As his eye wandered listlessly among the crowd, his gaze was arrested by a face and form with which he was familiar; it was that of Mile3 Garrett, who had just entered the room in company with a square-built man in black, with a mantle of the same hue, folded in the Spanish fashion, the skirt being thrown over his shoulder, and muffling his face nearly to the eyes; he wore a black slouching hat, and making a signal to the host, he walked with him a little apart, and without removing the muffling from his face, spoke a few words in his ear: these appeared to be deferentially received, for the stout figure in black beckoned to Garrett, who instantly joined them, and preceded by the respectful innkeeper, they passed in silence through a room communicating with the private apartments of the hostlery. With the reader’s permission, we shall follow them up a broad oak stair, along a gallery, through a sombre passage opening upon a large, bleak, old chamber, and through it into another; here the party stopped — the host placed the solitary candle which he carried, upon a table; its insufficient light illuminated the faded figures in the tapestry with an uncertain flicker, and left the recesses and corners of the chamber but half defined; the large hearth was fire, less, and for aught appearing to the contrary, might have been so for half a century before — and the whole room partook of a character cheerless and spectral enough to -have made a fanciful man feel rather queer: the two guests, however, who had just entered, did not appear to belong to this class; and in answer to their entertainer’s deferential inquiry whether he should bring them a pair of candles, and have a fire lighted the stranger in black peremptorily answered “neither!” and then, as he drew his gauntlet-shaped gloves from his hands, and tossed them upon the table, he added in a tone as summary —
“We must be private for a quarter of an hour; on no pretence disturb us; this pays you, and so begone!”
As he concluded, he laid a guinea upon the table with an emphatic pressure; the host pocketed the coin, bowed, and withdrew.
“Garrett!” he continued, as soon as the door had been closed for some seconds, “look out on the passage, and see that all is clear.” Miles Garrett obeyed the mandate in obsequious silence, and as he did so, the stranger threw his cloak upon a chair, and displayed the form of a powerfully built man, with square shoulders, short neck, and a face, upon whose swarthy breadth was impressed the stamp of masculine intellect and passion, with a certain character of sensuality besides, presenting on the whole such a countenance as irresistibly arrests the attention and impresses the memory; this was the very individual whom Sir Hugh had that day pointed out to his daughter as the “lay priest,” and brother to the Earl of Tyrconnell, while the procession was passing beneath the windows of the Carbrie; let us add too, that this is the identical person whom we described in the earliest chapter of this book as leaning over a certain map, in company with Miles Garrett, upon a soft summer’s night in the year 1686, in a rich saloon in London. On a very different night, thus three years later, have these two persons met — in a grim, old, dusty inn-chamber, in Dublin city. He sat down, and resting his elbows upon the table, leaned his chin upon his folded hands, while for a few moments he maintained a thoughtful silence.
CHAPTER XXI.
THE CONFERENCE — THE BACK-LANE — THE RING.
“WELL,” said he at last, throwing himself back in his chair, and tapping his knuckles sharply upon the table, “begin, despatch.”
Miles Garrett removed his hat as he took his seat opposite his companion, and with instinctive jealousy, glanced round the room, ere he commenced —
“You remember the property?” he inquired.
“Yes, proceed,” answered Talbot.
“And — and the man?” hesitated Garrett.
“Yes, we have reason — go on,” he replied.
“Well, then,” resumed his companion, “he has run his neck fairly into the noose at last.”
“How so?” asked Talbot.
“He is arrested under a warrant for high treason,” replied the magistrate.
“Ay, indeed!” exclaimed Talbot, “come, this looks like business. Well, then, and what’s your case, for I assume its of your making; can you prove it?”
“Ye-es, yes; I think we can,” said Garrett, “a great deal of course will depend on the judge — and they have some troublesome witnesses.”
“Who are they?” asked Talbot, quickly.
“One is a fellow named Tisdal — a dogged, ill-conditioned fellow, with honesty enough to spoil any body’s schemes but his own,” replied Garrett.
“A servant, or dependant?” inquired Talbot.
“No; unfortunately under no direct obligation to Sir Hugh — a sort of independent, humble, friend,” answered he.
“Well, what can he prove?” persisted the other.
“You must understand, in the first place,” replied Garrett, “that this is a case like Brown’s, which, no doubt, you have heard of.”
Talbot nodded, and his companion pursued.
“Sir Hugh fancies his house is to be attacked, and forms his friends into a sort of volunteer militia. A Mr. Hogan, with his servants, demands admission under a search-warrant, to look for some cattle he has lost. He is refused; the result is bloodshed — in short, a regular battle, and some dozens are slain; now this whig rascal, Tisdal, will give evidence, that Sir Hugh acted purely in self-defence; that the mob burned the witness’s house, and nearly hanged himself, although he took no part in the defence of Sir Hugh’s dwelling.”
