Delphi Complete Works of Sheridan Le Fanu

by J. Sheridan le Fanu

  “Goodnight, and good luck, your honour, and may God speed you!” ejaculated Larry, as the vehicles rumbled away. The charioteers had received their directions, and Mary Ashwoode and her trusty companion, confused and bewildered by the rapidity with which events had succeeded one another during the day, and stunned by the magnitude of the dangers which they had so narrowly escaped, found themselves, scarcely crediting the evidence of their senses, rapidly traversing the interval which separated Dublin city from the little town of Naas.

  It is not our intention to weary our readers with a detailed account of the occurrences of the journey, nor to present them with a catalogue of all the mishaps and delays to which Irish posting in those days, and indeed much later, was liable; it is enough to state that upon the evening of the fourth day the two carriages clattered into the wretched little village which occupied the road on which opened the avenue leading up to the great house of Ardgillagh. The village, though obviously the abode of little comfort or cheerfulness, was not on that account the less picturesque; the road wound irregularly where it stood, and was carried by an old narrow bridge across a wayward mountain stream which wheeled and foamed in many a sportive eddy within its devious banks. Close by, the little mill was couched among the sheltering trees, which, extending in irregular and scattered groups through the village, and mingling with the stunted bushes and briars of the hedges, were nearly met from the other side of the narrow street by the broad branching limbs of the giant trees which skirted the wild wooded domain of Ardgillagh. Thus occupying a sweeping curve of the road, and embowered among the shadowy arches of the noble timber, the little village had at first sight an air of tranquillity, seclusion, and comfort, which made the traveller pause to contemplate its simple attractions and to admire how it could be that a few wretched hovels with crazy walls and thatch overgrown with weeds, thus irregularly huddled together beneath the rude shelter of the wood, could make a picture so pleasing to the eye and so soothing to the heart. The vehicles were drawn up by their drivers before the door of a small thatched building which, however, stood a whole head and shoulders higher than the surrounding hovels, exhibiting a second storey with three narrow windows in front, and over its doorway, from which a large pig, under the stimulus of a broomstick, was majestically issuing, a signboard, the admiration of connoisseurs for miles round, presenting a half-length portrait of the illustrious Brian Borhome, and admitted to be a startling likeness. Before this mansion — the only one in the place which pretended to the character of a house of public entertainment — the postboys drew bridle, and brought the vehicles to a halt. Mr. Audley was upon the road in an instant, and with fussy gallantry assisting Mary Ashwoode to descend. Their sudden arrival had astounded the whole household — consternation and curiosity filled the little establishment. The proprietor, who sat beneath the capacious chimney, started to his feet, swallowing, in his surprise, a whole potato, which he was just deliberately commencing, and by a miracle escaped choking. The landlady dropped a pot, which she was scrubbing, upon the back of a venerable personage who was in a stooping posture, lighting his pipe, and inadvertently wiped her face in the pot clout; everybody did something wrong, and nobody anything right; the dog was kicked and the cat scalded, and in short, never was known in the little village of Ardgillagh, within the memory of man, except when Ginckle marched his troops through the town, such a universal hubbub as that which welcomed the two chaises and their contents to the door of Pat Moroney’s hospitable mansion.

  Mrs. Moroney, with more lampblack upon her comely features than she was at that moment precisely aware of, hastened to the door, which she occupied as completely and exclusively as the corpulent specimen of Irish royalty over her head did his proper signboard; all the time gazing with an admiring grin upon Mr. Audley and the lady whom he assisted to descend; and at exceedingly short and irregular intervals, executing sundry slight ducks, intended to testify her exuberant satisfaction and respect, while all around and about her were thrust the wondering visages of the less important inmates of the establishment; many were the murmured criticisms, and many the ejaculations of admiration and surprise, which accompanied every movement of the party under observation.

  “Oh! but she’s a fine young lady, God bless her!” said one.

  “But isn’t she mighty pale, though, entirely?” observed another.

  “That’s her father — the little stout gentleman; see how he houlds her hand for fear she’d thrip comin’ out. Oh! but he’s a nate man!” remarked a third.

  “An’ her hand as white as milk; an’ look at her fine rings,” said a fourth.

  “She’s a rale lady; see the grand look of her, and the stately step, God bless her!” said a fifth.

