So saying, the little gentleman put his arm through Garrett’s, and infinitely to the amazement of the other two occupants of the chamber, led him unresisting and in silence from the chamber, and so down the stairs.
“Thank God, thank God!” said the poor lady, clasping her thin hands fervently together as she raised her eyes to heaven in an agony of gratitude, “Oh God, be thanked,” and she burst into an hysterical paroxysm of weeping.
“Come what may,” she said at last, when the violence of her passionate agitation had subsided, “I shall never know the bitterness and humiliation of crossing his threshold and sheltering under his roof-tree more. Oh, merciful God! that I should ever have owed protection to the persecutor, the murderous persecutor of poor — poor, wronged — — “ She buried her face in her hands and sobbed and trembled so violently, that the young man became almost alarmed for her.
“Had you not come in when you did,” she resumed with a shudder, “I do believe he would have murdered me; he looked as if he could — well, well, my life they may take; would — would it were ended, and so all over; but I will not yield in this — I will not eat the bread of his betrayer — no threats, no cajolery shall prevail. I will not go back — another home they may find me, but there I will not go.”
Meanwhile Garrett and his companion, inclosed in the oldfashioned coach, were driven rapidly along the streets; for some minutes the silence was unbroken except by the rumble of the wheels. The shabby-looking personage, however, at last remarked, “What a virago, that is — mere skin and bone, but animated with the soul of a tigress; you took a wrong course with her, believe me; the only way with such subjects, is to wheedle and coax; as to resorting to brute force — doing mischief and ultimately failing, as you might — why, it were worse than frenzy; besides the object is not really worth the risk. You apprehend, believe me, too much from her newly-asserted independence.”
“I do not agree with you; it’s a bad business — cursed bad,” said Garrett sulkily; “but you’re right in saying that force would not do, after that officious dog of a priest came in. I do not know what to say of it.”
“Nobody knows but yourself that she’s here?” inquired his companion.
“No; and do you keep your counsel — not a word of it to any one breathing; do you mark me?” said Garrett, impressing the caution with two or three lazy but emphatic kicks.
“Trust me, Mr. Garrett, confidence is confidence, sir, with me,’”said the sinister-looking personage from the corner of the coach, where he lay coiled up like a reptile in the darkness.
“I tell you,” said Garrett, suddenly, after another sulky pause, “I don’t like it — it’s a bad business; if she makes herself troublesome to certain persons just now, she will ruin my schemes for me; curse her, she’s here of course, about the old blustering knight’s affair, though what can she do to help him! I don’t like it, however, that’t all — the very people whom she ought not to meet, are now in town, and here she comes, as if the devil inspired her with the precise and only freak she could contrive, to pester and baulk me. I can’t afford to lose one particle of my interest at court at this moment; if I do, all my pains go for nothing; curse the woman! curse her; look ye, Garvey, you must find some way to keep her quiet — dispose of her somehow; any how, so you prevent her meddling — prevent her shewing herself — that’s all I want.”
A silence ensued, which was broken by Mr. Garvey’s bursting into a short laugh.
“A deuced comical plan crossed my mind, and not a bad one either; one that will bring the old lady to reason, Mr. Garrett,” said he; “and keep her as close as if the grand inquisitor had her four bones under lock and key.”
“I don’t want to know any thing about it,” said Garrett, hastily; and then added, gruffly; “but remember the occasion may arise suddenly, and — and you need not be over-scrupulous when it does come; but here we are again.”
The coach stopped, and they proceeded to descend.
