“You know this place?” inquired his conductor.
“Mary’s Abbey; is it not?” rejoined Sir Hugh.
“It is so,” answered he; “and once more I have to remind you, sir, that you have engaged to observe a strict and honourable secrecy. am now introducing you to the haunts or men, some of whom are, like myself — proscribed and desperate; and all of whom have, at least, strong reasons for concealing, in impenetrable mystery, their present abode, which, destitute of every other recommendation, presents, at least, the one advantage of security.”
Sir Hugh repeated his assurances of secrecy, and they both ascended a flight of some dozen stone steps, which slanted along the front of the building in question, and terminated before a small door, which was at once opened to the stranger’s summons, by a huge, ill-looking fellow, whom Sir Hugh had some indistinct remembrance of having seen before. The door being closed again, Sir Hugh found himself with his new companion in a low, long room, grudgingly lighted by a single narrow shot-hole rather than a window, and even that half stopped with old clothes and other mufflers. There was scarcely a fragment of furniture in the chamber; a fire glowed under the yawning chimney, and afforded the chief illumination of which the room could boast; a loft overhead, whose boarding had once formed the ceiling, was now rotted and shattered; and through its gaping apertures, and the fissures of the broken roof, the obstructed light of day was drearily peeping. The tall, ungainly, moving figure who had acted as janitor was now smoking by the fire — it was Hogan.
“Welcome home, Mr. Ryan,” said he at length, sulkily enough.
“An’ who is it’s with you? — aiah! be the laws— “ and with this broken ejaculation Mr. Hogan burst into a sudden and unpleasant fit of laughter.
“I’ve seen you somewhere,” said Sir Hugh, doubtfully. “No matther — no matther — nevermind,” said Hogan, stirring the ashes of his pipe, and grinning into the bowl of it all the while, “we’ll be good friends yet, please God; bar the door, Ned,” he continued, “it’s not a spy you are, is it?”
“This gentleman has come here at my request; he has pledged his honour to keep the secrecy of our hiding-place,” answered Ryan, “there’s nothing to fear from him.”
“I’m forced to wear this disguise,” said Ryan, with a shrug and a smile of bitterness; “we lead pretty much the life of the fox — hiding now, preying again, and seldom safe but when we are earthed. When Colonel O’Brien wakes, I shall hear, and then conduct you to his chamber; until then we must not disturb him — I have so promised.”
They sunk now into a gloomy silence, which was at last broken by Hogan, who took the pipe he had now finished from his mouth, and looking with a surly melancholy at the hearth, said on a sudden —
“I thought I heard the banshee last night, Eaman; I thought I heard her, sure enough, cryin’ through the graves an’ the ould buildings, as sweet an’ as beautiful as a colleen that ‘id be cryin’ after her lover, down in our own sweet Munster, where I wisht in my heart we wor both iv us now.”
There was something almost pathetic in the rough tones of Hogan as he said this, and in his face an ominous look of gloom and doubt, which, perhaps, impressed his companion unpleasantly.
“Come, come, Hogan,” he said, briskly, “what dismays you now; I never saw you cast down before?” and, after a pause, he broke into the Irish language.
Sir Hugh, who understood it, however, thoroughly, intimated as much; and with an angry growl, and an angrier glance, Hogan again sank for a time into sullen silence. At last he said again, relapsing into the same vein of gloomy association, which seemed to have fastened upon his fancy —
“I thought I heard her more than half the night-; I never heard sweeter. I remember the time, Eaman, that same cryin’ — through the graves there, in the night, so soft and dark — would have made me drop tears in plenty; but it is not that way it takes me now. Aiah, wisha! wisha! I’m misdoubtin’ there’s something wrong; there’s death in that cryin,’ Eaman — mind my words, there’s something in it — death in it, Eaman, for me or for you.”
At this moment, a careless step was heard upon the stone stair outside, and a knocking ensued at the door. Hogan and Ryan exchanged a quick, ominous glance, as they suddenly arose, and impressed silence upon their visiter by a peremptory gesture.
We must here glance for a moment at the cause of this interruption. As Sir Hugh, accompanied by his guide, entered the chamber, where they were now immured, and closed the door behind them — a rustling might have been observed in the rubbish of one of the roofless buildings, which stood in this melancholy quadrangle; and, after a moment, the wiry form and sinister face of our old acquaintance, Deveril, arose cautiously from among the loose piles of stones and tiles, and advancing with as little noise as possible to the window, he looked into the inclosure, and in all directions, before he even ventured to speak out —
“Well,” he exclaimed at last, with a chuckle, which had in it an indescribable mixture of exultation, villainy, and something very like fear— “well, who was right? we have found the form, and, egad, the hare’s sitting. Come, be lively; the plan’s your own as much as mine, so don’t turn tail now like a cur. Come, I say, what the devil ails you?”
This concluding interrogatory was delivered with much suppressed vehemence; for the countenance on which he looked bore an expression so very unlike what he had expected to find there, that the contrast almost startled him —
“What? are you afraid of brother Snap! what; will nothing but burnt brandy screw you up to the point?”
