Delphi Complete Works of Sheridan Le Fanu

by J. Sheridan le Fanu

  CHAPTER VI.

  THE SOLDIER — THE NIGHT RAMBLE — AND THE WINDOW THAT LET IN MORE THAN THE MOONLIGHT.

  Short as had been O’Connor’s sojourn, it nevertheless had been sufficiently long to satisfy mine host of the “Cock and Anchor,” an acute observer in such particulars, that whatever his object might have been in avoiding the more fashionably frequented inns of the city, economy at least had no share in his motive. O’Connor, therefore, had hardly entered the public room of the inn, when a servant respectfully informed him that a private chamber was prepared for his reception, if he desired to occupy it. The proposition suited well with his temper at the minute, and with all alacrity he followed the waiter, who bowed him upstairs and through a dingy passage into a room whose claims, if not to elegance, at least to comfort, could hardly have been equalled, certainly not excelled, by the more luxurious pretensions of most modern hotels.

  It was a large, capacious chamber, nearly square, wainscoted with dark shining wood, and decorated with certain dingy old pictures, which might have been, for anything to the contrary, appearing in so uncertain a light, chefs d’œuvre of the mighty masters of the olden time: at all events, they looked as warm and comfortable as if they were. The hearth was broad, deep, and high enough to stable a Kerry pony, and was surmounted by a massive stone mantelpiece, rudely but richly carved — abundance of old furniture — tables, at which the saintly Cromwell might have smoked and boozed, and chairs old enough to have supported Sir Walter Raleigh himself, were disposed about the room with a profuseness which argued no niggard hospitality. A pair of waxlights burned cheerily upon a table beside the bright crackling fire which blazed in the huge cavity of the hearth; and O’Connor threw himself into one of those cumbrons, tall-backed, and well-stuffed chairs, which are in themselves more potent invitations to the sweet illusive visitings from the world of fancy and of dreams than all the drugs or weeds of eastern climes. Thus suffering all his material nature to rest in absolute repose, he loosed at once the reins of imagination and memory, and yielded up his mind luxuriously to their mingled realities and illusions.

  He may have been, perhaps, for two or three hours employed thus listlessly in chewing the cud of sweet and bitter fancy, when his meditations were interrupted by a brisk step upon the passage leading to the apartment in which he sate, instantly succeeded by as brisk a knocking at the chamber door itself.

  “Is this Mr. O’Connor’s chamber?” inquired a voice of peculiar richness, intonated not unpleasingly with a certain melodious modification of the brogue, bespeaking a sort of passionate devil-may-carishness which they say in the good old times wrought grievous havoc among womankind. The summons was promptly answered by an invitation to enter; and forthwith the door opened, and a comely man stepped into the room. The stranger might have seen some fifty or sixty summers, or even more; for his was one of those joyous, goodhumoured, rubicund visages, upon which time vainly tries to write a wrinkle. His frame was robust and upright, his stature tall, and there was in his carriage something not exactly a swagger (for with all his oddities, the stranger was evidently a gentleman), but a certain rollicking carelessness, which irresistibly conveyed the character of a reckless, headlong goodhumour and daring, to which nothing could come amiss. In the hale and jolly features, which many would have pronounced handsome, were written, in characters which none could mistake, the prevailing qualities of the man — a gay and sparkling eye, in which lived the very soul of convivial jollity, harmonized right pleasantly with a smile, no less of archness than bonhomie, and in the brow there was a certain indescribable cock, which looked half pugnacious and half comic. On the whole, the stranger, to judge by his outward man, was precisely the person to take his share in a spree, be the same in joke or earnest — to tell a good story — finish a good bottle — share his last guinea with you — or blow your brains out, as the occasion might require. He was arrayed in a full suit of regimentals, and taken for all in all, one need hardly have desired a better sample of the dashing, lighthearted, daredevil Irish soldier of more than a century since.

  “Ah! Major O’Leary,” cried O’Connor, starting from his seat, and grasping the soldier’s hand, “I am truly glad to see you; you are the very man of all others I most require at this moment. I was just about to have a fit of the blue devils.”

