Some fifteen years ago there was still to be seen in the little ruined church which occupies a corner in what yet remains of the once magnificent domain of Ardgillagh, side by side among the tangled weeds, two gravestones; one recording the death of Mary Ashwoode, at the early age of twenty-two, in the year of grace 1710; the other, that of Edmond O’Connor, who fell at Denain, in the year of our Lord 1712. Thus they were, who in life were separated, laid side by side in death. It is a still and sequestered spot, and the little ruin clothed in rich ivy, and sheltered by the great old trees with its solemn and holy quiet, in such a resting-place as most mortals would fain repose in when their race is done.
For the rest our task is quickly done. Mr. Audley and Oliver French had so much gotten into one another’s way of going on, that the former gentleman from week to week, and from month to month, continued to prolong his visit, until after a residence of eight years, he died at length in the mansion of Ardgillagh, at a very advanced age, and without more than two days’ illness, having never experienced before, in all his life, one hour’s sickness of any kind. Honest Oliver French outlived his boon companion by the space of two years, having just eaten an omelette and actually called for some woodcock-pie; he departed suddenly while the servant was raising the crust. Old Audley left Flora Guy well provided for at his death, but somehow or other considerably before that event Larry Toole succeeded in prevailing on the honest handmaiden to marry him, and although, questionless, there was some disparity in point of years, yet tradition says, and we believe it, that there never lived a fonder or a happier couple, and it is a genealogical fact, that half the Tooles who are now to be found in that quarter of the country, derive their descent from the very alliance in question.
Of Major O’Leary we have only to say that the rumour which hinted at his having united his fortunes with those of the house of Rumble, were but too well founded. He retired with his buxom bride to a small property, remote from the dissipation of the capital, and except in the matter of an occasional cock-fight, whenever it happened to be within reach, or a tough encounter with the squire, when a new pipe of claret was to be tasted, one or two occasional indiscretions, he became, as he himself declared, in all respects an ornament to society.
Lady Stukely, within a few months after the explosion with young Ashwoode, vented her indignation by actually marrying young Pigwiggynne. It was said, indeed, that they were not happy; of this, however, we cannot be sure; but it is undoubtedly certain that they used to beat, scratch, and pinch each other in private — whether in play merely, or with the serious intention of correcting one another’s infirmities of temper, we know not. Several weeks before Lady Stukely’s marriage, Emily Copland succeeded in her long-cherished schemes against the celibacy of poor Lord Aspenly. His lordship, however, lived on with a perseverance perfectly spiteful, and his lady, alas and alack-a-day, tired out, at length committed a faux pas — the trial is on record, and eventuated, it is sufficient to say, in a verdict for the plaintiff.
Of Chancey, we have only to say that his fate was as miserable as his life had been abject and guilty. When he arose after the tremendous fall which he had received at the hands of his employer, Nicholas Blarden, upon the memorable night which defeated all their schemes, for he did arise with life — intellect and remembrance were alike quenched — he was thenceforward a drivelling idiot. Though none cared to inquire into the cause and circumstances of his miserable privation, long was he well known and pointed out in the streets of Dublin, where he subsisted upon the scanty alms of superstitious charity, until at length, during the great frost in the year 1739, he was found dead one morning, in a corner under St. Audoen’s Arch, stark and cold, cowering in his accustomed attitude.
Nicholas Blarden died upon his feather bed, and if every luxury which imagination can devise, or prodigal wealth procure, can avail to soothe the racking torments of the body, and the terrors of the appalled spirit, he died happy.
Of the other actors in this drama — with the exception of M’Quirk, who was publicly whipped for stealing four pounds of sausages from an eating house in Bride Street, and the Italian, who, we believe, was seen as groom-porter in Mr. Blarden’s hell, for many years after — tradition is silent.
