Delphi Complete Works of Sheridan Le Fanu

by J. Sheridan le Fanu

  Too much agitated and embarrassed to speak, Grace remained silent; but Torlogh O’Brien, in a few brief sentences, put Sir Hugh and his companion in full possession of the result of the young lady’s mission; and, this done, once more their deliberations turned upon the important document, and the choice of a trusty messenger.

  “Would I could offer my services,” said Torlogh; “but I must, even tonight, set forth for Londonderry; such are the king’s commands.”

  The now familiar sound of the grating of the bars and bolts which secured the prison door, interrupted him. All eyes were turned anxiously toward the narrow portal; and to their mingled surprise and relief, Father O’Gara, the young priest whom we have had so often occasion to mention, entered the gloomy apartment.

  The opportune appearance of this young man, in whom the old knight felt a degree of confidence, for which, even in the momentous conference which he had had with him before, he could scarcely find a warrant, seemed to his excited fancy like a providential solution of his present difficulties; and this impression was, perhaps, heightened and confirmed by the further coincidence, that Glindarragh Castle turned out to be the inmediate destination of their visiter. In accordance with the promise he had made Sir Hugh, when last they met in the Carbrie, the young priest had now sought an interview with him, previous to his departure from Dublin, to join the regiment (Torlogh O’Brien’s) of which he had been appointed assistant-chaplain; and which, as the reader is aware, was now quartered in the hereditary mansion of the illfated knight of Glindarragh.

  Here, then, was a messenger, in all particulars adapted to the mission. Secured against the violence of the peasant marauders, by that sacred character, which even the most reckless of the rapparees never failed to respect; and protected from the insolent interruptions of the soldiery, by his own demi-military office. Such advantages, backed by his frank offers of service, and by his already approved good will, in such an emergency easily overbalanced whatever scruples, under circumstances less urgent, might have suggested themselves to the mind of the old knight, and determined him finally to entrust to his execution this, to him, most momentous commission.

  The task is imposed and undertaken, with full and accurate directions — with oft-repeated charges and instructions; and commissioned, moreover, with two letters for Percy Neville — one from Sir Hugh himself, the other from a correspondent in England — and which had reached the Carbrie by private hand, the young priest has taken his melancholy leave, and now rides slowly through the quaint streets of Dublin, toward the western suburbs. And now the rustling of green leaves, and the merry songs of small birds are around him; village smoke and lowly thatch rise softly into view, among dark tufted bushes; and rivers rush and glitter under thick shadows of stooping copsewood. He throws his eyes around him over the varied landscape, with a gush of silent joy and gratitude — and then, breaking from his happy reverie, with a half sigh, and remembering, perchance, the melancholy isolation which has outlawed him, as it were, from the free and happy sympathies of nature, he drops the bridle on his sober palfrey’s neck — and with a saddened look, draws down the broad leaf of his slouching hat, and opening his silver-clasped breviary, reads his appointed pages, while his steed treads leisurely along.

  Good priest, it would befit thee better to spur on — life and death are in the issue of thy mission — craft and villainy are plotting behind thee. Onward, onward, ere yet the pursuit begins.

  The ways of virtue are the ways of wisdom, no less than the ways of pleasantness; and fraud, however craftily conducted, leads oftener than men will easily believe, to mere self-confusion, complication, and defeat. Many a time the wicked find themselves reduced to strive, in the vain attempt to obviate those very consequences, to produce which their best exertions were originally given. Many a man has seen, in his actual experience of life, hundreds of examples of this mysterious law of retribution which makes the very craft of the ungodly in which he glories, the instrument of his own abasement, turns all his wisdom into foolishness, and proves his fancied successes in reality, but so many reverses and disasters.

  At about the same time, in a small, dark room, in Thomas Talbot’s lodgings, that gentleman was closeted with Miles Garrett and his humble friend, Garvey.

  “Then the matter, briefly told, is simply this,” said Talbot, with gloomy bitterness; “our pains are all gone for nought — the land’s not his; and, hang or drown, it’s all one to us.”

  “Just so, your worship,” rejoined Garvey, plaintively; “a life estate, with a limitation in tail to the issue of his body.”

  “I know — just so,” continued Talbot; “so that when the old gentleman is hanged, his estates go to the girl, instead of to the crown. S’death, what management! Well, Garrett,” he resumed, with dogged contempt, after a brief pause— “what have you to offer upon this dilemma — attaint the girl, eh? or something as profound and practicable.”

