyn.
'Your father,' answered Irons.
Mervyn looked with a black and wild sort of enquiry on the clerk--was he
insane or what?--and seemed to swallow down a sort of horror, before his
anger rose again.
'You're mistaken--my father's dead,' he said, in a fierce but agitated
undertone.
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