A few days after the events recorded in our last chapter, somewhere about the hour of noon, a coach, surrounded by a guard of dragoons, rumbled over the drawbridge, and under the ancient archway, which then, between two grim and dusky towers — massive, sombre, and prisonlike, and under cover of two heavy cannon, upon a platform within — gave admission to the castle of Dublin. The castle of those days bore small resemblance to the present structure. A suspicious-looking, dingy, ominous building — sternly impressed in every aspect with the double character of a fortress and a gaol — swarming with lounging soldiery — and with every pass, and almost every doorway guarded by a musketeer; old brass cannons, of marvellous length, peered grimly from the timeworn embrasures of the outer walls; and the buildings, whose narrow and unequal gables crowded up the intervals between the towers, formed a spacious quadrangle, whose irregularity and gloom, coupled with the sounds of military occupation — the echoing tread of the sentinels, and the challenging of those who passed — and the marching and countermarching of the files of soldiery, at stated times, relieving guard; all impressed the mind of the man who, leaving the busy streets, plunged on a sudden within its solemn precincts, with something at once of gloom and excitement — how much more the mind of him who passed beneath its formidable shadows, as a prisoner of state.
While this vehicle made its way onward, several carriages and four, having deposited their living burdens of rank, arrogance, guile, or Wisdom, as the case might be, at the entrance to the council chamber, were moving slowly away — and two or three mounted lackeys were walking their masters’ horses slowly up and down, before the listless groups who lounged and gossipped there. The coach drew up at a little distance from this door, and Sir Hugh Willoughby, followed by old Jeremiah Tisdal, descended to the pavement; and Torlogh O’Brien dismounting, whispered a word or two in his ear, and then led the way briskly toward the narrow arched doorway, which admitted to the interior of the building, in which lay the chamber where King James’s privy council were then assembled.
As Sir Hugh was about to pass through the crowd of applicants and expectants who haunted the outer door, Thomas Talbot stood within the shadow of the archway. He caught Sir Hugh’s eye as he passed, and a slight and stem interchange of recognition partially revealed the feelings with which each regarded the other. But the old knight engaged his eye but for a moment; — a little incident, which might easily have escaped another, attracted and riveted his attention. Tisdal was following Sir Hugh at a brief interval, and as the burly puritan made his way through the crowd which beset the entrance, some one tapped him sharply on the shoulder; he looked round, and encountered the steady and sneering gaze of the musketeer, who kept guard at the door. Could he believe his eyes! — there, in the bright scarlet uniform and bandoleer, with shouldered musket, and broadleafed low-crowned military hat, stood with a suppressed grin of triumph stamped upon his unsightly visage, the identical Richard Deverill, whose body he at that moment believed to be mingling in the ashes of the ruined Grange of Drumgunniol. Without deranging his stiff military attitude, Deverill kept his eye with a steady significance, which he enhanced by one or two arch winks, and a low titter of suppressed delight, full upon his confounded and horror-stricken acquaintance. Tisdal returned his pleasant glance of recognition with a stare of such obvious agitation and dismay, that it was impossible to witness the intensity of fear and amazement which it pourtrayed — an expression so powerfully contrasted with the dogged and masculine character of his features — without a sensation at once of curiosity and suspicion. Tisdal stepped, or rather staggered back a pace or two, with mouth agape, and a scowl of horror — but mastering his emotion, with a strong effort, he recovered his self-possession; he glanced quickly round him, to see if he had been observed, and darting another hurried look at the object of his fear, he hastened into the building, and followed Sir Hugh up the stairs. This recognition, and its agitating effect upon Tisdal, occupied little more time than would have sufficed to receive a blow and to stagger a step or two under
its impulse; but though no other eye observed it, the keen glance of Talbot, who as we have said, had paused for a moment in the shadow of the entrance, instantly noted the occurrence. It might mean nothing — but it might be important — so without a moment’s delay, this crafty and energetic man, inwardly resolving to turn the incident, if possible, to account, took his own decisive measures, thereupon.
Meanwhile, Sir Hugh mounted the broad staircase, and passing a crowded lobby, entered the apartment, where he was to await the pleasure of his majesty, King James, then sitting in council in the adjoining chamber. The feelings of suspense and excited expectation — the consciousness that he was about to encounter, in a few moments, those public men, whom, upon earth, he most dreaded and hated — the feeling that he was about to stand, for the first time, under the eye of royal suspicion and displeasure, that he was momentarily approaching a scene which must prove one of the most memorable and momentous of his existence — all these reflections and emotions combined to depress, excite, and agitate him to a degree that was absolutely painful. Thus he awaited with breathless anxiety and suspense the summons which should call him through the crowded antechamber into the royal presence-
CHAPTER XXIII.
