Complete Works of Sheridan Le Fanu (Illustrated)

by Joseph Sheridan Le Fanu

  With a horrible and icy fascination, old Tisdal gazed upon this appalling spectacle, till it almost seemed, to his distempered fancy, that the fiendish grinning thing was greeting him “with mop and mow,” as the coal-black, shrunken mask, with its shining white rows of teeth, set off by the hideous grotesqueness of its attitude, met, and appeared to return his fixed and thrilling gaze.

  “Deveril! Deveril! muttered the puritan, scarce daring to speak above his breath, as he drew back a little; for though he knew it was but fancy, the light curling smoke rising between him and that fearful object, gave to it an appearance of motion, which enhanced the horrible effect of the spectacle upon his imagination. “Deveril! Deveril! — this is horrible! Who could have thought he’d have struggled so hard? Why did they not pike him? How could they let him roast there? It was frightful!”

  With a violent effort Tisdal turned, and two steps placed the corner of the building between him and that terrible object. A strange feeling, something almost bordering upon a gush of tenderness, came upon him, as he continued —

  “Deveril! Deveril! poor Deveril! — it was dreadful! — it was frightful! — he was ray staunch companion in my evil days. Oh, Deveril! Deveril! — he saved my life once — why did I forget Blackheath? Oh, Deveril, was it for this you saved it? Oh, my God! that I could call him back! — or — or at least that he had died elsewhere, and an easier death! He was my comrade — my comrade — when no one else would consort with me! Is he dead? — is he quite dead? I wonder is he quite — quite dead? If he had but life enough left to forgive me! — oh, that he had but life enough to forgive me!”

  Thus speaking, with a strange hysterical revulsion of feeling, Tisdal distractedly returned to the spot where first the dreadful apparition had met his eye. There, fixed as the bars themselves, still stood the awful, monkey-like figure, black and grinning as ever.

  “Deveril! Deveril! — old boy, Deveril!” cried his former associate, almost frantically; but the sounds echoed unheeded through the empty walls, and the thin vapour curled, undisturbed by breath or movement, like the smoke of his torment for ever ascending about and above the sooty, grinning effigy. “Deveril! Deveril! is there any life in you? Old fellow, it’s I — it’s Tisdal — burnt brandy! Oh, God! Deveril! Deveril! won’t you answer Captain Gordon? It’s I — I — it’s brother Snap! Oh, Deveril, my boy, you saved me — you saved me — I know it — I remember that night. Speak, old boy, one word. I think you moved! — you did move!”

  Tisdal distractedly snatched up a long charred joist, which lay among the smouldering rubbish, and, stretching across the smoking embers and ashes, he, with the end of it, pushed the ghastly figure. The effect was horrible; for though the pressure was but slight, the grinning head separated from the body, and rolled, amid a cloud of dust, towards Tisdal’s feet, while the body dropped back into the ashes and rubbish within the walls, leaving but the blackened arm still clinging and sticking to the bars. If the frightful apparition had spontaneously sprung from its position, and leaped at the throat of its betrayer, Tisdal could hardly have felt a pang of terror wilder than the paroxysm which froze him, as he saw the head of his victim thus rolling and plunging through the ashes, toward his feet. At length, relieved by something between a sigh and a shudder, and trembling so violently that his legs could scarcely bear him, he managed to withdraw as far as the low fence which enclosed the little paddock within which had stood the mansion of Drumgunniol, now but a scorched and smoking ruin, and seating himself upon the low grassy bank, he strove to collect his scattered wits, and to quiet his terrible agitation.

  Let us return, however, to the castle of Glindarragh, where, by the strange and wayward chances of fortune, the stern and fiery soldier, whose manly beauty and gallant bearing, and, more perhaps than all, the wild and melancholy interest with which his name was there associated, had so impressed the imagination, and perhaps the heart, of fair Grace Willoughby, was now become an inmate. Seldom, indeed, she saw him; for whatever his motive might have been, he seemed studiously to avoid alike all intercourse, and even occasional encounter, with the ordinary inmates of the place. There was, however, to her, — she knew not and asked not wherefore — an indescribable interest, and even a happiness in the bare consciousness of his being near — in the feeling that the same roof harboured them both, and that every moment might, by some slight and unforeseen accident, bring them again together.