THE FORTUNES OF COLONEL TORLOGH O’BRIEN
The Fortunes of Colonel Torlogh O’Brien: A Tale of the Wars of King James, published anonymously in 1847, was Le Fanu’s second novel. A historical romance, it is set during the Irish Williamite War (1689-91), in which Catholic supporters of the deposed James II fought against Protestants loyal to the new British king, William III, who ruled jointly with his wife Mary from 1689. Against this backdrop, the novel tells the story of the Jacobite Colonel Torlogh O’Brien and his attempts to gain the hand of his beloved Grace Willoughby, daughter of the Williamite Sir Hugh.
The title page of the first edition
CONTENTS
CHAPTER I.
CHAPTER II.
CHAPTER III.
CHAPTER IV.
CHAPTER V.
CHAPTER VI.
CHAPTER VII.
CHAPTER VIII.
CHAPTER IX.
CHAPTER X.
CHAPTER XI.
CHAPTER XII.
CHAPTER XIII.
CHAPTER XIV.
CHAPTER XV.
CHAPTER XVI.
CHAPTER XVII.
CHAPTER XVIII.
CHAPTER XIX.
CHAPTER XX.
CHAPTER XXI.
CHAPTER XXII.
CHAPTER XXIII.
CHAPTER XXIV.
CHAPTER XXV.
CHAPTER XXVI.
CHAPTER XXVII.
CHAPTER XXVIII.
CHAPTER XXIX.
CHAPTER XXX.
CHAPTER XXXI.
CHAPTER XXXII.
CHAPTER XXXIII.
CHAPTER XXXIV.
CHAPTER XXXV.
CHAPTER XXXVI.
CHAPTER XXXVII,
CHAPTER XXXVIII
CHAPTER XXXIX.
CHAPTER XL.
CHAPTER XLI.
CHAPTER XLII.
CHAPTER XLIII.
CHAPTER XLIV.
CHAPTER XLV.
CHAPTER XLVI.
CHAPTER XLVII.
CHAPTER XLVIII.
CHAPTER XLIX.
CHAPTER L.
CHAPTER LI.
CHAPTER LII.
CHAPTER LIII.
CHAPTER LIV.
The frontispiece of the first edition, which was illustrated by Hablot Knight Browne (‘Phiz’), who also famously illustrated Dickens’ novels
CHAPTER I.
THE MAGIC MIRROR.
IN the summer of the year 1686, at about ten o’clock at night, two scenes were passing, very different in all the accidents of place, plot, and personage; and which although enacted, the one in London, and the other near it, yet exercised an influence upon the events and persons of our Irish story, so important and so permanent, that we must needs lift the curtain from before the magic mirror, which every author, in virtue of his craft, is privileged to consult, and disclose for a minute the scenery and forms which flit across its mystic surface.
Look, then, reader, into the wondrous speculum, and behold a handsome saloon, richly furnished in the fashion of those days. The walls are hung with gorgeous tapestry, and against them stand curiously carved cabinets, stored with their loads of precious china and other treasures of art; luxurious sofas, and massive chairs and tables, covered with splendid cloths, occupy the floor, which shows in the intervals between this rich profusion of furniture, the deep pile of a Turkey carpet, spreading its soft and gaudy texture over the boards, and evidencing a degree of luxury not always then to be found, even in the mansions of the wealthiest nobles of a profuse and voluptuous court.
Large pictures, in magnificent carved and gilded frames, hang upon the walls; and at the far end of the chamber, from the lofty ceiling to the floor descend the rich folds of damask draperies, through which, and through the open w
indows from whose architraves they hang, is seen the River Thames, shimmering in the uncertain moonlight — gliding onward in his eternal course, and reflecting in his ever-moving mirror, the glow of forges, and the warm firelight of snug citizens at jovial supper, or, perchance, the solitary red glimmer that twinkles from the poor student’s attic — all which, and hundreds more, countless as the stars on high, his waters catch as they flow under the dark banks opposite in broad and silent flood.
In the chamber into which we are looking, there burns a large lamp, which sheds through its stained-glass sphere a soft, rose-coloured light on all the objects which surround it; and eight wax lights, flaring and flickering in the wanton evening breeze which floats lightly in at the open windows, lend an additional distinctness to the forms that occupy the room.