THE PRIVY COUNCIL.
SIR HUGH had not very long to wait in the antechamber; many groups were there assembled, some with memorials, and other matters officially to be submitted; others, and the greater number, lounging there, in the hope of having a few minutes’ conference with one or other of the privy council, as they withdrew; intent on urging some private suit, for place or pension, and most of them engaged in animated conversation — some of it conducted in genuine Irish, then almost universally understood and spoken by the country gentlemen — and all, it is scarcely necessary to add, of a very decidedly one-sided character, as respected the momentous politics of the day. Sir Hugh, silently, and ill at ease, awaited in suspense the summons which was to call him into the presence of King James. At last, a door in the far end of the chamber, opened, and a clerk looked in and drew back again — then the same door was reopened, and the same official entered, and twice called Sir Hugh Willoughby by name. Through the now silent and staring crowd, the old knight passed; the guard who accompanied him and Tisdal were stopped at the door, and he passed alone into the council chamber.
It was a spacious wainscoted chamber, lighted not very cheerfully, by three narrow windows, cased in deep recesses in the side wall, and overlooking the interior quadrangle of the castle. At a long table sate some dozen of the right honourable the privy council of those days, in rich suits, velvets, and laced cloths; and presenting (even were its effect unaided by the consciousness that the whole power, dignity, and enterprise of the loyalist cause were there assembled), a coup doeil, whose very richness, splendour, and solemnity would have made it impressive.
At the head of the table he had no difficulty in recognizing, at a single glance, King James himself, dressed, as on the day of his entrance into Dublin, with a plainness which contrasted strikingly enough with the almost gorgeous attire of those around him. Pens, ink, and some papers lay before him; and at the moment when the old knight entered, the king was addressing a dark-featured, intelligent gentleman, with animated eyes, gravely but richly dressed in a suit of velvet, who sate close by him. This personage was the Count D’Avaux, the ambassador, and not now for the first time, of the grand monarque. The remark had been a gracious one, and obviously intended, at least, for a pleasantry; for a formal smile was upon the face of majesty, as he concluded; and the Count D’Avaux shrugged and laughed, in which latter loyal tribute, the rest of the council dutifully joined.
As the king’s eye rested upon Sir Hugh, the passing smile vanished, and his rigid and heavy features recovered in an instant their usual haughty and saturnine expression — with a formal and lofty carriage, and a bold, and, it must be added, a somewhat ungracious stare, the king, for some seconds, looked full upon the old knight.
“Whom have we here, Tyrconnel?” inquired James, gravely, turning to the Irish favourite, without a change in a single feature of his rigid face.
“Sir Hugh Willoughby, my liege,” answered Tyrconnel, bowing toward the king, and speaking in a low tone— “your majesty will remember— “
“Willoughby! — I remember,” said James — whose accurate memory and painstaking habits made him at all events a good man of business— “I remember — Willoughby — let me see — I have a note of this matter by me — so — we have it” — ana as he thus spoke, the king turned over the leaves of a gilt red leather notebook— “a prisoner under a warrant of high treason — a gentleman of Limerick, in Munster.”
“The same, my liege,” answered Tyrconnel.
“You are Sir Hugh Willoughby?” continued the king, turning again toward the prisoner, with the same fixed and somewhat forbidding aspect.
“I am, may it please your majesty, but no traitor;” replied Sir Hugh, firmly but respectfully.
“Your house of Glindarragh,” continued the king, coldly, again referring to his notes and pursuing his interrogatories, for he delighted in conducting an examination in person, and sometimes indulged this taste to an extent scarcely reconcileable with the dignity of his royal station— “your house of Glindarragh is situated in the southern district of this our kingdom of Ireland, in the county, I think, of Limerick?”
