Delphi Complete Works of Sheridan Le Fanu

by J. Sheridan le Fanu

  “This is mere folly — downright raving,” said Ashwoode, vehemently, but with an uneasiness which he could not conceal. “He is my guest, and will remain so for some weeks. I must be civil to him — both of us must.”

  “Surely, dear brother — after all I have said — you will not ask me to associate with him during his stay, since stay he must,” urged Mary.

  “We ought not to consult our whims at the expense of civility,” retorted the baronet, drily.

  “But surely my presence is not required,” urged she.

  “You cannot tell how that may be,” replied Ashwoode, abruptly, and then added, abstractedly, as he walked slowly towards the door: “We often speak, we know not what; we often stand, we know not where — necessity, fate, destiny — whatever is, must be. Let this be our philosophy, Mary.”

  Wholly at a loss to comprehend this incoherent speech, his sister remained silent for some minutes.

  “Well, child, how say you?” exclaimed Ashwoode, turning suddenly round.

  “Dear brother,” said she, “I would fain not meet that man any more while he remains here. You will not ask me to come down.”

  “A truce to this folly,” exclaimed Ashwoode, with loud and sudden emphasis. “You must — you must, I say, appear at breakfast, at dinner, and at supper. You must see Blarden, and talk with him — he’s my friend — you must know him.” Then checking himself, he added, in a less vehement tone— “Mary, don’t act like a fool — you are none: these silly fancies must not be indulged — remember, he’s my friend. There, there, be a good girl — no more folly.”

  He came over, patted her cheek, and then turned abruptly from her, and left the room. His parting caress, however, was not sufficient to obliterate the painful impression which his momentary violence had left, for in that brief space of angry excitement his countenance had worn the selfsame sinister expression which had appalled her in her last night’s dream.

  CHAPTER XLI.

  OF O’CONNOR AND A CERTAIN TRAVELLING ECCLESIASTIC — AND HOW THE DARKNESS OVERTOOK THEM.

  It has become necessary, in order to a clear and chronologically arranged exposition of events to return for a little while to our melancholy young friend, Edmond O’Connor, who, with his faithful squire, Larry Toole, following in close attendance upon his progress, was now returning from a last visit to the poor fragment of his patrimony, the wreck of his father’s fortunes, and which consisted of a few hundred acres of wild woodland, surrounding a small square tower half gone to decay, and bidding fair to become in a few years a mere roofless ruin. He had seen the few retainers of his family who still remained, and bidden them a last farewell, and was now far in his second day’s leisurely journey toward the city of Dublin.

  The sun was fast declining among the rich and glowing clouds of an autumnal evening, and pouring its melancholy lustre upon the woods and the old towers of Leixlip, as the young man rode into that ancient town. How different were his present feelings from those with which he had last traversed the quiet little village — then his bright hopes and cheery fancies had tinged every object he looked on with their own warm and happy colouring; but now, alas! how mournful the reverse. With the sweet illusions he had so fondly cherished had vanished all the charm of all he saw; the scene was disenchanted now, and all seemed coloured in the sombre and chastened hues of his own deep melancholy; the river, with all its brawling falls and windings, filled his ear with plaintive harmonies, and all its dancing foam-bells, that chased one another down its broad eddies, glancing in the dim, discoloured light of the evening sun, seemed but so many images of the wayward courses and light illusions of human hope; even the old ivy-mantled towers, as he looked upon their timeworn front, seemed to have suffered a century’s decay since last he beheld them; every scene that met his eye, and every sound that floated to his ear on the still air of evening, was alike charged with sadness.

  At a slow pace, and with a heart oppressed, he passed the little town, and soon its trees, and humble roofs, and blue curling smoke were left far behind him. He had proceeded more than a mile when the sun descended, and the dusky twilight began to deepen. He spurred his horse, and at a rate more suited to the limited duration of the little light which remained, he rode at a sharp trot along the uneven way toward Dublin. He had not proceeded far at this rate when he overtook a gentleman on horseback, who was listlessly walking his steed in the same direction, and who, on seeing a cavalier thus wending his way on the same route, either with a view to secure good company upon the road, or for some other less obvious purpose, spurred on also, and took his place by the side of our young friend. O’Connor looked upon his uninvited companion with a jealous eye, for his night adventure of a few months since was forcibly recalled to his memory by the circumstances of his present situation. The person who rode by his side was, as well as he could descry, a tall, lank man, with a hooked nose, heavy brows, and sallow complexion, having something grim and ascetic in the character of his face. After turning slightly twice or thrice towards O’Connor, as if doubtful whether to address him, the stranger at length accosted the young man.

