“The thing is done,” muttered he, as half jaded with his own excitement, he threw himself into an armed chair, before the expiring fire; “done and ended; there is no need any longer to avert his fate — so, in the devil’s name, let him hang now, as soon as they list. Why should I budge to save him? pshaw! this dark old room, with its accursed remembrances rising like vapours round me, makes a mere child of me; why, in hell’s name, should I, of all men, stir to save him? why should I turn chicken-hearted, and lose courage now? Curse my folly; how Talbot, and even that sneaking dastard, Garvey, would laugh at me if they knew it!’Sdeath, let the old dog hang, the sooner the better — it’s not my doing — and, if it were, by — he has earned it well of my hands; aye, fifty times over — the insolent, dogged fool! No, no,” he continued, after a long pause; “I’m not so weak — I’m not so mean, as to help the snarling, ungrateful, old libeller out of his troubles; he has turned on me twice, when I offered to succour him — and, ‘fore God, he shall never do so a third time. And then there’s that hopeful Spaniard; well, well, no matter — all in good time. Brag is a good dog, but Holdfast is a better — and we’ll see whether I’ll not get the whip-hand of Colonel O’Brien yet; all in good time— ‘fair and easy goes far in a day.’” He shook his head slowly, and smiled a pale sinister smile, upon the smouldering fire as he spoke; and then bit his lip, and contracted his brows, in deep and silent thought — buried in which we shall for the present leave him.
CHAPTER XXXVIII
THE THUNDER STORM.
ABOUT four or five days had now elapsed since the events recorded in our last chapter. A sultry day, and a sky overcast with masses of lurid cloud, had heralded in a night of unusual darkness. The distant mutterings of the coming storm had now deepened into the nearer thunder; the big, sullen rain-drops beat the pavement with rapid splash, as peal after peal rattled and bellowed close over the housetops, like the opening of gigantic artillery, upon the devoted city. Long, winding streets and alleys, gables, chimneys, bulkheads, and signboards started into sharp light and shadow, in the intense white glare of the lightning; for one instant the flooded gutters, the quaint houses, the cowering passengers, each point of prominence, every diamond window pane, every street post, every stone, reflected the dazzling burst of livid fire — and in the next the crashing thunder swept the ghastly pageant back into the darkness of chaos.
It was upon this awful night of tempest and gloom, that a horseman, but just dismounted, stood dripping in his broadleafed hat, and drenched mantle of coarse black cloth, within the chief entrance of the Carbrie. He was parleying with one of the servants of the hostelry, and the result of his conference was speedily to conduct him by a private way up a backstairs, and into a small, sombre-looking bed-chamher, where, toil-worn, wet, and fasting as he was, he applied himself, with no other measure, towards his own comfort, than that of throwing aside. Ms cloak and hat, to the task of writing a letter, with much apparent care and anxiety, while the servant hurried through the arrangements of his dingy chamber, and haying lighted a fire, departed. The stranger, who was thus left to his cheerless meditations, was no other than O’Gara, whose ill success our last chapter has sufficiently detailed.
Several times, as he proceeded in his tedious task, he had been interrupted by the sound of voices in the room next to that in which he was sitting. On a sudden, the tone of one of the speakers appeared to strike his ear with peculiar and absorbing interest. His pen was arrested in the midst of a word — his pale face was raised, and his lips parted, with an expression ot eager and almost horrified attention — while his eyes were fixed upon the partition through which the sounds had reached him. Drawing his breath with a gentle sigh, after the long suspense, O’Gara laid down the pen beside him, as softly as though the sound of a falling feather might have determined his fate — and stepping, with outstretched arms and noiseless tread across the room, he reached the chink in the wooden division, through which he had marked the flickering of the light in the adjoining apartment. He held his breath as he looked through: and, aided by the gestures and the countenances of those who spoke, as well as by their nearer proximity, he was enabled, with tolerable distinctness, to catch the substance of their colloquy. He was just in time to see a half-concealed figure, in black, pass from the chamber, and the door shut roughly after it. Miles Garrett wa(s standing with his back to the fire; and his eyes, which had followed the departing figure, with no very friendly glance, were still fixed upon the door, with an expression of rage and spite, which lighted his unsightly visage with a character little short of murderous. Garvey sate close by a table scarce a yard away from his employer, stealthily watching his countenance with an eye of keen and villainous scrutiny; which, however, as Garrett’s glance was suddenly directed upon him) was quickly exchanged for the usual look of crouching sycophancy. It failed, however, to conciliate the proprietor of Lisnamoe, whose recent interview appeared to have left a sting of the deadliest kind behind it.
