Delphi Complete Works of Sheridan Le Fanu

by J. Sheridan le Fanu

  “Ay, sir,” continued Garrett, doggedly, “you shall be dealt with indulgently beyond what I fear you will eventually appear to have deserved.”

  “Miles Garrett,” cried the old knight, vehemently, and with an expression which struggled between rage and strong disgust, “forbear to mock me with this loathsome cant. Enjoy your villainous triumph, like the bloody and crafty man you are; but insult me not by naming indulgence, directness, honesty — in connexion with your atrocious mission of perjury and blood.”

  “This it is to hold the king’s commission of the peace in times like these,” ejaculated Garrett, with a smile of contemptuous resignation “What rebel ever liked his punishment yet? Strike high or strike low, ’tis all one — no pleasing them!”

  At this moment a firm and rapid step was heard, accompanied by the clang of the long cavalry-sword ringing upon the pavement, and Colonel Torlogh O’Brien entered the room.

  The blood, which but a moment before retreating to her heart, had left her cheek pale as monumental marble, now sprang tingling through every channel to the beautiful face of Grace Willoughby, in a tide so full and warm, that her very neck, and even to her temples, glowed with bright vermilion; and her eyes, hitherto fixed in wild alarm upon the strange and dreaded actors in the scene, now sank to the ground.

  As O’Brien entered he removed his plumed hat, and bowed with grave, it might almost have been sorrowful respect, to Sir Hugh and to the beautiful lady who clung by his arm.

  “Have I your permission,” he said, in a constrained and somewhat haughty tone, addressing Sir Hugh, “to confer for a few moments with this gentleman, Miles Garrett, of Lisnamoe, whom,” he added, with: slight bow to that gentleman, which was as slightly returned— “I presume I see here now.”

  “Colonel O’Brien,” replied Sir Hugh, proudly and sadly, “you have the power, and, for aught I see to the contrary, the king may soon give you also the right, which I believe you claim, to use this Castle of Glindarragh, and all belonging to it, even as you list.”

  “This comes,” observed Miles Garrett, with a savage sneer — for the blush which, at the entrance of the handsome soldier, had mantled the face of the beautiful girl, and still more, perhaps, Sir Hugh’s allusion to O’Brien’s ancestral claim, had somehow roused the worst passions of his evil nature into keener activity— “this comes of men usurping what they cannot keep. Cuckoos ought not to build in falcon’s nests!” Torlogh O’Brien’s dark eye flashed for one moment upon the last speaker, with a look whose proud and savage fire might well have warranted the image which its glance rebuked; and Garrett, ugly, ungainly, and repulsive — requited the noble glance of the soldier with a look to the full as firm, but one in which caution and craft alone tempered the undisguised and sanguinary ferocity which now lighted up its awakened significance.

  Averting his glance from Miles Garrett almost as quickly as he had first bent it upon him, Colonel O’Brien turned again to Sir Hugh, and with an air and tone of proud respect which touched the old knight, he said —

  “I have your permission, then, Sir Hugh Willoughby, to remain here for a few moments?”

  “You have, Colonel O’Brien — you have,” returned the old man, in a tone more gentle than he had yet employed; “and though the question be but a form, I thank you, sir — with all my heart I thank you — for the courtesy which prompts it.”

  Strange to say, the very friendliness of spirit in which this slight respect was greeted by Sir Hugh, had the effect of repelling the stern and haughty nature of the younger man; in an instant the habitual remembrances of inveterate feud were awakened, and the deep chasm of hereditary hostility yawned again between them. He bowed coldly to Sir Hugh, and, turning to Miles Garrett, observed —

  “I shall glance again at this letter, the contents of which, as yet, I am but imperfectly acquainted with.”

  All this while Mr. Hogan, with his hands buried in his waistcoat pockets, stood whistling, in profound contemplation of one of the old portraits which hung upon the walls, and with his back turned full upon the speakers; and in the deep recess of the window, Torlogh O’Brien was soon absorbed in the perusal of the letter.

  “Sir Hugh Willoughby,” resumed Garrett, with singular calmness and gravity, “it is fair you should know what has been sworn against you. This — Mr. Hogan — lost some cows and horses about the beginning of this month; he procured a warrant of search, and having reason to suspect that your herds had stolen them, — he proceeded hither with his friends — and mark what follows; just ten days since, at fall of evening, he asked leave, under this warrant, peaceably to look for his cattle.”