“And the other witness, who is he?” urged Talbot, impatiently.
“Colonel Torlogh O’Brien, who came up during the fray, dispersed the assailants, and afterwards shot one of the rapparees — (for, between ourselves, they were little better) that was taken close by,” answered the magistrate.
“What kind of man is he?”
“A proud, impracticable, unmanageable fellow,” replied Garrett “Then its a bungled business — botched, that’s all,” said Talbot contemptuously, as he threw himself back in his chair, folded his arms, and looked with a coarse sneer in the face of his companion.
“Its a better crown case than Brown’s indictment, as it stands,” said Garrett, sturdily.
“Ay — that’s the way you d —— d Irish fellows, that live at the back of your bogs and mountains, prate of such matters,” retorted Talbot, with coarse contempt. “Brown’s case, indeed! why that has made noise enough, and too much, already. The king has a party in England as well as here, and he can’t afford to lose them, that you may gain an estate.”
A long silence followed, broken only by the impatient tapping of Talbot’s foot upon the floor.
“What’s his title? A grant from Cromwell — eh?” he inquired abruptly, after a pause of more than a minute.
“No, a grant from the old queen,” replied Garrett, shaking his head gloomily.
“Then the act of settlement does not touch it — curs’d unlucky!” muttered Talbot, with the vehemence of disappointment. “He is summoned before the privy council,” he resumed, after another brief pause.
“Yes; I delivered the summons myself,” replied Garrett.
“And the warrant too?” continued Talbot.
“Yes, both at the same time,” continued his companion.
“More bungling! — more botching!” said Talbot, bitterly.
“What good in having him before the council, with an indictment over his head — why he’ll not cut his own throat. What in the devil’s name can you hope to make of him? Bah! one of your cow-boys would have made a better job of it.”
“Well, sir,” said Garrett, drawing himself up indignantly, “am I to understand that you give the matter up? If so, speak out, and there’s an end of it.”
The “lay priest” remained silent and thoughtful; at length he arose and walked to the window, where he paused for a time, looking forth into the utter darkness with an aspect almost as black. Miles Garrett, doubtful of the effects of his sudden show of independence, watched his movements from the corner of his eye, with a cov
ert glance of intense and absorbing interest, which became more uneasy in proportion as the silence was protracted, at length he said: —
“I don’t know what your secret reasons for despairing of success may be, but looking at the case itself, and no further, I think there is, on the contrary, every cause for confidence. Sir Hugh Willoughby, like the rest of Ms religion, is, in heart, a rebel and nothing better, every body knows it, though few may have it in their power to prove it. A jury of loyal men will, therefore, be little disposed to let him ride off upon a legal crotchet, a loyal judge will be little disposed to— “
“Tut, tut, man, I know all that,” interrupted Talbot, turning abruptly, and walking again to the table, at which Miles Garrett continued to sit; “a conviction, I dare say, may be had: the question is, will the king’s advisers, for reasons of state policy, recommend the Crown to abandon this prosecution — that is the question.”
“What are those papers beside you?” he resumed, abruptly, after a pause.
“Some notes, hastily thrown together,” said Garrett, “which may help to guide those who shall examine him at council, as well as to determine whether this is not a case demanding a prosecution.”
As he spoke, he handed the papers to his companion, who glanced through their contents, and, having occupied some minutes in this employment, he observed: —
“You have drawn this statement well enough; I’ll take it with me.”
“And — and you remember,” said Garrett, hesitatingly.
He stopped, however, ere he concluded the sentence; and taking the candle, he looked jealously out upon the anti-chamber once more, then cautiously closing the door, he came back, seated himself, and leaning forward, so as to make himself distinctly heard without raising his voice above a whisper, he continued, with a shrewd and anxious look: —
“You remember, I presume, the terms on which we act together in this business?”
“Remember! yes, of course, distinctly. Why you don’t suppose I have lost your undertaking, and the parchment? Of course I remember,” replied Talbot, sternly.
“You also recollect,” continued Garrett, averting his eyes, and speaking in the same cautious whisper, “the precise relation in which I happen to stand with regard to his Excellency, your brother, you remember the — the peculiar circumstances— “
“Yes, well,” said Talbot, with contemptuous emphasis; and then he added, in a careless tone, “leave all that to me, Mr. Garrett, I know and remember all the circumstances well, and shall turn my knowledge to account, leave that to me.”
“Where may I see you tomorrow?” asked Garrett.
“I shall make no appointment now, in the morning you shall hear from me, we have been but too long together in this place already. Rest content, I shall urge the matter this night; take the candle, if you please, and lead the way.”
With this unceremonious direction, he pressed his broadleafed hat again over his brows, readjusted his cloak as before, and followed his gaunt companion through the dreary succession of chambers and passages, which we have already traced in their company, and so in grim silence down the broad darksome staircase, with its ponderous balustrades of worm-eaten timber.