  “Blue devils!” exclaimed the major; “don’t talk to a youngster like me of any such infernal beings; but tell me how you are, every inch of you, and what brings you here?”

  “I never was better; and as to my business,” replied O’Connor, “it is too long and too dull a story to tell you just now; but in the meantime, let us have a glass of Burgundy; mine host of the ‘Cock and Anchor’ boasts a very peculiar cellar.” So saying, O’Connor proceeded to issue the requisite order.

  “That does he, by my soul!” replied the major, with alacrity; “and for that express reason I invariably make it a point to renew my friendly intimacy with its contents whenever I visit the metropolis. But I can’t stay more than five minutes, so proceed to operations with all dispatch.”

  “And why all this hurry?” inquired O’Connor. “Where need you go at this hour?”

  “Faith, I don’t precisely know myself,” rejoined the soldier; “but I’ve a strong impression that my evil genius has contrived a scheme to inveigle me into a cock-pit not a hundred miles away.”

  “I’m sorry for it, with all my heart, Major,” replied O’Connor, “since it robs me of your company.”

  “Nay, you must positively come along with me,” resumed the major; “I sip my Burgundy on these express conditions. Don’t leave me at these years without a mentor. I rely upon your prudence and experience; if you turn me loose upon the town tonight, without a moral guide, upon my conscience, you have a great deal to answer for. I may be fleeced in a hell, or milled in a row; and if I fall in with female society, by the powers of celibacy! I can’t answer for the consequences.”

  “Sooth to say, Major,” rejoined O’Connor, “I’m in no mood for mirth.”

  “Come, come! never look so glum,” insisted his visitor. “Remember I have arrived at years of indiscretion, and must be looked after. Man’s life, my dear fellow, naturally divides itself into three great stages; the first is that in which the youthful disciple is carefully instructing his mind, and preparing his moral faculties, in silence, for all sorts of villainy — this is the season of youth and innocence; the second is that in which he practises all kinds of rascality — and this is the flower of manhood, or the prime of life; the third and last is that in which he strives to make his soul — and this is the period of dotage. Now, you see, my dear O’Connor, I have unfortunately arrived at the prime of life, while you are still in the enjoyment of youth and innocence; I am practising what you are plotting. You are, unfortunately for yourself, a degree more sober than I; you can therefore take care that I sin with due discretion — permit me to rob or murder, without being robbed or murdered in return.”

  Here the major filled and quaffed another glass, and then continued, —

  “In short, I am — to speak in all solemnity and sobriety — so drunk, that it’s a miracle how I mounted these rascally stairs without breaking my neck. I have no distinct recollection of the passage, except that I kissed some old hunks instead of the chambermaid, and pulled his nose in revenge. I solemnly declare I can neither walk nor think without assistance; my heels and head are inclined to change places, and I can’t tell the moment the body politic may be capsized. I have no respect in the world for my intellectual or physical endowments at this particular crisis; my sight is so infernally acute that I see all surrounding objects considerably augmented in number; my legs have asserted their independence, and perform ‘Sir Roger de Coverley,’ altogether unsolicited; and my memory and other small mental faculties have retired for the night. Under those melancholy circumstances, my dear fellow, you surely won’t refuse me the consolation of your guidance.”

  “Had not you better, my dear Major,” said
O’Connor, “remain with me quietly here for the night, out of the reach of sharks and sharpers, male and female? You shall have claret or Burgundy, which you please — enough to fill a skin!”

  “I can’t hold more than a bottle additional,” replied the major, regretfully, “if I can even do that; so you see I’m bereft of domestic resources, and must look abroad for occupation. The fact is, I expect to meet one or two fellows whom I want to see, at the place I’ve named; so if you can come along with me, and keep me from falling into the gutters, or any other indiscretion by the way, upon my conscience, you will confer a serious obligation on me.”