  “A fair evening this, sir,” said he, “and just cool enough to make a brisk ride pleasant.”

  O’Connor assented drily, and without waiting for a renewal of the conversation, spurred his horse into a canter, with the intention of leaving his new companion behind. That personage was not, however, so easily to be shaken off; he, in turn, put his horse to precisely the same pace, and remarked composedly, —

  “I see, sir, you wish to make the most of the light we’ve left us; dark riding, they say, is dangerous riding hereabout. I suppose you ride for the city?”

  O’Connor made no answer.

  “I presume you make Dublin your halting-place?” repeated the man.

  “You are at liberty, sir,” replied O’Connor, somewhat sharply, “to presume what you please; I have good reasons, however, for not caring to bandy words with strangers. Where I rest for the night cannot concern anybody but myself.”

  “No offence, sir — no offence meant,” replied the man, in the same even tone, “and I hope none taken.”

  A silence of some minutes ensued, during which O’Connor suddenly slackened his horse’s pace to a walk. The stranger made a corresponding alteration in that of his.

  “Your pace, sir, is mine,” observed the stranger. “We may as well breathe our beasts a little.”

  Another pause followed, which was at length broken by the stranger’s observing, —

  “A lucky chance, in truth. A comrade is an important acquisition in such a ride as ours promises to be.”

  “I already have one of my own choosing,” replied O’Connor drily; “I ride attended.”

  “And so do I,” continued the other, “and doubtless our trusty squires are just as happy in the rencounter as are their masters.”

  A considerable silence ensued, which at length was broken by the stranger.

  “Your reserve, sir,” said he, “as well as the hour at which you travel, leads me to conjecture that we are both bound on the same errand. Am I understood?”

  “You must speak more plainly if you would be so,” replied O’Connor.

  “Well, then,” resumed he, “I half believe that we shall meet tonight — where it is no sin to speak loyalty.”

  “Still, sir, you leave me in the dark as to your meaning,” replied O’Connor.

  “At a certain well of sweet water,” said the man with deliberate significance— “is it not so — eh — am I right?”

  “No, sir,” replied O’Connor, “your sagacity is at fault; or else, it may be, your wit is too subtle, or mine too dull; for, if your conjectures be correct, I cannot comprehend your meaning — nor indeed is it very important that I should.”

  “Well, sir,” replied he, “I am seldom wrong when I hazard a guess of this kind; but no matter — if we meet we shall be better friends, I promise you.”

  They had now reached the little town of Chapelizod, and darkn
ess had closed in. At the door of a hovel, from which streamed a strong red light, the stranger drew his bridle, and called for a cup of water. A ragged urchin brought it forth.

  “Pax Domini vobiscum,” said the stranger, restoring the vessel, and looking upward steadfastly for a minute, as if in mental prayer, he raised his hat, and in doing so exhibited the monkish tonsure upon his head; and as he sate there motionless upon his horse, with his sable cloak wrapped in ample folds about him, and the strong red light from the hovel door falling upon his thin and well-marked features, bringing into strong relief the prominences of his form and attire, and shining full upon the drooping head of the tired steed which he bestrode — this equestrian figure might have furnished no unworthy study for the pencil of Schalken.

  In a few minutes they were again riding side by side along the street of the straggling little town.

  “I perceive, sir,” said O’Connor, “that you are a clergyman. Unless this dim light deceives me, I saw the tonsure when you raised your hat just now.”

  “Your eyes deceived you not — I am one of a religious order,” replied the man, “and perchance not on that account a more acceptable companion to you.”

  “Indeed you wrong me, reverend sir,” said O’Connor. “I owe you an apology for receiving your advances as I have done; but experience has taught me caution; and until I know something of those whom I encounter on the highway, I hold with them as little communication as I can well avoid. So far from being the less acceptable a companion to me by reason of your sacred office, believe me, you need no better recommendation. I am myself an humble child of the true Church; and her ministers have never claimed respect from me in vain.”