  “How the devil could I tell there was a deed of settlement in the way?” retorted Garrett, with asperity; “there’s no good in blaming me for it.”— “ —

  “Of course — but answer my question,” pursued Talbot; “come, come, can you darn the cobweb — or is all lost? One thing is clear — as the old fellow is attainted, his life estate at least is in the crown, and that is worth something. So, egad, we must not snuff him out — till we are sure of some advantage by his death, at least — as the matter stands, hanging him would but deprive us of the little we have got.”

  “That’s plain enough,” said Garrett; “he is the sole life in our lease; so far from hanging the old dog we must needs make much of him — at least until this business is cleared up.”

  “Suppose,” said Garvey, speaking very slowly, and with a leer of guilty cunning— “we could get at this unlucky deed; — and if we had it fast, what evidence could they adduce in support of such a settlement, so as to defeat the king’s claim: if that deed were in the fire, I’d snap my fingers at them, the sooner the old man was strung up the better, in such a case.”

  The three confederates exchanged looks of excited significence. Talbot broke the silence —

  “Can you maKe a guess in wnose keeping that instrument at present lies?” he inquired, earnestly.

  “No, not now — that is — not yet,” replied Garvey; “it is not in Crooke’s hands — and I can’t say at present where it is; but,” he added, with a smile of infernal triumph, which disclosed his gapped and discoloured teeth, from ear to ear; “but I am promised information, upon which we can rely implicitly — and tomorrow morning we shall know the very spot — the very inch which it occupies.”

  “By — , then, the thing’s done,” cried Talbot, striking his hand upon the table.

  “’Tis but to get a warrant to seize the papers on suspicion,” said Garrett, throwing himself back in his chair, while his contracted brow expanded with the delectable sense of relief — and in the luxury of..his sensations, he rubbed his hands together, as though he had been washing them.

  “You could not learn tonight?” urged Talbot.

  “Impossible — utterly impossible,” replied Garvey, with an important shake of the head; “no, not for love or money; the least suspicion would blow all. I must watch my man, and take the time when eyes are off. Tomorrow morning, by eight o’clock, I shall know all about it — if Crooke himself knows it.”

  “Well, then, tomorrow morning be it,” said Talbot, rising, thoughtfully; “the thing, however, must be done with some tact and caution. I don’t care a fig, myself, for scandal; but here it might be dangerous; nothing venture, nothing win, however — so, in the devil’s name, let it be tried. Mr. Garvey,” continued Talbot, motioning him somewhat unceremoniously toward the door; “we shall expect to see you here, by eight of the clock, tomorrow morning — nay, no formalities, I pray you — good night — good night, sir — fare you well. If ever the devil had a dutiful drudge ou earth,” he continued, addressing Garrett, as the descending tread of their humble accomplice was h
eard upon the stairs; “that sneaking rascal is one.”

  “He’s a useful fellow in his way,” said Garrett.

  “Very,” replied Talbot; but don’t leave the handling of that deed to him; let him help you to select it, if you need his aid — but do the important part yourself — yourself, mind you — for that rascal might pocket the settlement, and keep it over our heads, afterwards, to extort money — so burn it yourself.”

  “Meanwhile,” said Garrett, “you undertake to have the old man reprieved, lest this should fail.”

  “Certainly— ’tis but a word in my brother’s ear,” said Talbot; “but if you and Garvey do your business properly, he may hang as high as they please, by this day week.”

  CHAPTER XXXV.

  TIM DWYER’S STORY.

  ONCE more our story, in its wayward progress, carries us into the wild scenery of Munster, and among the personages we left there.

  Under the grey walls of Glindarragh Castle, in the dewy twilight, sate three companions, in easy listlessness, smoking and chatting together luxuriously: old Con Donovan, Tim Dwyer, and the bilious Dick Goslin, now grown into inseperable comrades, upon the strength of the one grand sympathy — their common love of good liquor — conposed the party. Pleasant enough looked the little group, on that calm summer evening, seated under the grey shelter of the timeworn towers, with the river flowing cheerily beneath their feet, and the ivy clusters rustling around them.

  The conversation had turned upon the marvellous, perhaps acquiring its solemn complexion from the closing shadows of night.

