Delphi Complete Works of Sheridan Le Fanu

by J. Sheridan le Fanu

  “What I want,” he said, in a low distinct tone, “is a chamber in which some company — I and a friend for instance, might sit and sup together, without guessing — do you mark me — that a second door communicated with it; such a door must, therefore, lie like that of a closet in the panelling — dead flat in the wainscoat — you understand me — or if you have it behind the hangings. But dang it! your tapestries are all in tatters and stripes, like rotten palls in a church vault,” he added, glancing round him in disgust: “you have not a single corner such as I want; why, I thought all sorts of rat-traps and hiding holes must be plenty in such a tumble-down old barrack of a place.”

  “The countess’s bower is the very thing for him,” said the man, decisively. “There’s a room they call the countess’s bower,” he continued— “that is the very thing you want.”

  And thus speaking, he led the way into a square panelled chamber, which opened upon the passage; and crossing the floor, he applied himself to examine the wainscoat in the recess beside the hearth, whose deathlike damps had not been dispelled for many a long year by the blaze of a fire. After a little delay, he succeeded in forcing in a small door, cut without casing, or any other indication of its presence, except its keyhole in the wood; and this opened, gave admission to a very small chamber, with a tiled floor, and bare brick walls. At one end stood a little stone altar, with a stone crucifix upon it. Here, in this little oratory, doubtless, had the pious and highborn dame, to whom tradition assigned the occupation of the adjoining chamber, been wont, in times long past, to breathe her confessions and her prayers; and it may be too, to perform her vigils, her fasts, and her penitential meditations. How different the uses to which old father Time, in his cynical wantonness, was now about to consign this once holy haunt of the pure and the beautiful.

  “‘Gadso, this is the very thing, as I’m a gentleman,” quoth the corporal, exultingly; “and that little hole, yonder, does it lead anywhere?”

  And as he said this, he walked toward the aperture of which he spoke — a dark and narrow opening; and on looking down, he beheld a flight of steps.

  “It leads to the lumber-closet, down stairs,” replied the host.

  “Good, sir, all right — quite right,” said Deveril; “so much the better; this is precisely what I wanted. Well, then, come back again, and close the door. So, now then, listen to me; I and a friend will sup this evening in this square chamber here — the countess’s bower, as you call it; have a good fire, for it’s cursedly chill; and get a little furniture into it, that it mayn’t look so deserted and queer. When I call for supper, lay it here, by the fire, and close by that door into the closet; do you understand?”

  His entertainer bowed.

  “Now,” continued Deveril, “mind the rest, and make no blunders, but attend to me. This night, as soon as it is dark, two gentlemen, with cloaks on, will come into your shop — one of them shorter than the other — and inquire whether a private room has been engaged for them. Ask no questions; but as soon as the tall one hands you a shilling, bring them quietly up into the closet here, by the backstair — stay! can one see through that keyhole? Ay,’ay, all right; and now, do you understand me thoroughly?”

  “Never fear, sir — never fear,” said the man.

  “Take this for earnest,” said Deveril, placing the gold piece in the fellow’s hand; “and if you behave properly, and do your business well, you shall have no need to grumble at your payment.”

  The man bowed, stole a sly glance of examination at the coin; but it was all right, and he pocketed it with another and a lower acknowledgment.

  “There is one thing more that must be attended to,” resumed Deveril, after taking a brisk turn or two up and down the chamber; “you know Sergeant Burke, of my regiment — the gentleman that drank here for a night and a day, at my expense?”

  “I remember him well, sir,” replied the proprietor of the King’s Head.

  “He will be here about the same time, with a few military friends,” pursued Deveril; “let them have — mark me! — the chamber under this; am I understood?”

  “It shall be done, corporal,” replied he.

  “And, do you mind me,” continued the soldier; “as soon as they come — but not till then — do you run up here, and put a new flask of brandy on the table, and say, ‘there’s more below, whenever it’s wanted.’”

  “I’ll do it, sir — I understand; I’ll not forget it, sir,” rejoined he. Deveril cast an anxious look round the room, bit his nails, and seemed to grow uneasy and gloomy. After a pause, he said —

  “You had better not have any other company near us; none within hearing, but those I’ve mentioned.”

