“Tisdal!”
“Ay, Tisdal,” retorted he— “Tisdal, I, and thou, Deveril, or the devil has borrowed his voice.”
“Well met, Jeremiah — well met, bow-shanks,” said the ruffian, but without his usual hilarity of tone. “Curse this place; hadn’t we better come down and have something — eh?
“Yes, if you pay for it,” said Tisdal, with bitter vehemence; “I have but three shillings in the world, but three — and I’m not going to squander them on you, miscreant!”
“Yery good — as you please, honest master Tisdal,” replied Deveril, coolly; “as for me I have a pocketful of crowns, but, egad, they’re brass ones; and now that the king is gone, the prince has played your humble servant a scurvy trick and cried them all down to pennies; but never mind, come down, I say — I want to have a word with you; I have some work on my fingers, and want a partner; what say you to i share in a venture? — comedown, I say, come along.”
And Deveril, without adding another word, descended the crazy ladder, every second rung of which was either gone or cracked. Tisdal, whose necessities overcame his abhorrence of the man, followed, and they both stood upon the rutted and broken pavement of the little courtyard — each glanced around with the quickness of suspicion, but the place was absolutely deserted and silent, except from the muffled sounds of song and laughter that arose from the kitchen of the humble inn — the two companions stood close together, and spoke in the lowest tones of caution.
“I’ve had bad dreams,” quoth Tisdal, whose destitution made him a ready listener to any proposal for bettering his forlorn condition, “and your venture will come to nought; besides if it be any thing of the old kind,” he whispered hurriedly, “I’ll have nothing to do with it — I’ll have no part in it — I’d rather die — I’d rather die!”
“Tut, man, spare your breath,” said Deveril, coolly, “why there’s not a man in the city worth sixpence after all the taxation, and searches, and all that; whom in the devil’s name could we rob with profit; content yourself, it’s nothing of the kind.”
“Deveril — Deveril,” said Tisdal, with a troubled and sinister air, “my dream is coming out — it is coming out. I do believe you are the fiend himself, in shape of man, come again to tempt and undo me.”
“Pshaw, man! — what ails you?” retorted Deveril, impatiently. “I tell you it’s no such thing — quite the reverse — a laudable, legal, righteous, saint-like action.”
“What is it? — out with it, then,” urged Tisdal.
“There are two outlawed rascals,” responded Deveril, “Ryan (Ned of the Hills, they call him) and Hogan, nicknamed Galloping Hogan. The prince has set a price upon their heads. I have smoked a pipe with them in the camp, and know them; and I think I recognized them both, not two hours since, in this town. If they are hiding here, we may, with your knowledge of the cut-throat lanes and alleys of the city, and my acquaintance with their persons, point them both out, and so touch the gold. There’s a simple, honest, straightforward plan for you, that has none of the old stand-and-deliver smack about it, that you should roll your eyes, and turn up vour nose at mention of it. Eh? — what say you?”
Tisdal, after some brief parley, agreed.
“Here I am in King Jemmie’s uniform, and about to touch King William’s cash,” said Deveril, with a rollicking grin, and a snap of the fingers. “Little Dick Slash for ever! Ah! Captain, no one like Dick for getting out of a scrape — that you’ll allow. I’m a deserter, do you mind, at present; and then, if this scheme fails, why I’m off again, away for Limerick, after the drum and the colours once more; for I’ve a kick or two left in me still; and, egad, I’ll see the fun out, unless better offers.”
*
King William had encamped his army, not far from forty thousand strong, close by the little village of Finglass. The city of Dublin, though filled with laggers and deserters from James’s army, skulking in all its obscure hiding-places, was yet secure enough. The Blue Guards garrisoned the Castle, and kept guard at all the public offices. The Protestant citizens forgot all their losses and troubles, and, to their credit be it added, even their old scores of vengeance, in the happy consciousness of their entire deliverance.