“Even so, my liege,” replied the knight.
“We desire, then, to know,” continued the king, “from your own experience, which must needs be considerable, how you believe our Protestant subjects of that district to be affected toward our rights and person? — Speak out, sir” — he continued, sternly— “you will find more safety in plain dealing than equivocation, when you come thus face to face with the King — how do they stand affected, sir — it’s a plain question?”
“May it please your majesty, they are one and all peaceably dis posed,” replied Sir Hugh, after a moment’s hesitation, for the peremptory tone of the king had a little disconcerted him.
“Scarce peaceably, methiuks,” rejoined the king, austerely, “if what is in evidence against yourself, and some three score others of your friends, be no perjury.”
Tyrconnel smiled contemptuously on old Sir Hugh, as James uttered this ominous sarcasm.
“If there be any matter sworn against me, my liege,” answered Sir Hugh spiritedly— “save that where your majesty’s government had not the power to protect my life and interests, I feared not to defend them for myself — that evidence of which your majesty has spoken — is perjury, and nothing better.”
James could ill brook, except when it came from a favourite, even the semblance of contradiction, though he not unfrequently provoked it; and the fearless speech of the old knight savoured much too strongly of whiggish independence, not to offend an intolerance of opposition so sensitive and exacting as that of the last king of the Stuarts. A glow of irritation flushed his massive features. He sate more erect as he eyed the unceremonious prisoner with a look of extreme displeasure, and with a slight and haughty gesture adjusted the folds of his laced cravat, and the sable curls of his peruke; it manifestly required an effort of the royal dignity to swallow down the angry and peremptory rebuke which had risen to his lips; he did, however, suppress the unseemly ebullition, and after a brief pause, he observed: —
“You are somewhat blunt, Sir Knight — somewhat blunt, methinks, but we except not against your plain speaking, provided you but deal as plainly in your answers, as you have done in your commentary. I desire to know how far we may calculate upon the loyalty and duty of our Protestant subjects in Munster. Take the question thus — were our service to need their active assistance, do you think the Protestant gentlemen of your acquaintance would accept commissions in our army or militia?”
“For myself, my liege,” replied Sir Hugh, “I have not been bred a soldier; and my years, moreover, unfit me for a soldier’s life; had I a choice, therefore, I frankly allow I should decline a commission in eithe
r service; and as regards the gentlemen of my acquaintance, I have never spoken to them of such a matter, and cannot, therefore, presume to say how they might act in such a case.”
“Bravo, old gentleman — well said, and guardedly!” muttered one of those who sate by, as with one hand buried to the wrist in the folds of his rich laced vest, and the other grasping as firmly as he might have done his holster pistol, the elbow of the great chair in which he sate — he looked with a keen, bold countenance, on which flitted the faintest smile of admiration, toward the stout old prisoner; this was one among the last made, and will prove, perhaps, one the last forgotten of King James’s privy councillors — Colonel Sarsfield — not yet Lord Lucan.
“You see how it is,” said James, addressing the French ambassador in the language of that court, which was, at least, as easy to him as his own, “heresy and disaffection go hand in hand; by my royal faith,” he added, with vivacity, “I have not a Protestant subject on whom I dare rely.”
The king paused, and the Frenchman observed with a calm smile— “my royal master of France makes light of such difficulties, he converts one half with a dragonade, and mans his galleys with the rest.”
“My good friend,” said James, peevishly, “your master is a king; as for me, par ma foi! my subjects have taken to ruling me so effectually, that I am but too much obliged to them if they let me say my prayers my own way.”
“I would suggest,” began the count in reply.
“Count D’Avaux,” interposed Tyrconnel, with a jealousy which he could not repress, but at the same time with a haughty affectation of deference, “as one of his majesty’s privy council, and with his royal permission, I must remind you that you are here on sufferance, and not as an adviser.”
Delphi Complete Works of Sheridan Le Fanu Page 71