Our honest friend had hardly dismounted, which he did with one eye closed, and a hiccough, and a happy smile which mournfully contrasted with his filthy and battered condition, when he at once became absolutely insensible, from which condition he did not recover till next morning, when he found himself partially in bed, quite undressed, with the exception of his breeches, boots, and spurs, which he had forgotten to remove, and which latter, along with his feet, he had deposited upon the pillow, allowing his head to slope gently downward towards the foot of the bed.
As soon as Mr. Toole had ascertained where he was, and begun to recollect how he came there, he removed his legs from the pillow, and softly slid upon the floor. His first solicitude was for his clothes, the spattered and villainous condition of which appalled him; his next was to endeavour to remember whether or not his master had witnessed his weakness. Absorbed in this severe effort of memory, he sat upon the bedside, gazing upon the floor, and scratching his head, when the door opened, and his friend the groom entered the chamber.
“I say, old gentleman, you’ve been having a little bit of a spree,” observed he, gazing pleasantly upon the disconsolate figure of the little man, who sat in his shirt and jack-boots, staring at him with a woebegone and bewildered air. “Why, you had a bushel of mud about your body when you came in, and no hat at all. Well, you had a pleasant night of it — there’s no denying that.”
“No hat;” said Larry desolately. “It isn’t possible I dropped my hat off my head unknownest. Bloody wars, my hat! is it gone in airnest?”
“Yes, young gentleman, you came here bareheaded. The hat is gone, and that’s a fact,” replied the groom.
“I thought my coat was bad enough; but — oh! blur-anagers, my hat!” ejaculated Larry with abandonment. “Bad luck go with the liquor — tare-an-ouns, my hat!”
“There’s a shoe off the horse,” observed the groom; “and the seat is gone out of your breeches as clean as if it never was in it. Well, but you had a pleasant evening of it — you had.”
“An’ my breeches desthroyed — ruined beyant cure! See, Tom Berry, take a blundherbuz, will you, and put me out of pain at wonst. My breeches! Oh, divil go with the liquor! Holy Moses, is it possible? — my breeches!”
In an agony of contrition and desperate remorse, Larry Toole clasped his hands over his eyes and remained for some minutes silent; at length he said —
“An’ what did the masther say? Don’t be keeping me in pain — out with it at wonst.”
“What master?” inquired the groom.
“What masther?” echoed Mr. Toole— “why Mr. O’Connor, to be sure.”
“I’m sure I can’t say,” replied the man; “I have not seen him this month.”
“Wasn’t he here before me last night?” inquired the little man.
“No, nor after neither,” replied his visitor.
“Do you mane to tell me that he’s not in the house at all?” interrogated Mr. Toole.
“Yes,” replied he, “Mr. O’Connor is not in the house; the horse did not cross the yard this month. Will that do you?”
“Be the hoky,” said Larry, “that’s exthramely quare. But are you raly sure and quite sartin?”
“Yes, I tell you yes,” replied he.
“Well, well,” said Mr. Toole, “but that puts me to the divil’s rounds to undherstand it — not come at all. What in the world’s gone with him — not come — where else could he go to? Begorra, the whole iv the occurrences iv last night is a blaggard mysthery. What the divil’s gone with him — where is he at all? — why couldn’t he wait a bit for me an’ I’d iv tuck the best care iv him? but gintlemen is always anruly. What the divil’s keepin’ him? I wouldn’t be surprised if he made a baste iv himself in some public-house last night. A man ought never to take a dhrop more than jist what makes him plisant — bad luck to it. Lend me a breeches, an’ I’ll pray for you all the rest of my days. I must go out at wonst an’ look for him; maybe he’s at Mr. Audley’s lodgings — ay, sure enough, it’s there he is. Bad luck to the liquor. Why the divil did I let him go alone? Oh! sweet bad luck to it,” he continued in fierce anguish, as he held up the muddy wreck of his favourite coat before his aching eyes— “my elegant coat — bad luck to it again — an’ my beautiful hat — once more bad luck to it; an’ my breeches — oh! it’s fairly past bearin’ — my elegant breeches! Bad luck to it for a threacherous drop — an’ the masther lost, and no one knows what’s done with him. Up with that poker, I tell you, and blow my brains out at once; there’s nothing before me in this life but the divil’s own delight — finish me, I tell you, and let me rest in the shade. I’ll never hould up my head again, there’s no use in purtendin’. Oh! bad luck to the dhrink!”
In this distracted frame of mind did Larry continue for nearly an hour, after which, with the aid of some contributions from the wardrobe of honest Tom Berry, he clothed himself, and went forth in quest of his master.
CHAPTER XLIII.
THE WILD WOOD — THE OLD MANSION-HOUSE OF FINISKEA — SECRETS, AND A SURPRISE.