On the Sunday following the memorable passage of the Boyne, King William, a punctilious observer of the public duties as well as of the domestic proprieties of religion, attended Divine service in St. Patrick’s Cathedral. The gate of the great aisle stood open to receive the royal conqueror; curiosity, enthusiasm, and loyalty, had combined with higher motives, to draw together an immense concourse, within this solemn and ancient building. Among the crowd who tended thither, walked Sir Hugh, accompanied by his old friend and kinsman, Sir Thomas Neville, who had regaled him already with a hundred vehement complaints, of his “hairbrained son,” his “mad-cap boy,” his “good-for-nothing, scapegrace, Percy;” of whose eventual fortunes, it seemed, he so absolutely despaired, that he was well nigh resolved to transport him to Jamaica, or anywhere, out of his sight or hearing.
“I tell you what,” said he, confidentially, at last: “I have reason to believe the boy was about to make a fool of himself for life — for life, sir r Egad! I ascertained by a lucky accident the damsel’s name — it was Tisdal.”
“How! — Tisdal!” ejaculated Sir Hugh. “Can it be little Phebe — Phebe Tisdal? You amaze me!”
“By my troth, ’twas even so — Phebe Tisdal, at your service,” responded his companion: “but I have knocked that scheme on the head. I did not let him know I was in the secret, however, for the boy has a spice of his father in him — egad, sir, a spirit, a devil of a spirit, sir — so I made interest, and had the hopeful jackanapes sent off upon public business — a good joke i’ faith! — public business, sir, to London. Ha, ha!”
“So we sha’nt see poor Percy,” said Sir Hugh.
“No, no — egad! — not this bout,” said Sir Thomas, wiping his eyes after his explosion of merriment: “not this bout, sir; he’s safer where he is; for it would not quite do to have my son marry a milkmaid. I wrote a short letter — t pretty complete extinguisher upon the whole affair — to the girl, and I mean to be after him myself to London. He can’t be too closely looked after — no, no.”
When these old kinsfolk had reached the Gothic pile, and found themselves at last among its rude and solemn arches — a part of the expectant multitude who thronged its aisle, whose echoes were now pealing with the rich and plaintive harmonies of the organ — they took their places in silence in the front of the crowd, who had already formed themselves so as to leave a clear passage along the centre to the choir, down which the king was to walk. Sir Hugh, who had never yet beheld the renowned personage, who had played so great a part in the world’s history, was naturally intensely anxious to behold him; and at last this eager wish was gratified.
A prolonged shouting from without, amid which the tramp of chargers could scarcely be heard, announced the arrival of the king, accompanied by several of his chief officers and a guard; and in a few minutes, having dismounted, the royal party entered at the western gate, and so proceeded up the centre of the great aisle. The slow pace at which they moved, afforded abundant time to Sir Hugh to scan the figure of him whose fame had for so long filled all Europe, and the sounds and sights of whose last victory were still, as it were, before and around them. A kind of hum — a low, stirring sound — which reverence for the place alone restrained from swelling into a wild huzza of rapture — rose on every side, from the dense and enthusiastic crowd, as William advanced, with slow and somewhat feeble step, along the aisle — a frail, slight figure, arrayed in a riding suit of crimson velvet, heavily laced, with the ponderous adjuncts of the high jack-boots and clumsy spurs, worn in those days; his apparent feebleness contrasting with exciting effect, with all that was known of the daring and resolution which animated that fragile frame in the field of battle. He wore, of course, the full peruke of the day, in hue, dark brown, overshadowing a countenance (alas! that if should be so!) ver
y perceptibly scarred with the smallpox; the face was lank, its general character austere and immoveable, with an expression about the mouth that resembled the peevishness of habitual pain; the nose was very high, the eyebrows marked, and the eyes dark, prominent, and bright as an eagle’s. The piercing fire of this latter feature redeemed the whole face, and contrasted vividly and splendidly with its rigid stillness; no one on whom it looked ever forgot its power — it was an eye worthy of the hero. He carried a cane in his hand, and leaned upon it with a pressure, which showed that his apparent weakness was also real; and as he moved onward, that deep, hollow cough, which never forsook him, was more than once audible.