  More abstracted, and more pensive, and more timid, she grew day by day. She would sit for whole hours, leaning on her hand, and reading her far-off fortunes in the clear fire, that shifted and sank on the great hearth before her, or at the feet of her old nurse would seem to listen to her interminable tales of other times, while her thoughts were far away in the dim cloudy regions of wildest romance and sweetest fancy. In love! The pride of Grace Willoughby would have repudiated the charge with high and maidenly disdain. In love! She never even suspected it; or if she did, perchance, for a moment, she haughtily repressed the rising doubt. What could he be to her, or she to him? In love! Impossible! And then to prove to herself how easily she could dismiss his image from her mind, would she take her work, or her mu sic, and for a time pursue them; but what madrigals or tapestry, gentle Grace, could now interest and delight thee as before? None! They are all grown irksome, and thrown aside ere well begun. Alas! are all her lighthearted merriment and pleasant pastimes — the thoughtless glee of girlish innocence — gone, never, never to return? Silent and saddened, with many a sigh and many a blush, in deep absorbing reveries, she whiles the day away; and many an unknown vigil of many an hour she keeps by night; and when at last soft slumber seals her saddened eyes, in how many of the wild and airy pageants of her dreams does that graceful, manly form appear!

  Some ten days had now elapsed since the arrival of the King’s soldiers at the Castle of Glindarragh, when, in the forenoon of a gloomy and somewhat tempestuous day, Sir Hugh Willoughby stood, booted and spurred, and with his hat on, before the fire of the old and spacious parlour to which we have already introduced the reader. His horse, for full ten minutes, had stood saddled and bridled, in the yard; and still the old knight loitered, in moody abstraction, by the hearth. Thus anxiously ruminating, his eye wandered from object to object, until it lighted upon the fair face of his daughter, turned towards him with a look so tender and loving that its influence soothed his troubled spirit; and a smile — not, indeed, the joyous, unclouded sunshine of happiez times — but a smile of fond affection and paternal pride, chastened and saddened, as the evening glow reflected upon some timeworn tower, lighted up his rugged features.

  “Grace, my girl, we must not be cast down,” he said, with a feeble and melancholy effort at encouragement; “the troubles which threaten us, even should they come, and in their worst form, have yet their allotted limits, beyond which they cannot pass, and their allotted seasons, beyond which they cannot endure. Our family have weathered many a storm before; let us remember this, trusting in God’s mercy, and prepare ourselves to breast the coming adversity, with brave assurance of his powerful aid in time of need.”

  There was something so subdued and mournful in the tone in which the old man spoke, that spite of the smile he wore, and the encouragement conveyed in his words, his daughter felt grieved almost to tears as he uttered them; for though she lacked no fortitude and courage to look the coming danger fully in the face, and to meet it firmly when it came, she could not, unmoved, remark the obvious and mournful change which care and anxiety had already wrought upon the old man’s once buoyant and fearless spirit.

  “The troubles of this afflicted country are, I fear, but now beginning,” continued Sir Hugh, seating himself gloomily by the fire; “our country is the destined theatre of war; the King — King James, has landed — is now in Ireland.”

  “Indeed!” exclaimed the girl, with a mixture of interest and of awe. “Aye, Grace; indeed and in truth. Advices reached this morning, acquainting the colonel with the fact,” continued Sir Hugh. “He has d
isembarked at Kinsale; they make no secret of it; why should they?”

  “Then, father, let us hope that he has so much of the generous nature of true royalty about him, that he may not leave his honest subjects unprotected and exposed to the assaults of violence and rapine,” said the girl, proudly. “If, coming as a king, he but carries in his heart one spark of kingly virtue, his oppressed and disregarded Protestant people of Ireland will he gainers, and not losers, by his coming.”

  “Poor Grace!” said Sir Hugh, sadly.

