It was like the memento mori of the old Roman;--as though some one
pointed in the midst of my bliss to the sword hung over my head by a
thread. It was the voice of Larry, whispering in his agony just
above my head -
"They's disthroying my poor feet intirely, intirely; so they is! I
can't bear it much longer, yer honer." I had committed murder like
Macbeth; and now my Banquo had come to disturb me at my feast.
"What is it he says to you?" asked Fanny.
"Oh nothing," I answered, once more in my misery.
"There seems to be some point of confidence between you and our
Larry," she remarked.
"Oh no," said I, quite confused; "not at all."
"You need not be ashamed of it. Half the gentlemen in the county
have their confidences with Larry;--and some of the ladies too, I can
tell you. He was born in this house, and never lived anywhere else;
and I am sure he has a larger circle of acquaintance than any one
else in it."
I could not recover my self-possession for the next ten minutes.
Whenever Larry was on our side of the table I was afraid he was
coming to me with another agonised whisper. When he was opposite, I
could not but watch him as he hobbled in his misery. It was evident
that the boots were too tight for him, and had they been made
throughout of iron they could not have been less capable of yielding
to the feet.
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