Not far from the entrance opening from the aisle into the choir, in the transept, was placed a coffin, covered with a crimson velvet pall. It was that of Schonberg, whose remains it was then intended should finally rest in Westminster Abbey, but which were afterwards buried instead within the walls where they then lay, and within which they will continue to lie, in all probability, till the day of doom. As the king reached this spot, one of his officers whispered a word in his ear, and William stopped somewhat abruptly, paced a step or so towards the coffin, and looked upon it steadfastly, and, as it seemed, sadly; then shook his head slowly, and said aloud —
“Few like him left — few like him left.” And then, after a brief pause, he added— “Good Schonberg! we trust he rests in God!”
This incident, the entire unaffectedness of the king’s brief but mournful apostrophe, and the deeper solemnity which darkened his grave features as he moved onward, impressed his subjects with a respectful interest, which, if possible, enhanced the enthusiasm with which they regarded their deliverer, who, as they well knew, had in the same fight which had laid the tenant of that coffin low, hazarded his own life, again and again, with an unreserve the most daring and devoted.
*
The service was now concluded, and Sir Hugh having taken leave of his companion, and waiting until the crowd had in some measure dispersed, paced the great aisle of the rude old building from end to end; and as will often happen in such cases, while thus occupying the interval, he fell unconsciously into meditation. The king, officers, guards, and all were now departed, the eager crowds gradually broke into detachments and dispersed, and Sir Hugh remained, except for one other solitary pedestrian, wholly alone in the deserted building. His companion was a man apparently of some three score years, with a stooping carriage, and a slight limp as he walked; he had long grizzled hair, which had once been red, a smoky brown complexion, projecting underjaw, and a keen fiery dark eye; he was plainly dressed in a sober and somewhat threadbare garb of snuff-coloured cloth, and one of his hands carried a walking-stick, on which he leaned with considerable emphasis. As Sir Hugh, for about the twentieth time, passed this singular and somewhat repulive-looking person, the stranger on a sudden accosted him with the salutation— “Good day, sir the knight returned the greeting, and the stranger, thus encouraged, proceeded: —
“A glorious sermon, sir — a moving discourse,” he observed with much fervency. “Doctor King, is indeed, sir, a precious instrument — precious, truly, as that other most honourable vessel, which hath been cracked and broken, alas! like a vile potsherd, only a few days since, by the rebels’ shot — I mean that man of God — that minister of peace — that holy preacher of fire and sword — that most Christian dragoon and doctor of divinity — Governor Walker, who saved Derry by his holy zeal, undergoing in his own proper person the double duties of parson and bombardier — from the pulpit to the bastion, sir, and back again — preaching and battering by turns, exhorting saints to earn paradise by blowing sinners to perdition, and in a word, going about everywhere doing good; alas, sir, that was an unlucky shot that rid the world of him; what a bishop he would have made!”
Sir Hugh looked once or twice at the speaker, but though his tone, as well as his rhapsodical language, was as it seemed that of irony and sarcasm, yet his countenance and gestures betrayed no indication of the kind, nevertheless there was something in the whole apostrophe sufficiently sinister to arm the reserve of the old knight, who contented himself with simply bowing in reply.
“Well, sir,” continued the old man, raising one hand slightly, and turning up the whites of his eyes, “lie’s gone to heaven, in a buff jerkin and jack-boots, for he died as he lived, in harness; he’s disposed of — so much the worse, sir, for us, Protestant boys — so much the worse, though after all we must not despair — there’s as good fish in the sea as ever was caught. I doubt if even he, that holy man of Bible and bullet, Walker himself, could have delivered a more seasonable discourse — a more edifying and sustaining harangue than that we have heard to-day. Doctor King, sir, has earned a bishopric; nay, he has earned even a higher promotion, may he get it! though methought indeed he sometimes soared a flight above the king himself, when for instance he likened his late majesty, James, to Lucifer, as you may remember, for as it seemed to me the king frowned, and looked dissatisfied; between ourselves, I fear me William of Nassau is not so good a Protestant by half as you and I were disposed to esteem him.”
“It would seem to me sir,” replied the knight, a little tartly, “that you are making yourself pleasant at the expense of— “
“Nay, nay, say not so,” interrupted he of the snuff-coloured suit, “what! I make myself pleasant, and at my years! pleasant about the solemn Walker! pleasant about a two hours’ sermon! pleasant — pleasant — odds my life, sir, time has been when I should have pinked a man through the ribs for so much as hinting I could be pleasant on such subjects.”