These are four in number: two lean over a table, which stands near the window, and seem to be closely examining a map, which nearly covers the board over which they stoop — the one sharp-featured, sallow, somewhat slovenly in his attire, his short cloak hanging from his shoulder, and his high-crowned hat (then an obsolete fashion) dangling in his hand, leans over the outspread plan, and with eager gestures and rapid enunciation, and yet with a strange mixture of deference, appears to harangue his listening companion. He is a strong, square-built man, somewhat, perhaps, beyond the middle age, gravely and handsomely dressed — his huge perriwig swings forward as he bends over and rests his chin upon his jewelled hand, and fixes upon the chart before him a countenance bold and massive, in which the lines of strong sense and sensuality are strikingly combined.
Pacing to and fro, and sometimes pausing half abstractedly at this table, looking for a moment at the outspread paper, and betraying the absence, and, perhaps, the agitation of his mind by his wandering gaze and the restless drumming of his knuckles on the table; then turning again to resume his rapid walk across the floor, and stealing occasionally a hurried and uneasy look towards a figure who sits alone upon a sofa in the obscurest part of the chamber, is seen a man of commanding stature and lofty mien, though somewhat tending to corpulence, richly dressed in a suit of dark velvet, sparkling with jewels, his neckcloth and ruffles fluttering with splendid point, having in his countenance a certain character of haughty command, according well with the high pretensions of his garb.
Another figure remains to be described, it is that toward which the regards of him we have just examined are so often turned: the form is that of a female, seated, as we have said, upon a sofa, and wrapped in a close travelling cloak, the hood of which falls over her face, so that, excepting that she is tall, and possesses hands and feet of singular beauty and slimness, we can pronounce nothing whatever of her personnel — she is evidently weeping, her dress shows the vibration of every sob, and the convulsive clasping of her small hands, and the measured beating of her tiny foot upon the floor, betoken her inward anguish.
While thus they are engaged, upon the broad bosom of the river, under the silver moonlight, with gay torches glowing, and, no doubt, plentiful store of laughing masks, and sweet swell of floating music (for those nearest the window turn and seem to listen), glides by the royal pageant — the court of St. James’s on the water — the royal barges passing on their way; and now all is gone, sailed onward, and vanished like a dream.
Lo! there must have been some sudden sound at the door! They all start and look toward it — the lean gentleman, in the shabby suit, clutches his map; his brawny companion advances a pace; the tall aristocrat arrests his walk, and stands fixed and breathless; while the lady shrinks further back, and draws her hood more closely over her face.
Their objects, then, must be secret.
It is, however, a false alarm, they resume their respective postures and occupations — and so leaving them, we wave the wand which conjured up the scene, and in a moment all is shivered, clouded, and gone.
But, lo! another rises gradually to view: it represents the dim vistas of a vaulted chamber, spanned with low, broad arches of stone, springing from the stone floor. Two blazing links, circled with a lurid halo from the heavy damps which hang there, in thin perpetual fog, shed a dusky, flickering glare upon the stained and dripping roof, and through the dim and manifold perspective of arches, until it spends itself in vapoury darkness. A group of some seven or eight figures stands in the fitful glow of this ruddy illumination — gentlemen of wealth and worship it would seem, by the richness of their garb: some are wrapt in their cloaks, some are booted, and all wear their broadleafed, low-crowned hats. Strong lights and deep shadows mark many a furrowed and earnest face. This is no funereal meeting, as the place would seem to indicate — no trappings of mourning are visible, and the subject of their conversation, though deep and weighty, is too earnest and energizing for a theme of sorrow; neither is there, in the faces or gestures of the assembly, a single indication of excitement or enthusiasm. The countenances, the attitudes, the movements of the group all betoken caution, deliberation, and intense anxiety. From time to time are seen, singly, or in couples, or in groups of three, other forms in the shadowy distance, as richly dressed, gliding like ghosts through the cloistered avenues, and holding with themselves, or one another anxious debate.
