ork a man's way
in life! Order another quart of Isla whiskey, man,--that's my fee; at
least it shall be to-day. Tell them to send me pen, ink, and paper, and
not disturb me; tell them, besides--no, nevermind, I'll tell them that!
And now, good-day, my honest fellow. _You_ 've been _my_ physician
to-day as much as _I_ have been _yours_. You have cured a sick
heart--cheated it, at least--out of one paroxysm, and so, a good
journey, and safe home to you. Send me news of your boy, and good-bye."
And his head dropped as he spoke; his arms fell heavily at his sides;
and he appeared to have sunk into a profound sleep. The stupor was but
brief; the farmer was not well out of the village when Layton, calling
for a basin of cold water, plunged his face and part of his head in it,
baring his brawny throat, and bathing it with the refreshing liquid.
As he was thus employed, he caught sight of his face reflected in a
much-cracked mirror over the fireplace, and stood gazing for a few
seconds at his blotched and bloated countenance.

"A year or two left still, belike," muttered he. "Past insuring, but
still seaworthy, or, at least"--and here his voice assumed an intense
mockery in tone,--"at least, capable of more shipwreck!" The sight of
the writing-materials on the table seemed to recall him to something he
had half forgotten, and, after a pause of reflection, he arranged the
paper before him and sat down to write.

With the ease of one to whom composition was familiar, he dashed off
a somewhat long letter; but though he wrote with great rapidity, he
recurred from time to time to the whiskey-bottle, drinking the strong
spirits undiluted, and, to all seeming, unmoved by its potency. "There,"
cried he, as he finished, "I have scuttled my own ship; let's see what
will come of it."

He called for the landlord to give him wax and a seal. Neither were to
be had, and he was fain to put up with a wafer. The letter closed and
addressed, he set out homewards; scarcely, however, beyond the outskirts
of the village, than he turned away from the coast and took the road
towards the Rectory. It was now the early evening, one of those brief
seasons when the wind lulls and a sort of brief calm supervenes in the
boisterous climate of northern Ireland. Along the narrow lane he trod,
tall foxgloves and variegated ferns grew luxuriantly, imparting a
half-shade to a scene usually desolate and bare; and Layton lingered
along it as though its calm seclu