“And so, Mr. Garvey, you are looking out for a new patron,” said Garrett, with ominous pleasantry, while a smile that chilled the little scrivener with affright, gleamed in his eye; “you are looking for a new patron — and priest Talbot, you think, would serve your purpose — you do — but pray, my very sly little gentleman, did you never hear that it is ill husbandry to throw out the foul water till you are sure of the fresh?”
“I’m not looking — indeed I’m not. Mr. Garrett, for a new patron,” stammered Garvey.
“And what then did you mean, may I inquire?” continued Garrett, with the same ominous smile, and constrained calmness, while a slight hitching of the shoulders, and a measured shake of the head, betrayed the intensity of his passion— “what did you mean by saying — you thought his extortionate proposal a reasonable one — answer me that, sir? What did you mean by that — will you have the goodness to say?”
“Why, sir, Mr. Garrett, you know he had the cards in his own hands; if he chose to balk the business, he could leave you in the lurch, as easy as turn on his heel,” said Garvey, with a deprecatory tone, and a look of genuine alarm— “and I thought— “
“You thovght — did you? — you thought,” continued Garrett, in the same vein; and unable any longer to curb his fury, he thundered, “and who the devil gave you leave to think?” and at the same moment, with the back of his open hand, he dealt the affrighted wretch, a box across the face so furious that he fell back, stunned for the moment, in his chair, and the blood spirted from his nose and mouth, and died his ashy face in crimson; “that will teach you to meddle, when you are not wanted, you confounded oaf, you” — he added, but whether it was that upon reflection, his own convictions acquitted Garvey, or that the severity of the infliction had a little exceeded what he had contemplated — and, perhaps, had even a little shocked him, certain it is, that he added no more in the way of reproach, but turning sullenly toward the fire, left Garvey to recover at his leisure, while he whistled a quick march, and thrusting one hand into his pocket, leaned his elbow upon the chimneypiece, and wagged his head in time, until hearing his companion blowing his nose, coughing, and evincing other signs of returning vigour, he vouchsafed him a surly glance over his shoulder, and asked him with considerable asperity, “what for he kept blowing like a grampus, and whether lie meant to make a night of it?”
An ugly portrait enough, did Garvey’s visage present, pale and bloody, and wearing in every feature the hideous expression of malignant rage, contending with craven terror — while his eyes, in which were usually discernable no traces of passion or significance, but the half-quenched glitter of stealthy cunning, now gleamed with the mingled hate and cowardice of the poisoner, as they followed Garrett with undisguised but unconscious meaning.
Meanwhile the thunder bellowed, and the rain pattered without, in sustained, and still increasing fury.
— “Never mind it, man,” said Garrett, at last, in a tone of gruff conciliation; “what a cursed fuss you make about half nothing. Come, come, what
will you have — wine or— “
“No, no, Mr. Garrett, I thank you, said Garvey, with a distracted smile, while he continued wiping his face in his hand, and at every removal looking at the blood with which it was still covered— “I’ll remember it — I’ll remember it when the time comes.”
“You’ll remember it?” repeated Garrett after him, in a tone of menacing inquiry.
“That is,” added Garvey, hastily; for whatever his real meaning might have been, the gathering cloud of suspicion upon his patron’s brow plainly indicated the prudence of qualifying the phrase; “that is, I’ll charge it in the bill of costs.”
“Umph — run rusty, eh?” muttered Garrett; “he’ll remember it — will he. Look ye, Mr. Garvey— “
“You mistake me, Mr. Garrett; you mistake me,” interposed Garvey, with a sudden accession of humility.