And now, a tall and singularly handsome young man, in gorgeous military uniform, turning from an elder personage in a velvet cloak, to whom he has been deferentially listening, moves a pace or two toward the detached parties, who walk slowly up and down, as we have described, and raising his plumed hat, he beckons them forward; and so they come, and muster with the rest; whereupon, the elder gentleman, in the velvet cloak, draws forth a letter, and with a brief word or two of preface, as it would seem, reads it for the rest, pausing from time to time to offer and receive remarks. This over, he says something further, whereupon he and all the rest raise their hats for a moment, and then he shows the letter to one of the company nearest to himself, who takes it, looks to the end, and then to the beginning, and then upon the back of it, and so passes it on to another, and so from hand to hand it goes, until again it reaches him who first produced it; and then, with the same solemn and earnest looks and air, they, one by one, take leave, shake hands, and glide away, until the old gentleman in the cloak, and one other remain. Then he in the cloak holds the corner of the momentous letter to the flaring link, and now it floats to the ground in flame, and now all that remains of the mysterious paper, is a light black film, coursed all over by a thousand nimble sparkles. Cautious old gentleman!
Enough — the spell is over, the lines and colours shift and change, shadows and lights are lost and mingled, and all is once more whirling and blended in vague, impenetrable cloud and darkness But the pageant which has, for a fleeting moment, moved before us, has reflected a dread reality, whose consequences are not only entwined with the incidents of the history we are going to relate, but mingle in the currents of a thousand tales of glory; ay, and in the meanness and buffoonery of comedies, enough to feast all cynics, that ever were, or ever shall be, to satiety; and more nobly and sorrowfully, alas! in the dire events of tragedies, of most heroic and mournful splendour. It revealed the meeting of a council, upon whose wisdom, craft, and energy, hung the doom of millions — the fate of kingdoms, princedoms, powers.
CHAPTER II.
THE LADY AND THE PRIEST.
IN the month of March, in the year of our Lord 1689, the red and dusky light of a frosty sunset had flung its crimson mantle over the broad sides of the Slievephelim hills, tinting the white rocks and the wintry woods which irregularly covered their wide expanse with a genial blush, which again melted softly away into the deep blue shadows that gathered mistily in the long sweeping hollows and rugged defiles into which that wild range winds and breaks. Among other objects, this rich colouring illuminated the irregular, gray front of a building of considerable antiquity, and some strength, although wholly incapable of resisting, with any sustained effect, the artillery of an age still less advanced in military science than the eventful one of which we write. Even then a timewor
n pile, carrying in its aspect something venerable and saddened, and not the less picturesque, perhaps, that its character was somewhat undefined, and its parts adapted with small attention to regularity of structure — here presenting the character of a fortress, and there that of an antique dwelling-house; in some parts bound in the giant clasp of the dark embowering ivy, and at others exposing to the dusky light of the setting sun its hoary front, and steep, gray-flagged roof, with all its furniture of glittering windows, and darksome portals, and the low-arched gateway which, under its deep shadow and heavy masonry, seemed to warn away the intruder with a jealous scowl. Around this building, and much nearer than military precaution would have allowed them, and but partially and irregularly cleared from about the mansion, stood grouped the fantastic birch and oak which then and there, even within the memory of man, skirted with wild and beautiful forest, whole miles, we might say leagues, of the mountain sides. Thus circumstanced, and occupying the slope of the mountain’s foot, the castle of Lisnamoe stood, on the evening we have mentioned, steeped in the glowing, airy tide which flooded all the broad and hazy landscape, as far as the eye might reach, with dusky crimson.
This evening-light, solemn and melancholy as the chastened beam which streams through the stained oriel of some ancient church, poured through three narrow windows, deep set in the thickness of the wall, into a low, broad chamber within the building which we have just described. Heavy beams traversed its ceiling from end to end; its floors and wainscoating were of shining wood, as black as the bog oak; and the furniture, of which there was no lack, seemed fashioned in the same dark wood. Cupboards and presses there were; chairs and tables, and chests of rude and antique workmanship; a row of clumsy bookshelves, partly stocked with volumes, occupied the wall above the yawning hearth; and near its side, in a high-backed, ponderous chair of oak, sat the only living inmate of the chamber.
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