  The man bowed, and promised implicit attention to the direction; and so both descended the staircase side by side.

  “Look ye,” said Deveril, stopping abruptly upon the landing, and speaking in a low tone, and with a sternness of voice and countenance which he had not exhibited heretofore; “this is no light matter, sir — men’s fives hang upon it. Beware how you whisper one word of what has passed between us; and doubly beware how you fail in executing any one of the directions I’ve given you: you’d better have lost a hand or an eye, than fail in one tittle.”

  As he spoke the concluding words, he griped the fellow’s arm with a pressure so violent, that it almost forced the tears into his ill-favoured eyes; and then thrusting him from him, the musketeer silently walked down the stairs, and forth into the public street.

  “That’s a queer fellow,” muttered the host, as he followed Deveril’s movements, with a sinister glance of mingled wonder and dislike— “a queer fellow, and knows the world, whatever his business be. Well, who cares, he pays well, and that’s the main point to look to.”

  CHAPTER XXV.

  BURNT BRANDY FOR TWO.

  WHILE this was passing, Sir Hugh, in his lodging, sate in anxious and gloomy conference, with a shrewd and seasoned veteran of the law, Caleb Crooke, and his sour and gloomy companion, Jeremiah Tisdal. A danger at a distance, proverbially a very different matter from a danger at hand, is often, and happily for ourselves, unduly despised; but as the interval in which the thousand and one fortunate accidents, on which we have unconsciously reckoned, may possibly arise, wears fruitlessly away — the dreaded event presents itself at last, in the stern, hard lineaments of actual reality, and often with an aspect as appalling as though it had arrived wholly unlooked for, and with all the heightened terrors of surprise. It was thus that Sir Hugh, now that he beganto investigate thedetails of his own case, and to examine the chances of ruin or escape, with the severity which the near approach of the decisive issue demanded, felt his stout heart shaken, and his once cheerful mind filled with the worst forebodings. His own misgivings were, perhaps, the gloomier, that it was obvious to his now nervously-sensitive observation, that the honest and intelligent professional adviser, who sate in consultation with him, spite of every effort to appear cheerful and assured, was in reality full of doubts, if not despondency. Sir Hugh sate watching, with absorbed and breathless interest, the varied expression of the crabbed attorney’s sharp and intelligent face, as though his fortune and his life depended upon its slightest change; while Jeremiah Tisdal recounted coolly and clearly the evidence he was prepared to give.

  “Shall I be allowed the aid of counsel?” inquired Sir Hugh.

  “Certainly, to sit by and advise you,” replied the man of writs and notices; “but his voice must not be heard in court. It is a hard rule: but you cannot be heard by counsel against an indictment for high treason.”

  “What think you of the jury?” urged the knight.

  “In the heats and perils of these times, men’s minds and hearts are alike unsettled and distempered,” replied the attorney, “and I rely not on the impartiality of any jury. My sole trust is in the judges, and in the obvious weakness of the prosecution. At the same time I do confess, I would give a great deal that, at any sacrifice of money or property, you could make interest with s
ome great man for a nolle prosequi — but come what may, our trust is in God and a good cause.”

  The attorney was collecting and arranging the notes which he had taken.

  “Mr. Tisdal,” he said, as he proceeded, “unless I mistake, your evidence will go far to extricate our honoured friend from his present difficulties.”

  He paused abruptly, for a servant entered at that moment, and brought a small crumpled slip of paper, which he placed in Jeremiah Tisdal’s hand.

  It was now almost dark, and the Puritan approached the solitary candle which burned in the chamber, and by its light read the following words: —

  “LITTLE DICK SLASH to his old friend the Captain, greeting.

  “I desire to speak with you — so leave your company, and come down to me. If you keep me waiting, I shall go up to you. Choose between these courses; for see you, and speak with you, I will.

  “Yours as you shall treat me, “DEVERIL.”

  Tisdal read this document over and over again, with such obvious and uncontrollable evidences of agitation, that even Sir Hugh observed the darkened expression which crossed his countenance, as he studied it.