  “See, see; here’s another comin’ out; that’s her sisther,” remarked another.

  “Hould your tongues, will yees?” ejaculated the landlady, jogging her elbow at random into somebody’s mouth.

  “An’ see the little one taking the box in her hand,” observed one.

  “Look at the tall lady, how she smiles at her, God bless her! she’s a rale good lady,” remarked another.

  “An’ now she’s linkin’ with him, and here they come, by gorra,” exclaimed a third.

  “Back with yees, an’ lave the way,” exclaimed Mrs. Moroney; “don’t you see the quality comin’?”

  Accordingly, with a palpitating heart, the worthy mistress of King Brian Borhome prepared to receive her aristocratic guests. With due state and ceremony she conducted them into the narrow chamber which, except the kitchen, was the only public apartment in the establishment. After due attention to his fair charge, Mr. Audley inquired of the hostess, —

  “Pray, my good worthy woman, are we not now within a mile or less of the entrance into the domain of Ardgillagh?”

  “The gate’s not two perches down the road, your honour,” replied she; “is it to the great house you want to go, sir?”

  “Yes, my good woman; certainly,” replied he.

  “Come here, Shawneen, come, asthore!” cried she, through the halfopen door. “I’ll send the little gossoon with you, your honour; he’ll show you the way, and keep the dogs off, for they all knows him up at the great house. Here, Shawneen; this gintleman wants to be showed the way up to the great house; and don’t let the dogs near him; do you mind? He hasn’t much English,” said she, turning to her guest, by way of apology, and then conveying her directions anew in the mother tongue.

  Under the guidance of this ragged little urchin, Mr. Audley accordingly set forth upon his adventurous excursion.

  Mrs. Moroney brought in bread, milk, eggs, and in short, the best cheer which her limited resources could supply; and, although Mary Ashwoode was far too anxious about the result of Mr. Audley’s visit to do more than taste the tempting bowl of new milk which was courteously placed before her, Flora Guy, with right good will and hearty appetite, did ample justice to the viands which the hostess provided.

  After some idle talk between herself and Flora Guy, Mrs. Moroney observed in reply to an interrogatory from the girl, —

  “Twenty or thirty years ago there wasn’t such a foxhunter in the country as Mr. French; but he’s this many a year ailing, and winter after winter, it’s worse and worse always he’s getting, until at last he never stirs out at all; and for the most part he keeps his bed.”

  “Is anyone living with him?” inquired Flora.

  “No, none of his family,” answered she; “no one at all, you may say; there’s no one does anything in his place, an’ very seldom anyone sees him except Mistress Martha and Black M’Guinness; them two has him all to themselves; and, indeed, there’s quare stories goin’ about them.”

  CHAPTER LXIV.

  MISTRESS MARTHA AND BLACK M’GUINNESS.

  Mr. Audley, preceded by his little ragged guide, walked thoughtfully on his way to visit the old gentleman, of whose oddities and strange and wayward temper the keeper of the place where they had last obtained a relay of horses had given a marve
llous and perhaps somewhat exaggerated account. Now that he had reached the spot, and that the moment approached which was to be the crisis of the adventure, he began to feel far less confident of success than he had been while the issue of his project was comparatively remote.

  They passed down the irregular street of the village, and beneath the trees which arched overhead like the vast and airy aisles of some huge Gothic pile, and after a short walk of some two or three hundred yards, during which they furnished matter of interesting speculation to half the village idlers, they reached a rude gate of great dimensions, but which had obviously seen better days. There was no lodge or gatehouse, and Mr. Audley followed the little conductor over a stile, which occupied the side of one of the great ivy-mantled stone piers; crossing this, he found himself in the demesne. A broken and irregular avenue or bridle track — for in most places it was little more — led onward over hill and through hollow, along the undulations of the soft green sward, and under the fantastic boughs of gnarled thorns and oaks and sylvan birches, which in thick groups, wild and graceful as nature had placed them, clothed the varied slopes. The rude approach which they followed led them a wayward course over every variety of ground — now flat and boggy, again up hill, and over the grey surface of lichen-covered rocks — again down into deep fern-clothed hollows, and then across the shallow, brawling stream, without bridge or appliance of any kind, but simply through its waters, forced, as best they might, to pick their steps upon the mossgrown stones that peeped above the clear devious current. Thus they passed along through this wild and extensive demesne, varied by a thousand inequalities of ground and by the irregular grouping of the woods, which owed their picturesque arrangement to the untutored fancies of nature herself, whose dominion had there never known the intrusions of the axe, or the spade, or the pruning-hook, but exulted in the unshackled indulgence of all her wildest revelry. After a walk of more than half-an-hour’s duration, through a long vista among the trees, the grey gable of the old mansion of Ardgillagh, with its small windows and high and massive chimney stacks, presented itself.

