Complete Works of Sheridan Le Fanu (Illustrated), page 55
She looked inquiringly in his face, for he had reined in his horse, and now sate motionless in his saddle, gazing upon her with a scowl of profound and, as it seemed, malignant thought.
“Peg Maher,” he continued, abruptly, after a pause of some seconds, “I’ll make that shilling a crown, if you do a message for me safely.”
“Begorra, it’s a far message, an’ a heavy one, the poor widdy would not carry for a crown piece, Misther Garrett, agra,” she rejoined, with alacrity; “an’ for safity, just lave that to myself — that’s all.”
Without heeding her, he muttered, thoughtfully, “it mustn’t be to Willoughby himself — the hotheaded old bully might frighten the hag into confessing whom she had it from — no, his right-hand man will answer better and turning to the old woman again, he said, in a changed tone, “you must tell old Tisdal, of Drumgunniol — observe my words, old woman — that his own house and Glindarragh castle will be rifled and burnt on tomorrow night, unless he and Willoughby gather their friends — you understand me — and defend themselves; just say so much, and no more. If you mention one word of your having seen or met with me, you had better make up your mind to quit the country, for I’ll undoubtedly make it too hot to hold you — do you understand me, witch?”
“An’ how could I but ondherstand you, darlin’ gentleman? — to be sure I do,” rejoined she; “never spake to Peg Maher, if I don’t carry the message right. That’s enough — honour bright, and no deludin’.”
Without further interchange of words, Miles Garrett flung the broad silver piece upon the road before her, and rode rapidly away. She picked up and examined the coin in the moonlight, and ringing her earnings together in her joined hands, she wagged her head exultingly, and, with a chuckle, muttered, as she watched the receding form of the horseman —
“A crown an’ a shilling, aisy aimed, by gannies, an’ for nothin else but mischief, as sure as my name’s Peg Maher; for wherever it lies, an’ whatever it mains, I know by his face, an’ I know by his nature, there’s mischief galore in Dark Garrett’s message. Let them fall out, the blacker the better; let them be plundherin’ an’ murdherin’ aich-other, an’ caed mille faltha; they robbed an’ slaughtered us long enough, an’ now, like the wild dogs, when there’s no more left for them to tear an’ devour, they only turn an one another.” She sat down on the bank by the road side, and continued, in a changed tone, “Oh! Shamus, mavourneen, did I ever forget you? — don’t think it, my darlin’, I’m your own Peggy still — your own Peggy bawn, that you married an’ loved — that was your young wife for two years, my darlin’. Did I ever lave you, Shamus, all the time you wor on your keepin’? — wasn’t Peggy beside you in the woods of Aherloe, ma bouchai dhas, an’ did’nt you sleep with your head in her lap on the side of Galty More — oh! cushla machree, an’ didn’t we dar’ the storms together, my darlin’? an’ the hunger and could, for Peggy was your first love an’ your last; an’ when they killed you — killed you, my beautiful, undaunted boy, didn’t Peggy — your own Peggy bawn — hould your head on her could knees for a day and a night, the way she used when you were sleepin’ in the wild glins an’ the mountains, Shamus laudher ma bohul bra, with no one but herself to guard you — antil the sinses left me, and the neighbours carried me, God knows where, away from my darlin — for, livin’ or dead, I’d cling to you, Shamus; and afther your head was laid in the clay — then, when our first child was born, the poor innocent — oil! wasn’t my heart hoping I might die in the pains? that I might be with my darlin’ again. Oh! Shamus, my husband! — my darlin’ thrue-hearted boy! sure I’m thinkin’ of you every minute that goes, an’ promisin’ an’ prayin’, my bouchai bragh, that the time will come round yet, when I’ll see your murdherers hunted an’ harried from the hills to the woods, an’ from the woods to the glins, an’ back again — with no shelter from the winter’s wind but the mountain carrigs an’ the brakes by the bog side; it’s comin’ yet — it’s comin’ — I see it comin’!”
She rose hastily, and climbed to the top of the bushy bank which overlooked the road, and as suddenly resuming her wonted accents of harsh and querulous discord, she shrilly called —
“Shaun — Shaun, you big omadhaun, will I never make you folly me. Shaun dhas, will you come, I tell you, or, by gannies, I’ll lay this switch across your back.”