  “No ill news, Tisdal, I trust?” inquired the old knight.

  “No — nothing — no, Sir Hugh,” stammered he, as he crumpled the paper in his fingers, and thrust it deep into his pocket. He walked first a step or two towards the door, then paused irresolutely, and strode to the window, whence he looked sternly and eagerly downward, and along the street, in both directions; then returning, he said abruptly —

  “I’m called away, Sir Hugh; I am no needed here further at present. I shall return speedily.”

  His excited and flurried manner was so remarkable as he uttered these words, and moved from the chamber, that Sir Hugh and his attorney looked on one another in silent wonder for some seconds after the door had closed.

  “A strange fellow that,” said the latter. “He looked as though he were on his way to the gallows.”

  “He is a strange, gloomy, and excitable man,” said the knight; but brave and trustworthy. I’ve known him long, and seen him often tried.”

  As they thus conferred, the subject of their discourse descended the staircase, and needed no guide to indicate the place where his visitor was to be found, inasmuch as he heard the well-known voice of Deveril, in jocular converse with the servant, at the street door.

  “Ha, Mr. Tisdal,” he exclaimed, assuming, much to the Puritan’s relief, a tone of respect, “I am glad to see you, sir.”

  Jeremiah nodded, and silently walked forth and pursued his way for some time in profound and obstinate taciturnity. At last he turned suddenly upon Deveril, who was smoking lazily at his side, and abruptly asked —

  “Well, what is it you want?”

  Deveril removed his pipe, and spat upon the ground; and, shrugging his shoulders as he looked, with a half laugh, upon the Puritan, he said —

  “Why, what an ill-conditioned churl he has turned out. This comes of your Munster farming, your turf and buttermilk! Why, man, you’re scarce fit for civil company. What do I want! Nothing — nothing from you — nothing in the world but your company. You treated me in the country, and I’ll treat you in town.”

  “I don’t want your company — I don’t want your supper,” said Tisdal, gruffly.

  “Come, come — you’re too savage; rot me but it won’t do,” rejoined Deveril. “It’s better to be friends than foes, especially where it costs you nothing. Come — I believe I’m the best off of the two, at present; and since I joined the army, and entered his Majesty’s service, I’ve set up as a sort of a sly saint, in the same line as yourself, barring that I go to mass, and you to another sort of mummery; so take courage, and remember I have a character now to look after, as well as you. Come, come — we must keep terms; it’s better to have a cup of sack than to draw daggers on one another, without a cause. Come along man; be advised.”

  Induced by such speeches, and, more than all, by the obvious prudence of avoiding an unnecessary rupture with this man, so long as he was disposed upon reasonable terms to observe a truce, Tisdal moodily suffered his communicative companion to lead him into the “King’s Head,” the inauspicious tavern, among whose dusky chambers we have already followed Deveril.

  Behold them, therefore, seated by a blazing fire, in the old panelled chamber which tradition called the countess’s bower. A piece of rush matting covered a patch of the floor, beside the hearth, and upon it stood the table with their snug refection disposed in inviting confusion over its white cloth. The candles upon the table, indeed, but feebly lighted up the wide expanse of the deserted chamber; but the flickering blaze of the hearth had dispelled the damps, and sent its ruddy pulsations of fitful light into the most distant corners and recesses of the apartment.

  “Sit down in your chair, old bully; choose a pipe, and help yourself out of this,” cried Deveril, doing the honours, and chucking his tobacco-box across the table to his comrade; while he threw himself into a seat, and glanced at the bright fire with a cozy shrug: “a snug fire,” he continued, significantly, “a snug fire, captain, though not quite so warm as Drumgunniol, eh?”

  “The place is burned,” said Tisdal, doggedly; not choosing to understand his comrade’s sneer.

  “Burned! well, that’s no great news to me,” rejoined Deveril, crossing his legs, and planting one elbow carelessly upon the table, while he proceeded to chop and shred his tobacco; upon which he smiled the while, as sarcastically as if his conversation was addressed exclusively to it; “no great news, seeing I beheld the bonfire with these eyes, and should, had you but seen out your pleasant frolic, myself have lent a few pounds of grease to the blaze; come, old Snap, be frank and friendly, and say, in confidence, did not you mean that I should broil in your old tinder-box of a house.”