  There was a depressing air of neglect and desertion about the old place, which even the unimaginative temperament of Mr. Audley was obliged to acknowledge. Rank weeds and grass had forced their way through the pavement of the courtyard, and crowded in patches of vegetation even to the very door of the house. The same was observable, in no less a degree, in the great stableyard, the gate of which, unhinged, lay wide open, exhibiting a range of outhouses and stables, which would have afforded lodging for horse and man to a whole regiment of dragoons. Two men, one of them in livery, were loitering through the courtyard, apparently not very well knowing what to do with themselves; and as the visitors approached, a whole squadron of dogs, the little ones bouncing in front with shrill alarm, and the more formidable, at a majestic canter and with deep-mouthed note of menace, bringing up the rear, came snarling, barking, and growling, towards the intruders at startling speed.

  “Piper, Piper, Toby, Fan, Motheradauna, Boxer, Boxer, Toby!” screamed the little guide, advancing a few yards before Mr. Audley, who, in considerable uneasiness, grasped his walking cane with no small energy. The interposition of the urchin was successful, the dogs recognized their young friend, the angry clangour was hushed and their pace abated, and when they reached Mr. Audley and his guide, in compliment to the latter they suffered the little gentleman to pass on, with no further question than a few suspicious sniffs, as they applied their noses to the calves of that gentleman’s legs. As they continued to approach, the men in the court, now alarmed by the vociferous challenge of the dogs, eyed the little gentleman inquisitively, for a visitor at Ardgillagh was a thing that had not been heard of for years. As Mr. Audley’s intention became more determinate, and his design appeared more unequivocally to apply for admission, the servant, who watched his progress, ran by some hidden passage in the stableyard into the mansion and was ready to gratify his curiosity legitimately, by taking his post in the hall in readiness to answer Mr. Audley’s summons, and to hold parley with him at the door.

  “Is Mr. French at home?” inquired Mr. Audley.

  “Ay, sir, he is at home,” rejoined the man, deliberately, to allow himself time fully to scrutinize the visitor’s outward man.

  “Can I see him, pray?” asked the little gentleman.

  “Why, raly, sir, I can’t exactly say,” observed the man, scratching his head. “He’s upstairs in his own chamber — indeed, for that matter, he’s seldom out of it. If you’ll walk into the room there, sir, I’ll inquire.”

  Accordingly, Mr. Audley entered the apartment indicated and sat himself down in the deep recess of the window to take breath. He well knew the kind of person with whom he had to deal, previously to encountering Oliver French in person. He had heard quite enough of Mistress Martha and of Black M’Guinness already, to put him upon his guard, and fill him with just suspicions as to their character and designs; he therefore availed himself of the little interval to arrange his plans of operation in his own mind. He had not waited long, when the door opened, and a tall, elderly woman, with a bunch of keys at her side, and arrayed in a rich satin dress, walked demurely into the room. There was something unpleasant and deceitful in the expression of the half-closed eyes and thin lips of this lady which inspired Mr. Audley with instinctive dislike of her — an impression which was rather heightened than otherwise by the obvious profusion with which her sunken and sallow cheeks were tinged with rouge. This demure and painted lady made a courtesy on seeing Mr. Audley, and in a low and subdued tone which well accorded with her meek exterior, inquired, —

  “You were asking for Mr. Oliver French, sir?”

  “Yes, madam,” replied Mr. Audley, returning the salute with a bow as formal; “I wish much to see him, if he could afford me half an hour’s chat.”

  “Mr. French is very ill — very — very poorly, indeed,” said Mistress Martha, closing her eyes, and shaking her head. “He dislikes talking to strangers. Are you a relative, pray, sir?”

  “Not I, madam — not at all, madam,” rejoined Mr. Audley.