O’Connor pursued his way towards the city, following the broken horse-track, which then traversed the low grounds which lie upon the left bank of the Liffey. The Phœnix Park, or, as it was then called, the Royal Park, was at the time of which we write a much wilder place than it now is. There were no trim plantations nor stately clumps of tufted trees, no signs of care or culture. Broad patches of shaggy thorn spread with little interruption over the grounds, and regular roads were then unknown. The darkness became momentarily deeper and more deep as O’Connor pursued his solitary way; and the difficulty of proceeding grew every instant greater, for the heavy rains had interrupted his path with deep sloughs and pools, which became at length so frequent, and so difficult of passage, that he was fain to turn from the ordinary track, and seek an easier path along the high grounds which overhang the river. The close screen of the wild gnarled thorns which covered the upper level on which he now moved, still further deepened the darkness; and he became at length so entirely involved in the pitchy gloom, that he dismounted, and taking his horse by the head, led him forward through the tangled brake, and under the knotted branches of the old hoary thorns, stumbling among the briers and the crooked roots, and every moment encountering the sudden obstruction, either of some stooping branch, or the trunk of one of the old trees; so that altogether his progress was as tedious and unpleasant as it well could be. His annoyance became the greater as he proceeded; for he was so often compelled to turn aside, and change his course, to avoid these interruptions, that in the utter darkness he began to grow entirely uncertain whether or not he was moving in the right direction. The more he paused, and the oftener he reflected, the more entirely puzzled and bewildered did he become. Glad indeed would he have been that he had followed the track upon which he had at first entered, and run the hazard of all the sloughs and pools which crossed it; but he was now embarked in another route; and even had he desired it, so perplexed was he, that he could not have effected his retreat. Fully alive to the ridiculousness, as well as the annoyance of his situation, he slowly and painfully stumbled forward, conscious that if only he could move for half an hour or thereabout consistently in the same direction, he must disengage himself in some quarter or another from the entanglement in which he was involved. In vain he looked round him; nothing but entire darkness encountered him. In vain he listened for any sound which might intimate the neighbourhood of any living thing. Nothing but the hushed soughing of the evening breeze through the old boughs was audible; and he was forced to continue his route in the same troublesome uncertainty.
At length he saw, or thought he saw, a red light gleaming through the trees. It disappeared — it came again. He stopped, uncertain whether it was one of those fitful marsh-fires which but mock the perplexity of benighted travellers; but no — this light shone clearly, and with a steady beam, through the branches; and towards it he directed his steps, losing it now, and again recovering it, till at length, after
a longer probation than he had at first expected, he gained a clear space of ground, intersected only by a few broken hedges and ditches, but free from the close wood which had so entirely darkened his advance. In this position he was enabled to discern that the light which had guided him streamed from the window of an old shattered house, partially surrounded by a dilapidated wall, having a few ruinous outhouses attached to it. In this building he beheld the old mansion-house of Finiskea, which then occupied the ground on which at present stands the powder-magazine, and which, by a slight alteration in sound, though without any analogy in meaning, has given its name to the Phœnix Park. The light streamed through the diamond panes of a narrow casement; and still leading his horse, O’Connor made his way over the broken fences towards the old house. As he approached, he perceived several figures moving to and fro in the chamber from which the light issued, and detected, or thought he did so, among them the remarkable form of the priest who had lately been his companion upon the road. As he advanced, someone inside drew a curtain across the window, though, as O’Connor conjectured, wholly unaware of his approach, and thus precluded any further reconnoitering on his part.
“At all events,” thought he, “they can spare me some one to put me upon my way. They can hardly complain if I intrude upon such an errand.”
With this reflection, he led his horse round the corner of the building to the door, which was sheltered by a small porch roofed with tiles. By the faint light, which in the open space made objects partially discernible, he perceived two men, as it appeared to him, fast asleep — half sitting and half lying on the low step of the door. He had just come near enough to accost them, when, somewhat to his surprise, he was seized from behind in a powerful grip, and his arms pinioned to his sides. A single antagonist he would easily have shaken off; but a reinforcement was at hand.
“Up, boys — be stirring — open the door,” cried the hoarse voice of the person who held O’Connor.
The two figures started to their feet; their strength, combined with the efforts of his first assailant, effectually mastered O’Connor, and one of them shoved the door open.
“Pretty watch you keep,” said he, as the party hurried their prisoner, wholly without the power of resistance, into the house.
Three or four powerful, large-limbed fellows, well armed, were seated in the hall, and arose on his entrance. O’Connor saw that resistance against such odds were idle, and resolved patiently to submit to the issue, whatever it might be.
“Gentlemen that’s caught peeping is sometimes made to see more than they have a mind to,” observed one of O’Connor’s conductors.
Another removed his sword, and having satisfied himself that he had not any other weapon upon his person, observed, —
“You may let his elbows loose; but jist keep him tight by the collar.”
“Let the gentlemen know there’s a bird limed,” observed the first speaker; and one of the others passed from the narrow hall to execute the mission.