  “I never seen a banshee myself,” said Tim Dwyer, stealing an upward glance at the old tower which sheltered them, and at the same time interrupting a thrilling silence which had followed the tale just concluded by the venerable butler; “an’ with the help iv God I hope I never will, though my grandmother’s aunt — rest her soul — at the time whin ould Peg O’Neil died — that was the publican’s motherin-law — heerd it the whole night long, keenin’ and crying on the top iv the house, jist for all the world like a pair iv cats id be tarin’ the puddins out iv one another — the crass iv Christ about us.”

  “Ay, ay,” said the butler, solemnly, shaking his head, “that’s the way with them, one time singing, an’ another time crying — sometimes like one thing, and sometimes like another.”

  “No being up to them — no being up to them,” threw in Goslin, gloomily; “but we’ve no sich things in England,” he added, briskly.

  “Nor no witches nor sperits neither — I suppose, no more nor toads an’ sarpints, as I said before,” said Tim Dwyer, with careless sarcasm, and a nudge to the butler.

  “There’s witches in more places nor England, and there’s no location but what has ghostesses, more or less,” retorted Goslin.

  “There’s more sperits heerd tell of, than seen,” said Dwyer, over whom a sense of uneasiness and awe was gradually stealing; “I’ll tell you a story iv a whole parish that was freckened beyant all tellin’ — an’ bad luck to the sperit was in it, good or bad, afther all.”

  Accordingly Tim having readjusted the disposition of his limbs for greater ease, and wound himself up for an effort of recollection, proceeded in these terms: —

  “It was in the little village iv Ballymaquinlan it happened, about twinty years ago, last Candlemass; in thim times there was a farmer livin’ there, an’ his name was Paddy Morgan, an’ by the same token, black Paddy was the name they christened an him, for he was a rale nigger, an’ a bad mimber all out — an’ there was not a respickable man in the parish, barrin’ three white rabbits he kep’ in a wire cage, along with the rest iv the poultry, in the backyard, id be seen spakin’ to him, an’ no wondher; but thim was aneommon fond iv him surely, an’ to that degree it was comminly consaved among the neighbours, that it wasn’t rabbits at all, God bless us, but the sperits iv his three brothers that was in it; but at any rate, in the middle iv all his divilment, he tuck the fever at last, on Monday mornin’, an’ before Thursday he was in glory, an’ the divil a one could deny he desarved it — the villian iv the world. Well, he was buried, in coorse, in the churchyard iv Ballymaquinlan, an’ though he had but few relations, an’ no friends, the wake and the berrin’ was as plisant as if he had them to no end. Well, there was two boys in them days livin’ in the town, an’ divil sich a pair iv rogues was in the seven parishes; there was no soart or description iv schamin’, an’ plundherin’, an’ humbuggin’, but they wor up to it. Nothin’ was beyant them; begorra there wasn’t the likes iv them in Ireland’s ground — an’ they were sworn frinds into the bargain — an’ comrades together, in all soarts of villiany. Whatever the one was for, the other never said agin’ it. Larry, the miller, that ownded the flour mills, was one it them, and sportin’ Terence, the dancin’-master, was th’ other; a rala pair iv schamers. Well, it happened on the night afther black Paddy Morgan was buried, the two iv them had a plan laid out together. Yor sportin’ Terence having a cousin by the mother’s side, that was goin’ to give a christenin’, an’ she bein’ a favorite iv his own, he thought he could not do less than to give her a present — so, havin’ nothin’ else iv his own convanient at the time, he thought the best thing he could do, was jist to give her one iv the neighbour’s sheep; an’ when he tould Larry, the miller, ‘begorra,’ says Larry, for he was a ginerous chap too, ‘begorra,’ says he, ‘I don’t mind if I give her black Paddy’s three white rabbits into the bargain,’ says he, an’ so, without more to do, they planned to meet at the church door, where there was a little soart IV a shed goin’ in, as soon as the sheep and the rabbits id be stole that night. Well, sure enough, Larry the miller, not having so far to go, nor such a troublesome job as sportin’ Terence, was the first iv the two at the place iv meetin’, an’ down he sits an the bench, an’ claps the cage with the rabbits in it, on the ground close opposite to where he was sittin, while he’d be takin’ a shough iv the pipe.