  A silence ensued, during which he looked out for a minute at the view commanded by the window; and as he did so, he observed with the corner of his eyes that the lady was studying him with a severe and searching scrutiny. She was the first to break the silence.

  “I suppose it’s about business you want to see him?” inquired she, still looking at him with the same sharp glance.

  “Just so,” rejoined Mr. Audley; “it is indeed upon business.”

  “He dislikes transacting business or speaking of it himself,” said she. “He always employs his own man, Mr. M’Guinness. I’ll call Mr. M’Guinness, that you may communicate the matter to him.”

  “You must excuse me,” said Mr. Audley. “My instructions are to give my message to Mr. Oliver French in person — though indeed there’s no secret in the matter. The fact is, Madam, my mission is of a kind which ought to make me welcome. You understand me? I come here to announce a — a — an acquisition, in short a sudden and, I believe, a most unexpected acquisition. But perhaps I’ve said too much; the facts are for his own ear solely. Such are my instructions; and you know I have no choice. I’ve posted all the way from Dublin to execute the message; and between ourselves, should he suffer this occasion to escape him, he may never again have an opportunity of making such an addition to — but I must hold my tongue — I’m prating against orders. In a word, madam, I’m greatly mistaken, or it will prove the best news that has been told in this house since its master was christened.”

  He accompanied his announcement with a prodigious number of nods and winks of huge significance, and all designed to beget the belief that he carried in his pocket the copy of a will, or other instrument, conveying to the said Oliver French of Ardgillagh the gold mines of Peru, or some such trifle.

  Mistress Martha paused, looked hard at him, then reflected again. At length she said, with the air of a woman who has made up her mind
, —

  “I dare to say, sir, it is possible for you to see Mr. French. He is a little better to-day. You’ll promise not to fatigue him — but you must first see Mr. M’Guinness. He can tell better than I whether his master is sufficiently well to-day for an interview of the kind.”

  So saying, Mrs. Martha sailed, with saint-like dignity, from the room.

  “She rules the roost, I believe,” said Mr. Audley within himself. “If so, all’s smooth from this forth. Here comes the gentleman, however — and, by the laws, a very suitable co-mate for that painted Jezebel.”

  As Mr. Audley concluded this criticism, a small man, with a greasy and dingy complexion, and in a rusty suit of black, made his appearance.

  This individual was, if possible, more subdued, meek, and Christian-like than the lady who had just evacuated the room in his favour. His eyes were, if possible, habitually more nearly closed; his step was as soft and cat-like to the full; and, in a word, he was in air, manner, gait, and expression as like his accomplice as a man can well be to one of the other sex.

  A short explanation having passed between this person and Mr. Audley, he retired for a few minutes to prepare his master for the visit, and then returning, conducted the little bachelor upstairs.

  CHAPTER LXV.

  THE CONFERENCE — SHOWING HOW OLIVER FRENCH BURST INTO A RAGE AND FLUNG HIS CAP ON THE FLOOR.

  Mr. Audley followed Black M’Guinness as we have said up the stairs, and was, after an introductory knock at the door, ushered by him into Oliver French’s bedroom. Its arrangements were somewhat singular — a dressing-table with all the appliances of the most elaborate cultivation of the graces, and a huge mirror upon it, stood directly opposite to the door; against the other wall, between the door and this table, was placed a massive sideboard covered with plate and wine flasks, cork-screws and cold meat, in the most admired disorder — two large presses were also visible, one of which lay open, exhibiting clothes, and papers, and other articles piled together in a highly original manner — two or three very beautiful pictures hung upon the walls. At the far end of the room stood the bed, and at one side of it a table covered with wines and viands, and at the other, a large iron-bound chest, with a heavy bunch of keys dangling from its lock — a little shelf, too, occupied the wall beside the invalid, abundantly stored with tall phials with parchment labels, and pill-boxes and gallipots innumerable. In the bed, surrounded by the drapery of the drawn curtains, lay, or rather sat, Oliver French himself, propped up by the pillows: he was a corpulent man, with a generous double chin; a goodnatured grey eye twinkled under a bushy, grizzled eyebrow, and a countenance which bore unequivocally the lines of masculine beauty, although considerably disfigured by the traces of age, as well as of something very like intemperance and full living: he wore a silk night-gown and a shirt of snowy whiteness, with lace ruffles, and on his head was a crimson velvet cap.