After some little delay, O’Connor, who awaited the result with more of curiosity and impatience than of alarm, was conducted by two of the armed men who had secured him through a large passage terminating in a chamber, which they also traversed, and by a second door at its far extremity found entrance into a rude but spacious apartment, floored with tiles, and with a low ceiling of dark plank, supported by ponderous beams. A large wood fire burned in the hearth, beside which some half dozen men were congregated; several others were seated by a massive table, on which were writing materials, with which two or three of them were busily employed; a number of open letters were also strewn upon it, and here and there a brace of horse-pistols or a carbine showed that the party felt neither very secure, nor very much disposed to surrender without a struggle, should their worst anticipations be realized, in any attempt to surprise them.
Most of those who were present bore, in their disordered dress and mud-soiled boots, the evidence of recent travel. They were lighted chiefly by the broad, uncertain gleam of the blazing wood fire, in which the misty flame of two or three wretched candles which burned upon the table shone pale and dim as the last stars of night in the red dawn of an autumnal sun. In this strong and ruddy light the groups of figures, variously attired, some seated by the table, and others standing with their ample cloaks still folded around them, acquired by the contrast of broad light and shade a character of picturesqueness which had in it something wild and imposing. This singular tableau occupied the further end of the room, which was one of considerable length, and as the prisoner was led forward to the bar of the tribunal, those who composed it eyed him sternly and fixedly.
“Bind his hands fast,” said a lean and dark-featured man, with a singularly forbidding aspect and a deep, stern voice, who sat at the head of the table with a pile of papers beside him. Spite of O’Connor’s struggles, the order was speedily executed, and with such goodwill that the blood almost started from his nails.
“Now, sir,” continued the same speaker, “who are you, and what may your errand be?”
“Before I answer your questions you must satisfy me that you have authority to ask them,” replied O’Connor. “Who, I pray, are you, who dare to seize the person, and to bind the limbs of a free man? I shall know this ere one of your questions shall have a reply.”
“I have seen you, young sir, before — scarce an hour since,” observed one of those who stood by the hearth. “Look at me, and say do you remember my features?”
“I do,” replied O’Connor, who had no difficulty in recognizing those of the priest who had parted from him so abruptly on that evening— “of course I recollect your face; we rode side by side from Leixlip to-day.”
“You recollect my caution too — you cannot have forgotten that,” continued the priest, menacingly. “You know how peremptorily I warned you against following me, yet you have dogged me here; on your own head be the consequences — the fool shall perish in his folly.”
“I have not dogged you here, sir,” replied O’Connor; “I seek my way to Dublin. The river banks are so soft that a horse had better swim than seek to keep them; I therefore took the upper ground, and after losing myself among the woods, at length saw a light, reached it, and here I am.”
The priest heard the statement with a sinister smile.
“A truce to these inventions, sir,” said he. “It is indeed possible that you speak the truth, but it is in the highest degree probable that you lie; it is, in a word, plain — satisfactorily plain, that you followed me hither, as I suspected you might have done; you have dogged me, sir, and you have seen all that you sought to behold; you have seen my place of destination and my company. I care not with what motive you have acted — that is between yourself and your Maker. If you are a spy, which I shrewdly suspect, Providence has defeated your treason, and punished the traitor; if mere curiosity impelled you, you will remember that ill-directed curiosity was the sin which brought death upon mankind, and cease to wonder that its fruits may be bitter to yourself. What say you, young man?”
“I have told you plainly how I happened to reach this place,” replied O’Connor; “I have told you once — I will repeat the statement no more; and once again I ask, on what authority you question me, and dare thus to bind my hands and keep me here against my will?”
“Authority sufficient to satisfy our own consciences,” rejoined the priest. “The responsibility rests not upon you; enough it is for you to know that we have the power to detain you, and that we exercise that power, as we most probably shall another, still less conducive to your comfort.”
“You have the power to make me captive, I admit,” rejoined O’Connor— “you have the power to murder me, as you threaten, but though power to keep or kill is all the justification a robber or a bravo needs, methinks such an argument should hardly satisfy a consecrated minister of Christ.”
The expression with which the priest regarded the young man grew blacker and more truculent at this rebuke, and after a silence of a few se
conds he replied, —
“We are doubly authorized in what we do — ay, trebly warranted, young traitor. God Almighty has given us the instinct of self-defence, which in a righteous cause it is laudable to consult and indulge; the Church, too, tells us in these times to deal strictly with the malignant persecutors of God’s truth; and lastly, we have a royal warranty — the authority of the rightful king of these realms, investing us with powers to deal summarily with rebels and traitors. Let this satisfy you.”
“I honour the king,” rejoined O’Connor, “as truly as any man here, seeing that my father lost all in the service of his illustrious sire, but I need some more satisfactory assurance of his delegated authority than the bare assertion of a violent man, of whom I know absolutely nothing, and until you show me some instrument empowering you to act thus, I will not acknowledge your competency to subject me to an examination, and still resolutely protest against your detaining me here.”
Complete Works of Sheridan Le Fanu (Illustrated) Page 30