  The priest looked searchingly at the young man; but the light afforded but an imperfect scrutiny.

  “You say, sir,” rejoined he after a pause, “that you acknowledge our father of Rome — that you are one of those who eschew heresy, and cling constantly to the old true faith — that you are free from the mortal taint of Protestant infidelity.”

  “That do I with my whole heart,” rejoined O’Connor.

  “Are you, moreover, one of those who still look with a holy confidence to the return of better days? When the present order of things, this usurped government and abused authority, shall pass away like a dark dream, and fly before the glory of returning truth. Do you look for the restoration of the royal heritage to its rightful owner, and of these afflicted countries to the bosom of mother Church?”

  “Happy were I to see these things accomplished,” rejoined O’Connor; “but I hold their achievement, except by the intervention of Almighty Providence, impossible. Methinks we have in Ireland neither the spirit nor the power to do it. The people are heartbroken; and so far from coming to the field in this quarrel, they dare not even speak of it above their breath.”

  “Young man, you speak as one without understanding. You know not this people of Ireland of whom you speak. Believe me, sir, the spirit to right these things is deep and strong in the bosoms of the people. What though they do not cry aloud in agony for vengeance, are they therefore content, and at their heart’s ease?

  “‘Quamvis tacet Hermogenes, cantor tamen atque,

  Optimus est modulator.’

  “Their silence is not dumbness — you shall hear them speak plainly yet.”

  “Well, it may be so,” rejoined O’Connor; “but be the people ever so willing, another difficulty arises — where are the men to lead them on? — who are they?”

  The priest again looked quickly and suspiciously at the speaker; but the gloom prevented his discerning the features of his companion. He became silent — perhaps half-repenting his momentary candour, and rode slowly forward by O’Connor’s side, until they had reached the extremity of the town. The priest then abruptly said, —

  “I find, sir, I have been wrong in my conjecture. Our paths at this point diverge, I believe. You pursue your way by the river’s side, and I take mine to the left. Do not follow me. If you be what you represent yourself, my command will be sufficient to prevent your doing so; if otherwise, I ride armed, and can enforce what I conceive necessary to my safety. Farewell.”

  And so saying, the priest turned his horse’s head in the direction which he had intimated, rode up the steep ascent which loomed over the narrow level by the river’s side; and his dark form quickly disappeared beyond the brow of the dusky hill. O’Connor’s eyes instinctively followed the retreating figure of his companion, until it was lost in the profound darkness; and then looking back for any dim intimation of the presence of his trusty follower, he beheld nothing but the dark void. He listened; but no sound of horse’s hoofs betokened pursuit. He shouted — he called upon his squire by name; but all in vain; and at length, after straining his voice to its utmost pitch for six or ten minutes without eliciting any other reply than the prolonged barking of half the village curs in Chapelizod, he turned away, and pursued his course alone, consoling himself with the reflection that his attendant was at least as well acquainted with the way as was he himself, and that he could not fail to reach the “Cock and Anchor” whenever he pleased to exert himself for the purpose.

  CHAPTER XLII.

  THE SQUIRES.

  O’Connor had scarcely been joined by the priest, when Larry Toole, who jogged quietly on, pipe in mouth, behind his master, was accosted by his reverence’s servant, a stout, clean-limbed fellow, arrayed in blue frieze, who rode a large, ill-made horse, and bumped listlessly along at that easy swinging jog at which our southern farmers are wont to ride. The fellow had a shrewd eye, and a pleasant countenance withal to look upon, and might be in years some five or six and thirty.

  “God save you, neighbour,” said he.

  “God save you kindly,” rejoined Mr. Toole graciously.

  “A plisint evenin’ for a quiet bit iv a smoke,” rejoined the stranger.

  “None better,” rejoined Larry, scanning the stranger’s proportions, to see whether, in his own phrase, “he liked his cut.” The scrutiny evidently resulted favourably, for Larry removed his pipe, and handing it to his new acquaintance, observed courteously, “Maybe you’d take a draw, neighbour.”

  “I thank you kindly,” said the stranger, as he transferred the utensil from Larry’s mouth to his own. “It’s turning cowld, I think. I wish to the Lord we had a dhrop iv something to warm us,” observed he, speaking out of the unoccupied corner of his mouth.