This encouragement was addressed, as the reader has no doubt perceived, to no less a person than our old acquaintance, Jeremiah Tisdal, who, somewhat more blotched, as well as somewhat less brawny than of yore, now rose slowly from the same well devised-post of observation, from which Deveril had only just emerged.
“I saw him,” answered Tisdal, with a look of terror and dislike; “I saw him, I tell you.”
“Who, man? — speak out,” retorted Deveril, in an impatient whisper. “One whom I fear to see more than the father of ill himself,” replied Tisdal, with a shudder.
“Puh man — you mean the old knight, Sir Hugh. Eh?” replied Deveril, sharply. “Why, roast me, but you’re turned out a regular old woman; curse you, this is no time to trifle. I wont be trifled with; stir yourself.”
“I’ll not go into the same room, or under the same roof with that old man,” said Tisdal, doggedly; “I have so much grace left.”
“Grace, indeed; why, you devil’s meat — but no matter; you had ever, while I can remember, the same dogged temper,” said Deveril, with something like disgust. “You had always a good thick pig’s-head of your own, so have your own way. Do you go for the men, then; bring them round quietly and quickly; and mind, as you hang fire, you must only pay for it. I take one-half; the rest goes among you and your pals.”
Deveril examined the flints and priming of his pistols, as also the charge, and then dropped one of them into each of his two heavy coatpockets, where they lay perfectly concealed; so that for any thing to the contrary appearing, he might have really been, as he desired to appear, a perfectly unarmed man.
“All right,” he said, with a pale and distorted smile. “Now go you, and do your part, such as it is; and I stake my life on’t, Ned Ryan’s head shall stick over the castle gate by tomorrow, and we fob the gold.”
“Enough — enough,” said Tisdal, with renewed alacrity. Get thee on, so soon as I have been gone for so long as may bring me to the place where they await us — I will not fail thee.”
With these words, Tisdal scrambled over the loose stones and rubbish, and pushed his unwieldly bulk through one of the narrow loopholes in the back wall, and so made his way through the rear, to the spot where a corporal and four men, at scarce a quarter of a mile distance, were awaiting his arrival.
Meanwhile, Deveril having suffered as long a time to elapse as he conceived to be prudent without taking any further step, at length rubbed
off so much of the dust and cobwebs he had contracted as were removable, and coming forth, shook the folds of his dress free of the creases impressed by his constrained attitude, then, with the usual cock in his hat, and whistling as he went in affected nonchalance, he mounted the stone steps, and knocked, as we have seen, at the door which had so recently closed upon Sir Hugh and the rapparee.
In obedience to the gestures of his two companions, Sir Hugh, whose situation was beginning to be anything but a pleasant one, observed a strict silence, while Hogan mounted a table, and looked cautiously forth from the little window. He beheld Deveril standing alone at the door, with his ear to the planks, and his mouth a-gape, obviously intent on hearing whatever might pass previously to his own admission. He also saw below his own shockheaded attendant, the boy whom we have mentioned elsewhere. This wild, elf-like creature shook his head with an expression of urgent menace, pointed to Deveril, unseen by that gentleman, then drew his finger significantly across his own throat, and in the next moment he had vanished. This intimation was not lost upon his patron. Hogan descended, leaving Deveril still in the same fixed attitude of attention, and from time to time renewing his summons at the door, while he whispered emphatically in Ryan’s ear the word— “Danger.”
“How many of them are there?” asked he, “But one,” answered he— “but one now.”
“Then let him in,” said Ryan, decisively. And forthwith the bars were removed, and Deveril entered.
“Friends — friends,” ejaculated Deveril, with an appearance of relieved anxiety— “friends, egad, and in common troubles. Here at least I am safe, if, that is, you will consent to harbour me, until I can either creep out of the town unobserved, or else change these tell-tale clothes.”
“Sit down by the fire — you call us friends — treat us like friends. Sit down, I say — sit by the fire,” said Ryan.
Deveril had not expected to find Hogan there; for he was, spite of all his efforts to appear at his ease, a little disconcerted and undecided for a few moments. It wore off, however, and he sat down in the place indicated, Hogan meanwhile watching, with an intense, though scarcely perceptible, vigilance, every movement of his, as a huge, hungry cat might those of a domesticated magpie. One look of significance, the faintest and quickest imaginable, the two raparees exchanged.
“Sir Hugh,” said Ryan, “come hither.” At the same time he beckoned him into an inner room.”
The knight complied. It was smaller and darker, and in every respect more comfortless than the other. The floor was covered with heavy flagging, and seizing a crowbar which lay ready among some straw, Ryan, raised one of the heaviest of these flags, and disclosed a flight of steps, such as in old churches lead down into the crypts.
“These lead to the vaults. When you reach the last step of hirty, turn to your right, and walk straight on, guided by the wall at your right hand, until you see light. You will there find better entertainment than here, and you will also discover him whom you desire to see. You are expected, and, therefore, need not fear for your safety. You must now waste no time, for we are about to have had work here. That soldier is a spy and a traitor.”
“’Twas ill managed to suffer that prying scoundrel to discover this place of concealment,” said Sir Hugh, who instinctively disliked the-ill-looking musketeer.