CHAPTER VIII.
OF PHEBE TISDAL AND HER PURITAN UNCLE — OF THE RUINED ABBEY OF GLINDARRAGH, AND OF THOSE WHO WALKED AMONG ITS GRAVES BY MOONLIGHT.
MEANWHILE, Percy Neville, being left to his own devices, donned his hat and gloves once more, and prompted by the curiosity of idleness, loitered forth into the castle yard, and thence through the high-arched, frowning gateway, into the steep road descending toward the old bridge which his fair cousin had so lately traversed. He turned, however, in the opposite direction, and mounting the high grounds which overhung this abrupt declivity, he soon commanded the broad, bold prospect which spread away for many a mile of wood and pasture and heathy bog, in one vast undulating plain, even to the feet of the far-off dim blue hills.
He looked round on this wide landscape with all its softened shadows and sunset glories expanding beneath and around him, and felt the freshening breeze which swept its broad extent, and heard the wild and varied harmony of nature and all the pleasant sounds of rural life. The lowing of kine and the distant singing of maidens floated upward, mingling with the many voices of the river and the hushed melody of the wind, to his rejoicing ear. Shrill, but softly, harped the gray branches of the aged ash, and freshly rustled the thick ivy on the tower walls, in the exulting breeze. The innocent whistlings of the small birds, and the kindly cawings of the soaring crow winging to his far-off retreats in the shadowy wild wood — all filled his senses with unknown delight as he rambled onward, until at last, crossing a low and broken fence, he found himself in the great old orchard, whose overgrown and hoary apple-trees rivalled the monarchs of the forest in size — some half decayed, some by storm or leven blast reft of their lordliest boughs, but all gigantic and picturesque. The sloping ground over which they spread was drawn into furrowed undulations by the rugged gripe of the spreading mossgrown roots, and darkened by the tangled boughs of the ancient fruit-trees, through whose gray and furrowed trunks the ruddy light was solemnly streaming.
The transition from the feelings which we have just attempted to describe, to melancholy, is easy and frequent; and Percy Neville, albeit unused to the melting mood, did feel his heart touched with somewhat of the softness and the sadness of more sensitive and passionate natures, as he rambled onward through the natural cloisters of these huge old trees — a temperament which predisposed him, perchance, to impressions of a sweet and earnest kind, as passing a low mound, which had once divided the extensive orchard into two distinct and independent inclosures, but was now no more than a gentle grassy bank, furrowed, unequal, and clothed in many places with straggling branches, he beheld the scene which we shall now describe.
As he ascended this bank, he heard at the other side, the prattle of voices, and, on looking over, he beheld two or three country girls milking a group of cows, and, farther among the trees, several tattered urchins driving more kine upward, toward the party already gathered there. A group more peaceful, rural, and harmonizing better with his present tone of feeling, could hardly have been presented, yet his eye rested upon it but for a moment. A form, simple and homely in all the accidents of dress and ornament, but, as it seemed to him, surpassing in grace and loveliness all that he had ever yet beheld, stood close before him, and a little aloof from the rest — it was the figure of a maiden — very young she seemed — perhaps seventeen years had passed over her, but no more; her small classic head was quite uncovered; her hair was dark, dark brown, and soft and glossy as the finest silk — its rich folds gathered at the back by a small golden bodkin, and parting in front over her artless and beautiful forehead. Hers was a countenance, once seen to be long remembered — not so much, perchance, for the exquisite symmetry of its features, peerless as they were — nor for the dark, melancholy eyes, which, full of beautiful expression, looked from beneath the shadow of her long lashes in such deep, soft eloquence — as for the matchless and ineffable grace and sadness that pervaded every look of that pale and lovely face; a saddened radiance from the innocent, deep, warm heart dwelt in its pale beauty; in its loveliness, trembled the loveliness of her own guileless affections, and, smiling or pensive, in every change of her sensitive face — and they were ever varying, as the gently sparkling dimples of some shadowy, wild well — there spoke the same deep, tender loveliness — the same touching harmony of beauty and expression, which moved the heart with pity, joy, and melancholy — softly, as might the thrilling strain of some sweet, old song. The grace and elegance of her form accorded meetly with the beauty of her face: tall, slight, and exquisitely symmetrical — a gracious gentleness and modesty, a simple dignity and ease moved in her every action, and made every gesture and attitude beautiful. She wore a red cloak of finer cloth than that employed by the peasant girls in theirs; and one of her small and slender feet, enclosed in a high shoe, buckled across the instep, was shewn a little in advance of the drapery of her mantle, as she stood listening to the melody which one of the girls was singing while she plied her task.