“Well, suppose I do, Mr. Garvey, it’s as well to tell you at once, you’re no dog for my money, if you can’t bear the lash,” said Garrett, doggedly; “with me you’ll get just what you deserve — whether you’ve made a hit or made a mistake; and if you don’t like my terms — why, there’s the door.”
Garvey sate still; and his master, turning upon his heel, lounged carelessly to the window.
A long pause ensued, during which Garrett drew the curtain at the window, so that every blinding glare of lightning shone into the chamber, eclipsing the murky glimmer of the candle in its awful brightness.
“It’s a queer night,” said he, after one of these flashes so dazzling and so near, that he had involuntarily shrunk in its light, and held his breath during the stunning explosion which followed— “a queer night; one would almost think the devil had business on his hands. How is Lady Willoughby — she has been dying for the last week; I would not wonder if her ladyship made her flitting tonight; the old boy is at his tricks — egad, the whole air smells like brimstone.”
“She’s near her end — near enough,” said Garvey, once more restored, at least to outward calmness; and, as he spoke, he and his companion were both dazzled again in the intense glare, followed, or rather accompanied by a clanging report, under which the old mansion rocked and trembled in every stone and timber. “God bless us,” he ejaculated with a shudder, after an interval of some seconds, and making an imperfect attempt to cross himself, “it would be an awful night to die in, and Coyle says she has not much life left in her; its a frightful niglit — I thought the old place was blown about our ears that time; God Almighty guard us.”
“What are you mouthing about,” muttered Garrett, who began to catch the contagion of Garvey’s terrors; “stop your praying and bless sing, or I’ll give you something to talk about — it makes my skin creep to hear you — a nice fellow you are to put up prayers for people in a night like this; curse me, but it’s enough to bring a thunderbolt on the place, so it is.”
Garrett turned again to the table, and taking out his purse, counted out several pieces of gold upon the board.
“That Coyle is as hungry a thief as this villainous town contains,” he muttered through his teeth, as he reckoned the coins; “the rogue charges his own price — well, well, it’s not much matter, after all; this extortion can’t last long — one week more, perhaps, and then a plain, deal coffin, and the sexton’s fee; here Garvey,” he continued, “take it to the scoundrel at once — it’s a cursed imposition, but we can’t help it; take it — pshaw! what are you afraid of — it’s but a step, and you’ll find me here when you return.”
Garvey knew the temper of his employer too well to hazard an expostulation or demur; and throwing now and then a stealthy glance of uneasiness and discontent through the window, upon the external storm and darkness, he proceeded to wrap his shabby cloak about his shoulders, and gathering up the money, and counting it again, he consigned it to his pocket, and hat in hand, proceeded silently from the room.
“Without one moment’s hesitation, O’Gara, in like manner, wrapt in his mantle, drew his hat over his brows, and noiselessly hurried from the chamber; scarce daring to breathe until he had reached the open street; and, unobserved, took his station at the opposite side, with his keen eye fixed upon the door of the Carbrie — into whose well lighted passage he could clearly see. In this position his vigilance was not long unrewarded — for he beheld Garvey slowly enter the open lobby, communicating with the street — and peep, stealthily, with many a shrug and shiver, forth upon the wild and angry sky, while he drew his muffling still closer about him. At last, however, he plunged into the unsheltered street; and O’Gara kept pace with him at the other side, until he saw him fairly into Mr. Coyle’s sombre and sinister-looking auberge. Having crossed the street, through the small, lozenge-shaped window panes, he beheld, after a short delay, the swollen and sallow innkeeper, withdraw in company with Garvey; and having thus ascertained to his entire satisfaction what he had already suspected, the young priest hurried away through the storm and darkness — intent upon a project, in whose execution he was resolved that neither storm nor darkness, nor another agency should defeat or dismay him.
Meanwhile it behoves us for one moment to glance at the gloomy cell, in the Birmingham Tower, which was occupied by Sir Hugh Willoughby, who now sate wholly alone in his dimly-lighted and desolate cell.