  “Then you see increase of danger in the King’s arrival?” inquired she, doubtfully, and after a pause, “Yes, my poor girl,” he replied, dejectedly; “when the King set his foot upon our shores, all hope of a peaceful issue from out our present difficulties vanished. There can now be no accommodation with England; the sword must decide the quarrel; and in the struggle, what ravage, what destruction, what suffering must ensue!”

  Grace sighed and changed colour, for her sad heart told her, and with a pang that wrung it, even to the very core, that all the airy fabric of her fond fancy was shivered and dissolving; the loved creation of her deep and passionate imagination, in which alone was now stored all her treasure of happiness and hope, in which, although she knew it not, lay wrapt her very life, was fleeting fast, and disappearing from her sight — for well she knew, that war with all its heightened animosities, if, indeed, its chances should spare his life, must so widen and deepen the gulph between herself and the secret object of her thoughts, that they might never again, in all human probability, meet more.

  “Then the — the soldiers will soon go hence?” inquired the girl, hurriedly, after a short silence; and while she spoke, a blush of glowing crimson mantled in her cheeks.

  “I know not, child,” he answered, bitterly, unheeding the agitation which had called the conscious blood into her face; “they are quartered here, as elsewhere, but to vex and harass an obnoxious man — to waste the substance of a Protestant — to humble and impoverish — to crush and plunder one whom they suspect and hate; when they have done their work, they will go elsewhere. But hark!” he continued, turning abruptly and approaching the window; “there’s some one asking loudly for me in the yard.”

  As he spoke, they saw the plumed hats (for they could see but these) of several men pass the high-silled casement — the chamber door flew open, and old Donovan, his purple face, nay, his very nose almost white with agitation, and his silvery locks streaming backward in the air, rushed into the room. With one arm raised in frantic warning, trembling with eagerness, while panic and ghastly woe, and something akin to rage, were struggling in-his furrowed face, and glaring in his eyes —

  “Master — for God’s sake, quick — quick, for the love of heaven,” he almost shrieked; “they’re here — for your life — your life, master dear, hide, hide. Oh, my God, they’re here, they’re in — for your life, quick — for your life— “

  The old man yelled the last words, stamping like a maniac upon the floor, and hurling the door shut with all his force, he flung himself against it, cowering toward the floor, and straining with his shoulder to the sturdy planks, in a frenzy of vain but almost sublime resistance.

  CHAPTER XVIII.

  THE WARRANT.

  ALMOST at the same moment when the old servant thus planted himself against the chamber door, were heard upon the outside, voices and the noise of feet; the latch was raised, and there followed a loud and peremptory knocking.

  “Leave the door, Donovan — stand aside, I command you,” cried Sir Hugh, vehemently.

  With a mute gesture of despair the old domestic obeyed, and at the same moment the knocking was still more loudly repeated.

  “Come in, whoever you be — come in,” cried Sir Hugh, sternly.

  The summons was hardly uttered ere it was complied with, and Miles Garrett, accompanied by an officer, and strange to say, by the identical redfaced, sinister looking personage who had a few evenings before placed Grace Willoughby in such fear and actual peril, in the wood of Glindarragh — the ruffian Hogan, accoutred precisely as he had been on that eventful day, and all three followed by a party of soldiers, entered the chamber.

  “Ha, Miles Garrett!” exclaimed Sir Hugh, in unmeasured amazement.

  His gaunt kinsman answered not, but turned upon him a look before whose ominous significance, in spite of his constitutional hardihood, the old knight felt a certain sinking of dismay. The hard features of the unexpected intruder were unnaturally pale, and through the habitual cunning of his eye glared something wolfish, as with a rapid sweep it took in the contents of the chamber. He waved his hand to the soldiers, who halted at the door, and advancing some paces into the apartment without removing his high crowned hat, he paused by a little table, and resting his gloved hand upon it, drew himself up to his full height, and eyed the old knight still in silence with a look in which agitation and hatred were strangely blended.

  “Miles Garrett,” said the old man, slowly, and with subdued sternness, as he returned his gaze, “there’s ruin in your face; speak out, man — what is your message?”

  “One that you need scarce be in such haste to hear,” retorted Garrett, slowly, and with something bordering upon a smile, but so hideous and unearthly that it bore no more resemblance to what a human smile should be, than the fire damp of a graveyard does to the blessed sunshine of a summer’s day.