Jeremiah Tisdal meanwhile continued to smoke his pipe of tobacco in sour and solemn taciturnity, and a full hour elapsed ere he called for his reckoning, and prepared to depart. As the innkeeper received the shot and assisted Tisdal to adjust his cloak, he addressed him in a cautious tone: —
“Sir,” he said, “from your dress, I take it, you are from the north country, and if you be a Whig I counsel you to avoid the crowd before the door; if my guess be a right one, and that you know best, follow me and I will let you forth by a private way.”
Tisdal gruffly nodded his assent to the proposal, and his host led the way through several chambers and corridors, and at last undid a rusty bar, opened a narrow door and pointing into the dark, drew back, and suffered Tisdal to pass forth. He did so, and in the dark stumbled down two steep steps, and found himself in a narrow lane, totally unlighted save by the dusky gleam from an occasional window high in the dark old walls. As Tisdal stumbled on, the innkeeper, stooping forward through the door, whistled shrilly, and then precipitately closed it again. This signal awakened the suspicions of the Puritan, but the grating sound of the rusty bolt returning to its socket, reminded him that he had now no course but to proceed.
“A pretty place to cut a Protestant throat in,” muttered he, as he looked with a scowl into the impenetrable gloom, and then up into the dim glare of the distant casements, while at the same time he pressed down his hat and braced himself, in the instinctive anticipation of a coming struggle.
He was about to proceed when a chance light, gleaming through a lower window, illuminated a patch of the opposite wall, within a few yards of the spot where he then stood. In the full light of this sudden gleam he was a little startled to see a human form — it was that of the young, pale faced man in black, whose persevering scrutiny in the inn-room had some time since so much disconcerted him. He was standing near the wall, leaning upon a cane, and slightly inclined forward in the attitude of one who attentively listens.
“I would stake my life on it,” muttered Tisdal, “that same lean fellow in black is watching for me. I don’t know what to make of him — he does not look like a thief, nor altogether like a madman. I’ll accost him, whatever he be and in pursuance of this resolution he exclaimed— “You’re observed, sir, whatever be your purpose, if it be honest you will scarce refuse to lead the way out of this dark alley, and oblige a stranger who knows it not; but if otherwise,” he added more sternly, and after a pause, observing that the figure seemed no otherwise affected by this address than in so far as he altered his attitude to one of perfect perpendicularity, and advanced a step or two toward the speaker— “if otherwise I warn you to think twice ere you run yourself into danger, I am prepared and resolved.”
“I carry no weapon, sir, and mean you no hurt,” replied the stranger, in a gentle tone. “I have expected you here for the better part of an hour.”
“It was preconcerted then between you and the landlord that I should leave his house this way?” said Tisdal, with surprise, still qualified with suspicion.
“Yes,” replied the other, calmly; “I wish to speak a few words with you, and cared not to be remarked; your name is Tisdal — Jeremiah Tisdal?”
“Well — and what then?” urged the master of Druingunniol, with renewed surprise.
“I know the purpose of your visit to this city,” pursued the young man, in the same gentle tone. “You have accompanied Sir Hugh Willoughby and his daughter.”
“And if you know all about me, what need to question me?” said Tisdal, gruffly.
“I desire to know where Sir Hugh lodges — I ask no more than that you should convey me to his presence. It nearly concerns his safety that I should see him,” replied the gentleman in black, with tranquil earnestness. As they thus spoke they were, side by side, slowly pursuing their way — the stranger a little in advance — through the dark and winding lane.
“You know Sir Hugh Willoughby?” asked Tisdal, sharply.
“No,” answered the young man, quietly.
“Your request is then, to say the least of it, a strange one,” observed the puritan. “What can I tell of you or your designs; you may mean well, or you may mean mischief; ’tis easier to work harm than good; and he that would escape the serpent’s bite, now-a-days, must exercise the serpent’s wisdom.”
“You are suspicious — unreasonably suspicious, Mr. Tisdal,” answered the young man, in a melancholy tone; yet I can scarcely blame you, nor have I any right to resent your injurious doubts. Bethink you, however, and say, were I an enemy of Sir Hugh’s, and sought his ruin, could I not ascertain with ease, from other enemies, where he is now lodged. I need not seek this knowledge from his friends, least of all need I seek thus secretly a private interview. You wrong me, Mr. Tisdal.”
“Well then, what do you purp
ose — what have you to disclose?” pursued the elder man.
“For my purpose,” said his companion, “it is to place Sir Hugh upon his guard; for the disclosures I may make, you must pardon me when I say, they are for Sir Hugh Willoughby’s ear, and for no other.”
They had now nearly reached the end of the narrow lane, and the lights and the noise of the open street were close at hand, the young man stopped short, and said with gravity, —
Complete Works of Sheridan Le Fanu (Illustrated) Page 69