  “Well, he was not there long, when vrho should be cornin’ up to the church, to get out the cushions as usual, to give them an air iv the fire, but the sexton, Tim Bryan, himself, thinkin’ all the way iv nothin’ in the world but black Paddy Morgan, that he buried the same mornin’, an’ thrimblin’ in his very skin every step — an’ as he was cornin’ up to the porch, sure enough, what did he see, but black Paddy’s three white rabbits in the cage, right at the step iv it, skippin’ an’ jumpin about like mad; so wid that he stops short, an’ he blesses himself as well as he could — an’ before he half finished it, Larry, never thinkin’ but all was quiet outside, lets a yawn inside, in the porch — and the sound he made, and the white look iv him — for he was dusted all over with flour — finished poor Tim all out intirely — to that degree, that begorra he tuk to his heels, as if the divil himself was after him; an’ never tuk time to say as much as God bless us, till he run fairly into little Phil Martin’s kitchen. Well, Phil was the clerk in their, days, an’ an illegant fine one he was — a rale great man iv book larnin’: he’d talk algibray or Habrew-Greek for a week, without wonst drawin’ breath — an’ he had Latin enough to bother a priest — an’ as many charrums as id rise the roof aff a chapel. The only thing agin him, at all, at all, was a soart iv a stutther he had, an’ his legs bein’ crippled in undher him — although that same got Him a power iv help an’ presents, one way or another, among the neighbours; but at any rate he was a great man iv book larnin’ entirely; an’ as soon as Tim the sexton kem to himself, ‘oh, Phil,’ says he, ‘it’s all over wid me — I seen himself,’ says he, ‘as sure as you’re sittin’ there — black Paddy Morgan, God rest his unforthunate sowl,’ says he, ‘roarin’ like mad wid the fair pains’ iv purgathory. Oh, by the hokey,’ says he, ‘the sound iv it’s in my head this minute, sittin’ in his windin’ sheet, in the church porch,’ says he; ‘nothin’ less id sarve him, an’ the three white rabbits an’ all,’ says he. ‘Oh, Phil darlin’, I never gev in to sperits before,’ says he, ‘but I seen one at last, in airnest,’ says he— ‘an’ I’ll
never do a day’s good again — an’ that’s the long and the short iv it,” says he.

  “‘Timothy Bryan,’ says the clerk, says he, ‘you betther take care what you’re sayin,’ says he, ‘for it’s a sarious thing to accuse any man,’ says he, ‘at laste behind his back, do ye mind, iv walkin’ after he’s dacently buried,’ says he; ‘so considher in yourself, again’, says he, ‘an think twiste before you make such a hanious charge agin any man livin,’’ says he.

  “Well, wid that, Tim Bryan cursed his sowl and his conscience, antil he was fairly black in the face — and Phil Martin hadn’t a word to say agin it any longer.

  “‘So,’ says Phil, says he, ‘it astanishes me,’ says he, ‘you didn’t thry him wid the Lord’s Prayer backwards,’ says he, ‘standin’ on the left leg,’ says he— ‘for there never was a sperit yet,’ says he, ‘could stand that, as simple as it is,’ says he.

  “‘ Arra God bless you,’ says Tim, for he was gettin’ vexed on the head iv it; ‘an’ what id the sperit be doin’ while I’d be sayin’ the Lord’s Prayer, like a duck on one leg, backwards,’ says he; ‘why, man he’d have me swallied, body and bones, before I’d be half way through with it,’ says he.

  “‘Why, you misherable infiddle,’ says Phil, makin’ answer; ‘what is it you’d be afeard iv; swally ye, ye bosthoon, ye — begorra, I’d like to see him attimpt the like. Who ever heard iv a sperit that id dar for to go for to ate a Christian, barrin Joe Garvey, the tinker, God bless us,’ says he, ‘that tuk a collip out iv the priest’s boy,’ says he.

  “‘An’ the ghost iv Moll Doyle’s black sow,’ says Tim, says he, ‘the Lord be marciful to us all.’

  “‘There was that, surely,’ says Phil, settlin’ his wig — but there’s no one will ever pursuade me,’ says he, ‘that ever a sperit id dar to put a tooth in a sexton, or any other anointed ministher iv divine sarvice,’ says he, ‘an’ in holy ground, more be token,’ says he; ‘an’ be the hokey, it surprises me,’ says he, ‘you’d be sich a coward and a pagan,’ says he, as to be afeared iv the likes in your own church, Tim Bryan,’ says he.