His ruminations, painful and gloomy as they were, were nevertheless disagreeably interrupted by the jarring prelude of bolt and bar, which announced yet another visiter. It was the official of the prison who entered — and with a hesitating and embarrassed manner, and a countenance somewhat pale, stood in uneasy silence at the door. There was something sinister in his aspect and demeanour which impressed Sir Hugh with a feeling akin to dismay: the old knight looked inquiringly in his face for some time before the ominous messenger spoke.
“Sir Hugh Willoughby?” said the man, glancing at the open page in a soiled and heavy volume in his hands.
“The same,” said Sir Hugh, affirmatively.
“Under sentence of death for high treason,” continued the officer, still reading.
“The same — pray, proceed,” urged the knight.
“And reprieved during the king’s pleasure?”
“Ay, ay — the same,” pursued the old man.
“You know, sir,” he said, sulkily, after a brief pause, and turning his eyes another way; “you know, sir, I have nothing to do with it; my duty is only what you see,” he added, apologetically; “I try to make gentlemen as comfortable as I’m able, while they’re here; and they’re all welcome to stay here as long as they like, for my part — but, sir, but— “
“Speak plainly, man, for God’s sake — have you any ill news to tell me?” urged Sir Hugh, in a tone which betrayed his terrible misgivings.
The man evidently was a novice at his business — at least in its sterner department — for he appeared much disconcerted at this direct appeal; and not knowing exactly how to begin, paused and shuffled for some time, in evident embarrassment, at the door.
“You see, sir,” he resumed, after some seconds had elapsed in silence; “I’m only under orders, and has no choice in the business — and after all, why, we must all of us go sooner or later, you know — and then all’s even — — “
“For God’s sake,” said Sir Hugh, “speak the worst, and at once — is it — is it tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow, sir, at twelve o’clock — you just hit it,” answered he, much relieved; “twelve o’clock, sir — an’ you’re not to be quartered — that’s one comfort, at any rate. The warrant is gone to the sheriff, sir — and it’s my business, you see, to let you know.”
“God’s will be done,” said Sir Hugh, in a voice scarce audible, while his head sunk, and he clasped his hands together, with a convulsive pressure— “God’s will be done.”
“I’ll be in in the mornin’ again, sir, at six o’clock; and maybe you’d want a word with the clargy, or a scratch of the pen, by the way of a vrill,” pursued the man; “and if you’d wish every thing properly attended to, and moderate
charges, I have a cousin, an undertaker, that does funerals for the first quality in the land, sir; and I hope your honour found everything to your liking here, sir, while you were in it. My wife is makin’ up the little account — and it will be time enough to settle it in the mornin’.”
The man stood for a moment or two in the doorway; but seeing that his presence was unheeded, he forbore to say anything further; and casting an official glance round the room, to ascertain that all was right, he closed the book, and tucking it under his arm, disappeared amid the ringing of keys and the clang and creak of the iron fastenings.
CHAPTER XXXIX.
THE MURDER.
Now turn we once more to Garvey, whom we followed upon his short excursion into “the King’s Head.”
“Nobody in the house — no strangers, I suppose?” asked Garvey, stealthily, as soon as he found himself safe within the dingy precincts which acknowledged the dominion of Peter Coyle.
“No one but that,” said the host, testily pointing with his thumb toward his helpmate, who sate, as usual, dozing in her chair — and at the same time shooting at her a glance of the blackest malignity; “no one but that — and she’s one too many; for, of all the brimstone spawn that I ever came across, that same she-devil flogs them. Curse her,” he continued, waxing energetic as he proceeded; “I have no rest night or day with her; I dare not sleep in the house alone with her, without lock and bar between us — the murdering hag; it’s but last night I had a tussle with her for the razor, or she’d have had me in kingdom come, like the doctor, I take it — as it is, she’s scarce left a finger on my hand, the she-butcher!”
As he thus spoke, with truculent emphasis, he shook the member in question, swathed about in bloody rags, in deadly menace at the slumberer.
“She’s set her scheming headpiece to work now, to find out who it is I have got above — but you may as well let that alone, murdering Mag, for as bould as you are; you may — for if you’re determined, so am I; and have a care — for long threatening comes at last — and if you put me to it, I’ll go through with it; and then, who will you have to thank but yourself, my darling?”
Delphi Complete Works of Sheridan Le Fanu Page 83