  “Peaceably!” echoed Sir Hugh. “Good! sir, proceed.”

  “Peaceably,” repeated Garrett, “to search for his cattle concealed, as he believed, within this castle; he was accosted from the shot-hole overlooking the gate by you, sir, and denied admittance, insolently and peremptorily denied admittance; he then fixed the warrant itself upon a staff— “

  “Would he swear it was not upon a pike staff?” said Sir Hugh, with indignant and sarcastic emphasis.

  “Upon a pikestaff, was it?” repeated Garrett, quickly, and paused in anxious silence for an answer; while his eye, intent with cat-like vigilance, watched every movement of his prey.

  “Go on, sir, go on — if you mean to speak more, go on,” said Sir Hugh, with intense and bitter scorn.

  “Yes, sir, if you will; he conveyed it to you, as you say, upon a pike’s end,” resumed Garrett, again pausing for a second or two at the last word; but receiving no answer from Sir Hugh, he quickly continued, raising his voice as he proceeded— “You, sir, received it, tore it to pieces, threw it to the winds with your own hands, and defied the poor gentleman who claimed admission in virtue of its authority to enter; and now, like a vapouring coward — ay, sir, start, and scowl, and glare as you may — a vapouring, pot-valiant coward, you dare not, dare not avow your own braggart action.”

  Miles Garrett had well calculated the effect his words were likely to produce upon one of his hearers at least, for, boiling with rage and scorn, the old knight was upon the very point of giving rash and vehement utterance to all that Garrett most desired to hear him speak. There was, however, another listener, upon whom his language wrought to very different purpose, so suddenly that it seemed as though an apparition had started from the floor — Torlogh O’Brien stood between Miles Garrett and the enraged old gentleman.

  “Forbear!” he cried, in a tone of stern and deliberate command, as, with outstretched hand, he warned Sir Hugh; “forbear — speak not for your life — speak not a word — for your child’s sake, speak not.”

  The suddenness and energy of the apparition which thus interposed, in all the impressiveness of command and warning, effectually checked the impetuosity of the knight, and a dead silence of some seconds followed.

  “Sir Hugh Willoughby,” continued the soldier, almost sarcastically, “there is a homely adage which says that least said is soonest mended. Beware of ungoverned passion — and rush not into admissions which may touch your life. Come, Sir Hugh, be a man, and a calm one, or so surely as you stand there, and living at this moment, your enemies will take you in the snares of death.”

  “Oh! he is right, he is right, dear father — he speaks truly,” said Grace, passionately, throwing her arms about the old man’s neck, and clinging to him in an agony of love and terror; “answer them not, dear father — for my sake, answer them not. Oh! good sir,” she said, with a most piteous smile, as she turned to Miles Garrett, and pleaded sweetly with him, all unconscious of the hideous passions with which she thus essayed to parley, “he is hasty, easily moved, but kind, and gentle, and forgiving; for pity’s sake, sir, do not chafe his spirit now.”

  “Grace — Grace, my girl,” said Sir Hugh, turning to her sadly and sternly, “speak not to that bad man; you know not, perhaps you never may, wherefore I say it; but, my child, speak not to him, look not upon him, avoid him as the incarnate curse of our family �
� one who has been the great destroyer of all that, with us, time can never, never in all its crowding changes and chances — never restore again. My innocent child, my darling — my only, only child — I will not tell you more; but, once for all, hold with him no communion.”

  He kissed her forehead with melancholy fondness as he concluded.

  “Colonel O’Brien,” said Miles Garrett, eyeing the officer askance. while his face grew white and livid with concentrated rage, “you attend here under the direction of that letter, and to obey my orders: beware, sir, how you exceed your duty.”

  “Pshaw, sir, reserve your lectures for your bailiffs and constables,” retorted Torlogh, with cold contempt; “we both act under orders, you as well as I, and yours are not, and cannot be, to trepan your prisoner into dangerous admissions.”

  “I know my duty and its limits,” replied Garrett, while his face grew paler and paler, and the scowl upon his brow grew blacker and deadlier, “and one of its behests is to unmask all treason and to expose all traitors, no matter, Sir Colonel, whose livery they may wear.”