  O’Connor plainly perceived that although the major’s statement had been somewhat overcharged, yet that his admissions were not altogether fanciful; there were in the gallant gentleman’s face certain symptoms of recent conviviality which were not to be mistaken — a perceptible roll of the eye, and a slight screwing of the lips, which peculiarities, along with the faintest possible approximation to a hiccough, and a gentle see-saw vibration of his stalwart person, were indications highly corroborative of the general veracity of his confessions. Seeing that, in good earnest, the major was not precisely in a condition to be trusted with the management of anything pertaining to himself or others, O’Connor at once resolved to see him, if possible, safely through his excursion, if after the discussion of the wine which was now before them, he should persevere in his fancy for a night ramble. They therefore sate down together in harmonious fellowship, to discuss the flasks which stood upon the board.

  O’Connor was about to fill his guest’s glass for the tenth or twelfth time, when the major suddenly ejaculated, —

  “Halt! ground arms! I can no more. Why, you hardened young reprobate, it’s not to make me drunk you’re trying? I must keep senses enough to behave like a Christian at the cock-fight; and, upon my soul! I’ve very little rationality to spare at this minute. Put on your hat, and come without delay, before I’m fairly extinguished.”

  O’Connor accordingly donned his hat and cloak, and yielding the major the double support of his arm on the one side, and of the banisters on the other, he conducted him safely down the stairs, and with wonderful steadiness, all things considered, they entered the street, whence, under the major’s direction, they pursued their way. After a silence of a few minutes, that military functionary exclaimed, with much gravity, —

  “I’m a great social philosopher, a great observer, and one who looks quite through the deeds of men. My dear boy, believe me, this country is in the process of a great moral reformation; hospitality — which I take to be the first, and the last, and the only one of all the virtues of a bishop which is fit for the practice of a gentleman — hospitality, my dear O’Connor, is rapidly approaching to a climax in this country. I remember, when I was a little boy, a gentleman might pay a visit of a week or so to another in the country, and be all the time nothing more than tipsy — tipsy merely. However, matters gradually improved, and that stage which philosophers technically term simple drunkenness, became the standard of hospitality. This passed away, and the sense of the country, in its silent but irresistible operation, has substituted blind drunkenness; and in the prophetic spirit of sublime philosophy, I foresee the arrival of that time when no man can escape the fangs of hospitality upon any conditions short of brain fever or delirium tremens.”

  As the major delivered this philosophic discourse, he led O’Connor through several obscure streets and narrow lanes, till at length he paused in one of the very narrowest and darkest before a dingy brick house, whose lower windows were secured with heavy bars of iron. The door, which was so incrusted with dirt and dust that the original paint was hardly anywhere discernible, stood ajar, and within burned a feeble and ominous light, so faint and murky, that it seemed fearful of disclosing the deeds and forms which itself was forced to behold. Into this dim and suspicious-looking place the major walked, closely followed by O’Connor. In the hall he was encountered by a huge savage-looking fellow, who raised his squalid form lazily from a bench which rested against the wall at the further end, and in a low, gruff voice, like the incipient growl of a roused watchdog, inquired what they wanted there.

  “Why, Mr. Creigan, don’t you know Major O’Leary?” inquired that gentleman. “I and a friend have business here.”

  The man muttered something in the way of apology, and opening the dingy lantern in which burned the wretched tallow candle which half lighted the place, he snuffed it with his finger and thumb, and while so doing, desired the major to proceed. Accordingly, with the precision of one who was familiar with every turn of the place, the gallant officer led O’Connor through several rooms, lighted in the same dim and shabby way, into a corridor leading directly to the rearward of the house, and connecting it with some other detached building. As they threaded this long passage, the major turned towards O’Connor, who followed him, and whispered, —

  “Did you mark that ill-looking fellow in the hall? Poor Creigan! — a gentleman! — would you think it? — a gentleman by birth, and with a snug property, too — four hundred good pounds a year, and more — all gone, like last year’s snow, chiefly here in backing mains of his own! poor dog! I remember him one of the best dressed men on town, and now he’s fain to pick up a few shillings by the week in the place where he lost his thousands; this is the state of man!”