  “Do you know that gentleman, sir?” he added, sternly, pointing toward Hogan, who was standing with his legs apart and his arms folded, leering impudently at Grace Willoughby, who, terrified at his presence, stood trembling, while her colour came and went in quick succession, behind the old knight, and clinging instinctively to his hand.

  “Do you know that gentleman, sir?” repeated Miles Garrett, with louder and more insolent emphasis.

  “Spare your breath, sirrah,” retorted Sir Hugh, reddening with indignation; “I’m not to be frightened by loud talking, and you know it— “

  “So much for the respect you pay the king’s commission,” said Garrett, glancing at the officer, to call his attention to the fact. “You have, however, yet to learn, sir, that his majesty has servants who will firmly do their duty, and who will enforce submission and obedience, though they may fail in procuring that respect which every loyal subject cherishes for the authority they hold.”

  “Miles Garrett, once for all, speak plainly,” cried Sir Hugh, stamping passionately as he spoke. “What is your business here?”

  “To arrest you,” replied Garrett, gruffly, and fixing his malignant eye steadily upon the old knight, for he had now perfectly recovered his self-possession.

  There ensued a pause of some moments.

  “How? — me!” at last exclaimed Sir Hugh.

  “Ay, you, sir — you,” retorted Garrett, with fierce and insulting emphasis.

  “Me! and for what — upon what charge?” urged Sir Hugh, glancing indignantly from man to man. “Tell me, sir — in God’s name tell me, what am I accused of?”

  “Treason — high treason — levying war against the king,” replied Miles Garrett, coolly.

  “Treason!” echoed Sir Hugh, vehemently— “treason; the charge is false, all false; you know it, none better — false, false as your own black heart — villainously false! Oh, Miles Garrett, Miles Garrett, you double dyed villain, this is all your doing. Yes, you d — d traitorous —

  Oh! that you but dared to leave this feud to the arbitrament of the sword; old as I am, that I could but meet you foot to foot, and hand to hand, in a fair field, and strike but one good blow for my life; but I forget myself — I am half a child, and do but heighten your cowardly triumph by chafing thus in the meshes. I will be more a man.”

  He turned to his terrified daughter, and while he spoke some words of affection and comfort in her ear, Miles Garrett, addressing the officer, placed a letter in his hands.

  “This, sir,” said the latter, “is for my superior in command. Corporal O’Higgins, take this letter to the colonel.”r />
  The man departed, and Garrett continued, turning to Sir Hugh, and a second time pointing toward the ill-favoured personage who accompanied him —

  “You know this gentleman, I presume?”

  “I know him not,” retorted Sir Hugh, more calmly; “but if he were a gentleman, methinks he would know better than to stand covered as you do here, and in a lady’s presence.”

  “This gentleman is a chief witness against you,” continued Garrett, with a stern emphasis upon the word, “and, as I venture to predict, will prove a conclusive one. Upon his informations you are about to be arrested and removed; and upon his testimony you are likely ultimately to lose your life. Am I sufficiently intelligible?”

  “And who or what are you, sir, who are so very ready to swear away the life of an innocent man?” asked Sir Hugh, bitterly.

  “Who am I — phiew! What the divil does it matther who I am, or what I am either?” replied Hogan, with a grin and a swagger —

  “My thrade’s a horse docthor, achusla, says he,

  An’ I’ll cure you for nothin,’ allana ma chree.”

  These verses he sang with coarse buffoonery, and then continued— “What is it to you what I am, any more than that I’ll tell the thruth, an’ if that puts a nail in your coffin, it’s no fault of mine, surely.”

  “Hold your tongue, sir,” interposed Garrett, bluntly. “It seems, then,” he continued after a brief pause, and turning again toward Sir Hugh— “it would seem that you are not acquainted with the person of this— “ gentleman, he was about to say, but the recent exhibition restrained him, and he modified the phrase— “of this deponent. Well, observe me, sir, I desire to acquaint you with the nature and substance of his charge; I shall deal with you directly, and above board.”