  “Sir Hugh Willoughby,” said the soldier, coldly, and without appearing to have so much as heard the last observation of Miles Garrett, “you are my prisoner — I arrest you under this warrant, which has been handed to me for execution. This second paper is a summons directed to you, and which I now deliver, to attend the Privy Council in Dublin Castle. It is my duty to provide an escort for your safe conveyance, which shall be done; and now, Mr. Justice,” he continued, turning to Miles Garrett, “I am responsible for Sir Hugh Willoughby’s appearance, and shall deliver his person into custody in Dublin, as required. You have no further business here, I presume?”

  “None, sir,” replied Miles Garrett, with an affectation of carelessness, “none. You are now accountable, and let me tell you, sir, an error on the side of strictness is more easily mended than one the other way. You scarcely can be too rigorous for caution in this case; ’tis enough to meet rebellion in the North, we must not let it spread into the South; examples must be made, and shall be before long; above all, be strict, and do not scruple in all respects to treat him as a military prisoner, for such he virtually is; in a word, sir, alike for others’ warning and his own security, exercise severity. You understand me — severity?”

  “Severity! good, sir,” repeated O’Brien, coldly. “Have you anything further to suggest before you depart?”

  “One word more — one word,” continued Garrett, as he directed a look in which malignity and meanness struggled for the ascendancy, toward the old knight and the beautiful girl who clung to him with all the moving agony of love and terror, “I would have you prevent communication between the prisoner and any other persons, even those nearest to him in kindred: on that very account, perhaps, the most dangerous with whom he could hold intercourse. You will see the necessity of this measure.”

  “From the young lady, his daughter, you mean?” inquired Torlogh O’Brien, in the same cold tone.

  “Certainly, most certainly,” replied Garrett, eagerly catching at the suggestion which relieved him from what even he felt to be the embarrassing necessity of being more explicit.

  The father, with a mute gesture of despair, drew his daughter still more closely to him, and, with a bursting heart and pale face, gazed on her loved countenance, while she, clinging to him with the very wildness of fear and love, turned her imploring eyes in mute appeal from Miles Garrett to the soldier, who, with stern and thoughtful brow, was moodily pacing the floor to and fro. One quick glance he stole toward his prisoner, and addressing Garrett, said —

  “No doubt, the course you name were safest — wisest.”

  “Clearly,” interrupted the magistrate.

  “Would this duty had fallen to another’s lot!” ejaculated Torlogh.

  “A soldier’s duties, and in times like these, are often painful,” observed Garrett, with a shrug.

  “But then,” resumed O’Brien, coldly, “the lady is very young — almost too young to share in treasonable enterprises. What think you?” Miles Garrett shook his head.

  “You really apprehend danger to the king’s government in this young lady’s being admitted to converse with her aged father?” said Torlogh, sarcastically. “Do I understand you rightly, Mr. Garrett — are you serious?”

  “Take your own course, sir,” replied Miles Garrett, hastily; “and if there be any miscarriage in the matter, on your head be the consequences.”

  “Nay, but would you have me separate them from this moment?” persevered the soldier; “were not that undue severity?”

  “Sir, I have said my mind already on the matter,” replied Garrett, doggedly. “Your duty is plain; what your conduct may be I pretend not to divine.”

  Torlogh bit his lip, as he for a moment fixed his eye steadily upon the magistrate. He turned, however, sharply on his heel, without speaking, and walked to the window.

  Meanwhile Garrett prepared, though lingeringly, to depart.

  “You will need to make all possible despatch,” he said, once more addressing O’Brien, as he drew on his gloves; “you have a weighty responsibility cast upon you, sir, and I venture to caution you, as a young man, against yielding to any influences, save those of duty only.”

  As he spoke, he glanced at Grace Willoughby with a significance so obvious that, spite of her fears and agitation, a feeling of a very different kind for a moment overcame her, and she blushed so deeply that even from her neck to her very temples glowed with the crimson tide. Thus she stood overwhelmed with confusion and maidenly resentment, still holding by her father’s arm, and with her eyes turned to the floor, while her quickened respiration was visible through the heaving of her silken bodice.