  As he spoke thus, they had reached the end of the passage. The major opened the door which terminated the corridor, and thus displayed a scene which, though commonplace enough in its ingredients, was, nevertheless, in its coup d’œil, sufficiently striking. In the centre of a capacious and ill-finished chamber stood a circular platform, with a high ledge running round it. This arena, some fourteen feet in diameter, was surrounded by circular benches, which rose one outside the other, in parallel tiers, to the wall. Upon these seats were crowded some hundreds of men — a strange mixture; gentlemen of birth and honour sate side by side with notorious swindlers; noblemen with coalheavers; simpletons with sharks; the unkempt, greasy locks of squalid destitution mingled in the curls of the patrician periwig; aristocratic lace and embroidery were rubbed by the dusty shoulders of draymen and potboys; — all these gross and glaring contrarieties reconciled and bound together by one hellish sympathy. All sate locked in breathless suspense, every countenance fixed in the hard lines of intense, excited anxiety and vigilance; all leaned forward to gaze upon the combat whose crisis was on the point of being determined. Those who occupied the back seats had started up, and pressing forward, almost crushed those in front of them to death. Every aperture in this living pile was occupied by some eager, haggard, or ruffian face; and, spite of all the pushing, and crowding, and bustling, all were silent, as if the powers of voice and utterance were unknown among them.

  The effect of this scene, so suddenly presented — the crowd of ill-looking and anxious faces, the startling glare of light, and the unexpected rush of hot air from the place — all so confounded him, that O’Connor did not for some moments direct his attention to the object upon which the gaze of the fascinated multitude was concentrated; when he did so he beheld a spectacle, abstractedly, very disproportioned in interest to the passionate anxiety of which it was the subject. Two game cocks, duly trimmed, and having the long and formidable steel weapons with which the humane ingenuity of “the fancy” supplies the natural spur of the poor biped, occupied the centre of the circular stage which we have described; one of the birds lay upon his back, beneath the other, which had actually sent his spurs through and through his opponent’s neck. In this posture the wounded animal lay, with his beak open, and the blood trickling copiously through it upon the board. The victorious bird crowed loud and clear, and a buzz began to spread through the spectators, as if the battle were already determined, and suspense at an end. The “law” had just expired, and the gentlemen whose business it was to handle the birds were preparing to withdraw them.

  “Twenty to one on the grey cock,” exclaimed a large, ill-looking fellow, who
sat close to the pit, clutching his arms in his brawny hands, as if actually hugging himself with glee, while he gazed with an exulting grin upon the combat, whose issue seemed now beyond the reach of chance. The challenge was, of course, unaccepted.

  “Fifty to one!” exclaimed the same person, still more ecstatically. “One hundred to one — two hundred to one!”

  “I’ll give you one guinea to two hundred,” exclaimed perhaps the coolest gambler in that select assembly, young Henry Ashwoode, who sat also near the front.

  “Done, Mr. Ashwoode — done with you; it’s a bet, sir,” said the same ill-looking fellow.

  “Done, sir,” replied Ashwoode.

  Again the conqueror crowed the shrill note of victory, and all seemed over, when, on a sudden, by one of those strange vicissitudes of which the annals of the cock-pit afford so many examples, the dying bird — it may be roused by the vaunting challenge of his antagonist — with one convulsive spasm, struck both his spurs through and through the head of his opponent, who dropped dead upon the table, while the wounded bird, springing to his legs, flapped his wings, as if victory had never hovered, and then as momentarily fell lifeless on the board, by this last heroic feat winning a main on which many thousands of pounds depended. A silence for a moment ensued, and then there followed the loud exulting cheers of some, and the hoarse, bitter blasphemies of others, clamorous expostulation, hoarse laughter, curses, congratulations, and invectives — all mingled with the noise occasioned by those who came in or went out, the shuffling and pounding of feet, in one torrentuous and stunning volume of sound.

  Young Ashwoode having secured and settled all his bets, shouldered his way through the crowd, and with some difficulty, reached the door at which Major O’Leary and O’Connor were standing.