“You’ll excuse me then, sir, if I confess myself at a loss to comprehend you,” said Sir Hugh. “If you he serious, your discourse is, to say the least of it, somewhat extravagant, and by no means to my liking; I shall, therefore, with your leave— “
“Wish me good morning,” suggested his companion, in an altered tone; and for the first time standing erect and firmly before him. “You’re right, Sir Hugh Willoughby, though we part not company quite so soon as you would have us, you are right in holding my words to be the language of derision and contempt; but see you I am not here to bandy arguments and instances — hold we each our own opinions — you yours to your comfort, I mine at my peril; I have watched an opportunity to speak one word with you unobserved.”
“Speak it then,” said the old man, not a little surprised.
“Colonel Torlogh O’Brien,” continued the stranger, lowering his voice, “lies badly wounded in this town; the lethargy of fever is upon him now; but two days since I promised him that if he reached the city in safety, I would inform you, Sir Hugh Willoughby, of his condition; and, if you desired it, lead you to his lodging, that with your own eyes you might see that he lives. You need not be told that secrecy is needful in a case like this; if, then, you desire to assure yourself of his safety, you may accompany me.”
“I do indeed desire it — earnestly desire it,” answered Sir Hugh, eagerly, “I would, however, fain know, if it may be so, to whom I speak?”
“An Irish gentleman, sir,” answered the stranger, coolly and withal sternly; “my name is and can be no concern of yours; I have undertaken a message, which I have delivered; I make an offer which you may accept or refuse, as suits you best; in either case you preserve of course an honourable secrecy.”
“Of course,” echoed Sir Hugh, haughtily; and then added— “I am ready to go with you.”
CHAPTER XLVII.
MARY’S ABBEY.
THE momentary change of gait and tone, to which we have just alluded, in the odd-looking stranger, was enough to assure Sir Hugh that his companion was supporting an assumed character, and maintaining a disguise. He was, however, constitutionally fearless; and, indeed, it needed, perhaps, more courage on the part of his companion, obnoxious as, perhaps, he was, to the powers now in the ascendancy, to trust his safety thus in the hands of a Whig gentleman, who had small reason to regard the friends of King James’s cause with favour or affection.
At an easy pace they pursued their way, which led them to Essex-Bridge (then but a few years open, and long since rebuilt from the foundations), and having crossed the river, they plunged into a series of narrow lanes and streets, many of them resembling those of a crowded village rather than of a metropolis — some of the houses that composed them little better than hovels, some thatched, and others tiled, and all thrown together with a marvellous contempt of symmetry, and, as it seemed, of convenience too. The whole population, brute and human, appeared to have turned out, and to be lounging and loitering in the streets: men and women, pigs and children, dogs and poultry. A crowded listlessness pervaded the highways and alleys, such as may still be seen in many of the older quarters of our provincial towns, even to this day. Sir Hugh and his companion made their way through all this, and reached at last a mass of low, roofless buildings, which looked like ruinous stables. At the end of this row — the dreary effect of which was enhanced by the utter silence and desertion of the place — there stood a dingy, shattered wall, which showed here and there the traces of having once been battlemented. In a low broad, archway in this, was swinging a rotten door of oak, studded with rusty pins of iron. Quickening his pace, and throwing a hurried glance behind him, the unknown hastily pushed this open, and led Sir Hugh into a neglected graveyard, overgrown with rank grass and nettles, from among which were peeping hundreds of old headstones, of all heights and hues. The tall windows of an old and ruined church looked mournfully forth upon this deserted burial-ground, from the further extremity of the enclosure; a pile of confused rubbish and ruins at the right; and upon the other side, a mass of quaint old buildings, which seemed to have suffered almost as much from time as the rest had from violence. With the exception of a portion of one of these melancholy looking tenements, the whole range appeared to have been given up to decay and utter desertion. Stone-shafted windows and dark doorways, through which the breeze sighed and moaned desolately enough, looked sadly out upon the waving grass and grey headstones of the little churchyard. From one tall chimney only, among the group, a thin curl of smoke was rising.
Complete Works of Sheridan Le Fanu (Illustrated) Page 89