  “Enough, sir!” replied the soldier, sharply and emphatically; “and let me caution you in return against intruding gratuitous advice where impertinence may be resented, and where its repetition may be punished. I have no more to learn from you; your presence is useless to me, and obviously painful to others; so, in mere decency, methinks it were better to withdraw.”

  Miles Garrett was on the point of retorting; but the prudence of villainy prevailed, and he restrained the angry emotions which experience had taught him to control. He tapped Hogan upon the shoulder, pointed the way to the door, and having glanced hesitatingly for a moment or two successively at the other occupants of the chamber, he turned abruptly, muttering something between his teeth, and without addressing one word to those whom he was leaving, strode gloomily from the room.

  Overcome with the agitation of the scene through which she had but just passed — her heart wrung with feelings the most agonizing and exciting — poor Grace Willoughby no sooner saw herself relieved of the hateful and dreaded presence of those who had just departed, than, yielding herself up to the torrent of passionate grief and affection, terror and tenderness, which had long struggled in her bosom, she threw her arms around her father’s neck, and covering him with kisses, wept and sobbed as if her heart would break.

  Torlogh O’Brien, meanwhile, stood stern, dark, and silent, in the deep recess of the window, looking forth with compressed lips and a clouded brow upon the retreating forms of those from whom he had just received his dread commission. He suffered this incontrollable burst of feeling to expend itself without interruption, and it was not until many minutes had passed that he again addressed the fallen master of Glindarragh.

  “Sir Hugh Willoughby,” said he, “I am now, as you are aware, accountable for your appearance in Dublin: your person is in my keeping. I shall place you, however, under no unnecessary restraint. You are a gentleman, and your word is all I require to assure me that you will not attempt escape, while under my charge. We must reach Dublin within five days, and the sooner, therefore, we leave this the better. We have a hundred miles of bad road before us, and twenty miles a-day is as much as my men are accustomed to travel.”

  “I am your prisoner, sir,” replied the old knight, with melancholy dignity; “you have a right to
command my movements. In trusting to my honour, as you propose, you shall not find yourself mistaken, One request I have to make, and that is, that my poor child may be allowed, as you have heard her so earnestly entreat, to accompany her old father upon this unexpected journey. We shall be prepared to set forth, if need be, this afternoon. My daughter may come with me?”

  “Surely, surely, Sir Hugh,” replied the soldier, hastily; and then he added, more coldly, “I shall leave you to employ the interval in needful preparations — this evening must see us on the road.”

  With these words, having bowed haughtily, Colonel Torlogh O’Brien withdrew; and thus ended a conference pregnant with the destinies of all who had taken a part in it.

  *

  Leavetaking is at best a bitter task, and doubly so when kind faces and old familiar scenes are but too probably looked upon indeed for a last time, never to be greeted or revisited more in all the changes and chances of this troublous life. Bitter and stern was the pang which wrung the heart of old Sir Hugh, as, with forced buoyancy of voice and look, he grasped the honest hands of many an humble friend; and sore was the grief that swelled in the bosom of his fair daughter as, side by side, they rode down the steep old road to the bridge of Glindarragh, which they were now passing, never, it might be, to cross it more. How did they listen to the sweet sounds which, evening after evening, as far as memory could number, had filled the haunted air of that loved home? — how many a sidelong glance of lingering tenderness was stolen at the old gray towers and wimpling river, so sadly smiling in the glorious evening light! As thus silently they looked and listened their last in mute farewell, many a blessing and many a prayer followed the little cavalcade, while gradually it wound its way through the devious woodlands.

  The group was, indeed, picturesque enough, and might have claimed a passing glance of interest, even from those unacquainted with its melancholy destination. Foremost rode old Sir Hugh, his face nearly hidden in the folds of his mantle; and almost by his side his beautiful daughter, cloaked and hooded for the journey, and pale with the piteous struggles of harrowing fears and bitter sorrow; then followed the grim, old, trusty Jeremiah Tisdal, and a group of servants in attendance on the lady and her father; and next, at a considerable interval, rode the dark Colonel Torlogh O’Brien, followed by a guard of dragoons. Such was the cavalcade which, upon that evening, wound slowly down the road from the Castle of Glindarragh in ominous procession, taking the highway for that scene of wild and momentous enterprises and events — that rallying point of strange and striking characters — the far-off city of Dublin.