“Beautiful — beautiful creature!” said Percy Neville, as he gazed upon this unexpected apparition.
He was not, however, long an undetected spectator of this simple group. His presence was quickly perceived, and the song and the laughing gossip were hushed, while all eyes were turned wonderingly upon him. Merrily be descended the grassy bank, and with gay good humour dissipated the momentary constraint which his approach had obviously produced; and so, ere a minute had well elapsed, the merry voices and merrier laughter were mingling pleasantly as before. Goodhumouredly he complied with the laughing solicitation of a buxom, barefoot girl, and from the “noggin” she presented, tasted the warm new milk, and then with provoking special pleading, affected to resist the unanimous decision, that he must pay his footing; which at last he did, however, and with a liberality which raised him at once to the pinnacle of popularity.
But while all this was passing, the object which alone had interested him, the beautiful girl, ere he had yet exchanged one word with her, while for a moment his eyes were turned another way, had withdrawn — was gone. He looked round in the pettishness of disappointment, and mentally wishing the whole party — we need not say where — he climbed the green bushy bank again, and saw a little before him, greatly to his comfort, the retreating form of the graceful girl in the cloak, as she pursued the path toward the castle, among the knotted branching roots and lichen-covered trunks of the old trees, through whose devious arcades the dusky golden light was streaming. In a moment he was at her side.
“Pretty maiden,” said he, with something at once of gaiety and respect, “are you going to Glindarragh Castle?”
“I am, sir,” she answered gently.
“And so am I,” he continued gaily, “and with your permission I shall walk beside you — that is, if you have no objection,” he hesitatingly added.
She looked surprised, then slightly blushed, and with a gentle smile which showed a little even row of pearly teeth, she said, with a beautiful embarrassment and simplicity —
“Oh no, sir, I’m sure I couldn’t; you’re very welcome, sir, to go with me.”
“Many thanks and true ones, my fair maiden, for saying so,” he replied. “And what may your business be in that dismal old place, and so near the nightfall too? — are you not afraid to walk alone at dusk among these lonely places?”
“No, sir,” she answered, with a melancholy smile— “no harm ever happened me, and I’m not afraid; I am going up to the castle, to the young lady; she is very good, sir — oh, very good; she was always kind to me, and likes me to be with her.”
“And where does your father live?” inquired he, with increasing interest.
“My father is dead, sir,” she answered, with melancholy gentleness.
“And your mother,” he added, in a softer tone.
‘She is dead, sir; I have no mother, and no father,” she answered, mournfully.
“An orphan, so young, so very beautiful!” he thought, as he looked with a deep emotion of pity upon the girl.
“And have you no brothers or sisters?” he inquired.
“No, sir; I never had brother or sister; my mother died when I was a little child, and my father soon after. I scarce remember them,” answered she, encouraged by the obvious interest with which her replies were listened to. “This is the way, sir,” she continued, as she turned the key in a little wicket which opened from the orchard into the garden of which we have already spoken.
Entering its shadowy hedges with a sigh, Percy Neville continued —
“And you, pretty maiden, what may be your name?”
“Phebe, sir, Phebe Tisdal,” she answered modestly.
“And have you no kindred, my pretty Phebe — no relations to take care of you, and to love you?”
“I have an uncle, sir. I live with him at Drumgunniol, where I was born,” she answered.
“Well, my pretty Phebe,” said he, as they reached the little sally port, which gave admission from the garden to the castle yard, “I hope I shall often see you while I remain here, and if ever the time shall come when you need a friend, remember Percy Neville.”
The young man spoke, perhaps, with a deeper earnestness than he intended, and the girl looked up in his face, with an expression of wonder in her deep, soft, dark gray eyes, and encountering his bold gaze of admiration, she lowered them again with a heightened colour, and an expression at once of pain and sadness. Their tete-a-tete was now ended, and we shall leave them for a time to turn to that quaint dwelling-house of Drumgunniol, of which the beautiful Phebe Tisdal has just spoken in her own sad silvery accents.