  “We’ll be in Chapelizod, plase God,” said Larry Toole, “in half an hour, an’ if ould Tim Delany isn’t gone undher the daisies, maybe we won’t have a taste iv his best.”

  “Are you follyin’ that gintleman?” inquired the stranger, with his pipe indicating O’Connor, “that gintleman that the masther is talking to?”

  “I am so,” rejoined Larry promptly, “an’ a good gintleman he is; an’ that’s your masther there. What sort is he?”

  “Oh, good enough, as masthers goes — no way surprisin’ one way or th’ other.”

  “Where are you goin’ to?” pursued Larry.

  “I never axed, bedad,” rejoined the man, “only to folly on, wherever he goes — an’ divil a hair I care where that is. What way are you two goin’?”

  “To Dublin, to be sure,” rejoined Larry. “I wisht we wor there now. What the divil makes him ride so unaiqual — sometimes cantherin’, and other times mostly walkin’ — it’s mighty nansinsical, so it is.”

  “By gorra, I don’t know, anless fancy alone,” rejoined the stranger.

  “Here’s your pipe,” continued he, after some pause, “an’ I thank you kindly, misther — misther — how’s this they call you?”

  “Misther Larry Toole is the name I was christened by,” rejoined the gentleman so interrogated.

  “An’ a rale illegant name it is,” replied the stranger. “The Tooles is a royal family, an’ may the Lord restore them to their rights.”

  “Amen, bedad,” rejoined Larry devoutly.

  “My name’s Ned Mollowney,” continued he, an
ticipating Larry’s interrogatory, “from the town of Ballydun, the plisintest spot in the beautiful county iv Tipperary. There isn’t it’s aquil out for fine men and purty girls.” Larry sighed.

  The conversation then took that romantic turn which best suited the melancholy chivalry of Larry’s mind, after which the current of their mutual discoursing, by the attraction of irresistible association, led them, as they approached the little village, once more into suggestive commentaries upon the bitter cold, and sundry pleasant speculations respecting the creature comforts which awaited them under Tim Delany’s genial roof-tree.

  “The holy saints be praised,” said Ned Mollowney, “we’re in the village at last. The tellin’ iv stories is the dhryest work that ever a boy tuck in hand. My mouth is like a cindher all as one.”

  “Tim Delany’s is the second house beyant that wind in the street,” said Larry, pointing down the road as they advanced. “We’ll jist get down for a minute or two, an’ have somethin’ warrum by the fire; we’ll overtake the gintlemen asy enough.”

  “I’m agreeable, Mr. Toole,” said the accommodating Ned Mollowney. “Let the gintlemen take care iv themselves. They’re come to an age when they ought to know what they’re about.”

  “This is it,” said Larry, checking his horse before a low thatched house, from whose doorway the cheerful light was gleaming upon the bushes opposite.

  The two worthies dismounted, and entered the humble place of entertainment. Tim Delany’s company was singularly fascinating, and his liquor was, if possible, more so — besides, the evening was chill, and his hearth blazed with a fire, the very sight of which made the blood circulate freely, and the finger-tops grow warm. Larry Toole was prepossessed in favour of Ned Mollowney, and Ned Mollowney had fallen in love with Larry Toole, so that it is hardly to be wondered at that the two gentlemen yielded to the combined seduction of their situation, and seated themselves snugly by the fire, each with his due allowance of stimulating liquor, and with a very vague and uncertain kind of belief in the likelihood of their following their masters respectively until they had made themselves particularly comfortable. It was not until after nearly two hours of blissful communion with his delectable companion, that Larry Toole suddenly bethought him of the fact that he had allowed his master, at the lowest calculation, time enough to have ridden to and from the “Cock and Anchor” at least half a dozen times. He, therefore, hurriedly bade goodnight, with many a fond vow of eternal friendship for the two companions of his princely revelry, mounted his horse with some little difficulty, and becoming every moment more and more confused, and less and less perpendicular, found himself at length — with an indistinct remembrance of having had several hundred falls upon every possible part of his body, and upon every possible geological substance, from soft alluvial mud up to plain limestone, during the course of his progress — within the brick precincts of the city. The horse, with an instinctive contempt for Mr. Toole’s judgment, wholly disregarded that gentleman’s vehement appeals to the bridle, and quietly pursued his well-known way to the hostelry of the “Cock and Anchor.”