“Not so,” said Ryan, gloomily and hurriedly; “he’ll never tell that secret to living man — that’s settled; and now, Sir Hugh, get you down — trust me — you have trusted me already — your life has been in my hands since I met you in Saint Patrick’s — trust me now — and remember that whatever be my misfortunes, I cherish at least the honour of a gentleman.”
Nothing daunted, Sir Hugh began to descend the steep steps, and with a reverberation which echoed through unseen vaults, the massive stone at the orifice fell again into its place, leaving him to grope his way as best he might in utter darkness.
CHAPTER XLVIII.
THE PATIENT — THE TRAITOR’S FATE — THE MILLS OF GLINDARRAGH.
As Sir Hugh descended, the cold earth damps that lurked in those dismal regions gathered oppressively around him — the darkness was complete, and he heard, as he advanced, the rats scampering through unseen passages, and living things, he knew not what, flopping and floundering upon the wet pavement under his feet. Thus he pursued with extreme caution, and scarcely less anxiety than disgust, his dubious course — now actually treading upon one of the huge rats that swarmed there, with a tameness shocking enough in all conscience — now encountering with his outstretched hand a pile of rotten coffins, which came down at the touch, with a rattle and reverberation that startled the involuntary intruder. At last, however, his perplexities were ended by a gleam of fire light, shining through the crevices of a distant door, and with renewed confidence, and a quickened pace, he stepped onward to the place, and knocked hastily for admission.
“Who’s there?” asked a voice from within, suspending a low wild song in which it had been exercised.
“Sir Hugh Willoughby,” replied the knight, instinctively giving his name, although with small likelihood, as it seemed, of being recognized there; such, however, was not the case — on the contrary, the door was instantly unbarred, and Sir Hugh found himself in a stone chamber, furnished with a huge hearth, and indented with dozens of odd niches and nooks, quaint and unsymmetrieal, and which even widowed of the clocks and presses, and wine-bins, which doubtless had in old times lodged cosily within their embrace, had yet a certain comfortable irregularity of aspect, which prevented the chamber appearing quite so desolate as it might have done.
It was such a chamber, as alike from its revolting vicinity to death and decay, its incongruous air of ruined jollity and bygone comfort, and the circuitous and horrible nature of its approaches, might well have been the scene of some of those unclean and mysterious orgies which modern scandal hits referred to the age of monkish hypocrisy and crime.
Shutting the door, and barring it as before, the inmate of the chamber, who wore a tattered, military coat, motioned Sir Hugh to remain by the fire; and himself proceeded into another chamber, opening off that in which they stood. He returned almost instantly, and desiring Sir Hugh to follow, he led him into the room.
It was also vaulted like the former. A wretched, extempore bed, covered with a military cloak, supported the wounded form of Torlogh O’Brien — a solitary candle shed a dim, comfortless light over the dreary scene — and a dapper little gentleman, whose pursy face plainly enough expressed that he did not very well know which to be most affronted or frightened at his situation, sate upon a rough wooden stool by the bedside, holding the patient’s hand, and regarding his watch the while with a pugnacious leer from the corner of his eyes. There was in the punctilious adjustment, brand-new gloss, and accurate finish in every particular, of the little gentleman’s dress, a contrast to the dreary and sombre desolation and surrounding recklessness, which, under other circumstances, would have provoked Sir Hugh to smile.
As he entered, the patient turned his head, and showed the pale face and sunken eye of fever; he smiled, however, faintly, and would have striven to rise, but the little gentleman peremptorily prevented it — enjoined Sir Hugh to stand where he was, and observe silence; and then proceeded to demonstrate the danger which must attend the utterance of so much as a dozen words by the patient.
Spite, however, of all ne could do, the words were spoken, answered, and spoken again; and what was more, the patient, instead of dying, appeared much the better of the experiment. After a short time, however, it became apparent that he was really beginning to be exhausted; and Sir Hugh having withdrawn, Torlogh O’Brien sank, greatly to the physician’s edification, into a profound sleep.
The little man joined Sir Hugh in the large room, and sat down, in like manner, by the fire — the uncouth attendant shambling, in grim taciturnity, into the sick man’s chamber, there to keep watch while he slept.
*
Return we now to the two rapparees, whom we left in
the upper chamber of this dilapidated building, in familiar communion with the cool-headed musketeer, our old friend, Deveril, whose mission involves so much alike of danger and of hope, to himself.
Sullenly and silently the three companions sate in the ruinous and darksome chamber we have described. Again and again did Deveril, as the time wore on, and brought him every moment nearer to the critical point, which was to determine his own fate and that of the two men with whom he sat, wish himself, whether for good or ill, fairly out of suspense. The door was barred, as we have said, and Deveril began to eye its ponderous bolt with no small uneasiness.
“What,” he bethought him, “were the two desperadoes, whom he de signed to betray, to suspect his mission, ere his accomplices could force these barriers, and come to his succour!”
The thought, however, did not dismay him, for at every movement he felt the pressure of the heavy horse-pistols which swung in his pockets. These, at least, were a pair of friends, good at need, and whose honesty even he suspected not.
Delphi Complete Works of Sheridan Le Fanu Page 90