On the same day, at the same sunset hour, a short, bow-legged, square-built man, appearing some years in advance of three score, with a large, deeply furrowed, and somewhat pimply face, a massive nose of glowing purple, two small, gray, squinting eyes, and a countenance expressive, in no ordinary degree, of gloom, determination, and ferocity, passed forth into the open country, having carefully latched the gate which gave admission to his narrow farmyard, compassed by a high wall and strong stone-built offices on three sides, and closed upon the fourth by a tall, narrow, and massively constructed stone dwelling-house of three stories high, with chimney-stacks as ponderous as watchtowers, rising at each gable, and flanking, with clumsy but comfortable shelter, the steep, gray, flagged roof of his snug and well-built tenement.
He was dressed in grave-coloured habiliments, somewhat coarse and very rusty, and wore a short black cloak and high-crowned hat, with a very plain and narrow rim of shirt collar, lying flat upon the neck of his doublet. In his broad and muscular hand, which might more meetly have grasped a halberd or a musquetoon, he carried a crutch-handled cane; and as he pursued his way, his pace was firm and deliberate — nay, even pompous — though the masculine and sinister character of his somewhat bloated visage, which carried upon it the legible traces of early intemperance, as well as of constitutional daring and sternness, in a very striking and unpleasant degree, effectually qualified any tendency to ridicule, which his consequential gait, and square and ungainly form, as well as his peculiar garb, might else have inspired.
Closing the wicket carefully behind him, as we have said, this figure pursued the winding footpath which led through the then wooded fields toward the bridge and castle of Glindarragh, which lay somewhere about the long half of an Irish mile away. Ungladdened even for a moment by the rich expanse of sunset scenery which spread before him, the eye of this morose and gloomy man rested, for the most part, upon the ground, as if in sullen contempt of the beauties with which smiling nature greeted his advance — or occasionally darted a quick and jealous glance at either side, as the capricious track which he pursued led him suddenly among closer brushwood, or into the lap of some gentle hollow; until at last the lonely and shattered ruins of Glindarragh Abbey rose close before him; its roofless gables and tall stone-shafted windows, and gray ivied walls, ascending from among the fern and nettles, and spreading their long shadows over the sward, showed additionally mournful and solemn in the dim glow of evening, whose level radiance gilded the grass-grown summit of many an humble mound, and turned its gray headstone to dusky red, and shone and glittered, flashing and glowing like warm fire upon the burnished leaves of the rustling ivy.
As the old man approached these timeworn walls, through which his path wound its devious way, there arose in his imagination sundry conjectures, in which, from congenial association long grown into inveterate habit; he pleasantly indulged as often as he found himself beneath its melancholy shadow. How much of hoarded gold, of ancient plate, of jewelled reliques, might lie deep and dark under the foundations of that deserted pile, hidden in the season of danger, and deposited by its long-exiled and scattered owners, secure in leaden chests, and deep in the yellow mould, there to rest untroubled by bar or mattock, until time shall be no more.
Such speculations, though woven of the flimsiest dreams of fancy, had yet an interest, keen and absorbing, for the sombre being who trod the old ruin, and often would he ponder and pause, as he pursued his lonely way, to calculate in what spot the crafty caution of the old monks would most securely, and with least suspicion, have secreted the buried treasure. Such pleasant, though somewhat tantalizing visions, had now again filled his mind, as Jeremiah Tisdal, the puritan proprietor of the grange of Drumgunniol, found himself once more among the silent arches of this ancient building. Slackening his pace to indulge still further these intoxicating ruminations, which stole over his senses like the enchantment of opium, Tisdal looked wistfully, now through some gap in the ruined walls, now into the low arched doorway of some narrow chamber, the use of which, unless for some such purpose as the mysterious one with which his thoughts were busy, he could not divine; now peering through some tall ivy-wreathed window, and again under some dark and low-browed vault; and while he thus amused himself, still though lciteringly advancing upon his course toward Glindarragh bridge his attention was arrested, in a sudden, and by him a most unwished-for manner, by the apparition of a human form.