  “How could I help you, blockhead; I had well nigh perished myself,” said Tisdal, roughly.

  “Aye, indeed? that would have been a blow to the religious world,” said Deveril, with a look of concern.

  “But how do you satisfy me for my money, comrade; the gold and silver you stole from beneath the crab-tree in the paddock; account with me for that,” growled Tisdal.

  “Dreams and fancies, friend; the fire has fried your brains, old boy — and these are the fumes and vapours — gold and silver, crab-trees and paddocks;” cried Deveril, throwing himself back, and shaking his head, slowly; “take care, saint Jeremiah — thy pious rigours, thv austerities and mortifications are fast unsettling thy wits; ’tis all pure fancy, or, if it be anything more, I at least comprehend it not; and what’s more,” he continued, altering his manner to one of very distinct and decisive significance; “I never shall comprehend it either, to the end of the chapter; so let us turn to something more intelligible,”

  “And how,” continued Tisdal, “how do you defend your cruelty to poor Bligh, my trusty servant, whom you shut into the house, and committed to the flames.”

  “Nay,” cried Deveril, with real sincerity; I know nothing of that; he must have fled into it from the Irish. I was far away ere then; but was he burned, really and actually burned alive?”

  “Burnt to a cinder, poor dog,” said Tisdal.

  “Well he was the stupidest booby, that Bligh — just the sort of fellow to run into a house on fire, and burn himself to tinder,” said Deveril; and as he reflected on the adventure, it gradually struck him in so ludicrous a light, that he first chuckled, and then laughed outright, until the tears overflowed his eyes.

  “And so,” resumed Deveril, as soon as this hilarious explosion had quite expended itself; “the old farmhouse and the saintly youth, are actually burned to smoke and ashes — dust and charcoal; it was a comfortable old place — devilish comfortable; and you got it, you know, a dead bargain.”

  Deveril said this in a careless sort of way, and without even glancing at his companion, who rose as if stung with a sudden pain — sate down again, and scowled once or twice quickly upon him, as if upon the point
of speaking, but he held his peace.

  “Come,” said Deveril, “I’m your entertainer tonight; and gibbet me but I’ll treat you like a gentleman; rot it, I’ll have no moping. Odd’s life, man, we know one another; where’s the good of striving to humbug? it’s no bite — file against file — so as well to let it alone. There’s the backgammon-board — there’s the burned brandy, and all the rest — and here am I, your old bully comrade, ready to play you a hit, or tip you a stave; or, — come — to begin — ladle a glassful], and listen to me, while I tell you the ups and the downs of little Dick Slash, since we parted company in merry Lincolnshire.”

  Tisdal complied in silence, and thus together sate these two ancient companions in iniquity, changed in aspect, and one, at least, not less so in mind, since their old days of sin and riot, and now after their long separation, once more so strangely brought together by the whims of fortune — there they sate, quaffing “pottle-deep potations,” from the bowl of burnt brandy — Tisdal’s favourite beverage, of old — and talking over, with growing interest and recklessness, their old remembrances. Under the influence of the potent bowl, all the superinduced formalities of Tisdal’s puritanism gradually melted away and vanished, piece by piece, revealing the natural character of the man, until, in all the indestructible vividness and strength of its old passion and daring, the dark and fiery spirit stood confessed.

  The backgammon board at which they had been playing — for Tisdal had, as we have said, for the nonce forgotten his puritanism — was now shoved aside, and deeper and fiercer grew these ominous revelries. Strange and wild was Deveril’s excitement, as, with flashing eye and a face flushed, but not with the glow of intoxication, he ran through his adventures, comic, tragic, and perilous, with a rapidity and a rude fascination of descriptive force which absorbed his old comrade in its interest, and fired him, in turn, with a corresponding excitement and reckless unreserve (fatal excitement — fatal unreserve); and thus hour after hour flew by, and found them still in deep carousal.