Complete Works of Sheridan Le Fanu (Illustrated), page 78
With a flushed and stormy countenance, Miles Garrett was just
“Your wig and your hat’s comin’ afther you, with the sarvints, I suppose?” suggested a third.
“Oh, but’s himself that’s butthered all over,” ejaculated a fourth.
“He’s the sign of the ‘Black Swan’ all over, bedad.”
These, and a thousand other pleasantries, enlivened his efforts to mount the bank, which, at last, he did, half blind with his bath, and giddy with rage.
Meanwhile, having just glanced after his discomfited antagonist, and flung his broken cane after him, without waiting to see the issue of the adventure, Torlogh O’Brien descended the steps which Garrett had so lately mounted; and readjusting the disorder of his dress as he proceeded, he made his way directly to the Birmingham tower, where, as we have said, Sir Hugh Willoughby was confined.
With little difficulty or delay, he gained admission to the tower. With feelings strangely agitated and conflicting, he silently ascended the steep dark stairs. The hoarse lock screamed — the bars groaned and clanged — the door rolled open, and Torlogh O’Brien stood before Sir Hugh Willoughby. When the brave young soldier looked upon the old man, whom, spite of the untoward circumstances which made their fortunes, as it seemed, irreconcileably opposed, he could not help liking and admiring — when he beheld him thus rigorously a prisoner — when he saw the irons on his limbs, pity and indignation thrilled him; and a rush, almost of tenderness, on a sudden overpowered his softened heart.
For the first time in his life, he grasped the old man’s hands, and wrung them again and again in the warm pressure of unrestrained and generous feeling.
“Sir Hugh — Sir Hugh,” he cried; “I did not look to find you thus; you are wronged — you are greatly wronged.’Fore heaven this must be righted; you shall not lose your life — you shall not perish; there shall be no cruelty, no sacrifice, no judicial murder. Great God! this is a crying sin — a shame, a burning shame; my heart swells at the sight of these irons.”
“My good friend,” said Sir Hugh, returning his grasp as warmly— “for friend I may, and will call you — grieve not for this — it cannot be mended now; and when all’s done, ’tis but a few years, at most, taken from the end of an old — a very old life; although— “
He was going to have added somewhat, but he sighed bitterly, and became silent.
“No, no, no — it shall not be,” cried Torlogh, passionately; “there has been foul play here; the king shall hear of it — you shall have justice — you shall not be wronged — you shall not be murdered; I will lose my life first. Let us think of all means — let us try everything; something must be done, one way or another. You shall be saved, cost what it may — you shall not die.”
He” turned and looked upon the young lady with a gaze of undisguised pity and admiration; and was there not — or was it fancy in its quenched and melancholy fires, something of a deeper, and still tenderer passion? It seemed as though he was upon the very point of speaking, but some secret influence sealed his lips.
“My poor child has prayed me to suffer her to speak with the king for me,” said Sir Hugh, looking upon her with a faint smile of fondness and melancholy.
“It is wisely thought, Sir Hugh; she may succeed; at least, it is worth a trial,” said Torlogh, earnestly.
“You hear what he says, dear father,” said she, with joyful confidence; “let me go and speak with the king; and God may give me words and wisdom to prevail.”
So speaking, she rose up with a bright eye, and a pale and solemn face.
“Nay,” said Sir Hugh, dejectedly; “it were but a vain endeavour. The spirit in which I have been pursued has been that of uncompromising severity; I have no friends near the king — but, as I have too much reason to believe, many malignant, though, God knows, most unprovoked enemies. What chance, therefore, has this poor child of moving the king’s purpose, and softening resolutions so stern and inflexible?”
“Let it be tried, however,” urged Torlogh.
“It were but to show a cowardly love of life, ill befitting an old man and a brave one,” responded Sir Hugh; “it were but adding needless humiliation and shame, to misfortunes ‘which have brought me low enough already.”
“Yet, suffer the young lady to make the attempt,” pursued Tarlogh; “I implore of you — I conjure you to permit her.”
The old man heaved a heavy sigh, and answered not.
“Suffer her to go, Sir Hugh; it may be that the wisdom and the mercy of heaven have inspired this thought; oppose it not,” continued Torlogh; “and I, if the prayer be not too bold a one — I will entreat, in all humbleness, of the lady, to allow me to attend her steps, and render whatever service my poor ability can offer. Command me to the uttermost — I shall be but too happy, too proud to obey.”
The lady lowered her lustrous eyes, and a faint tinge warmed her pale cheek. With a beautiful struggle of embarrassment and gratification, she murmured her low sweet thanks for his fervent proffers “This is about the hour,” continued Torlogh, “when the king usually walks in the Castle garden; if it seem well to you, let the attempt be made now. I will endeavour to procure admission for you, and you will then see his majesty face to face, without fear of interruption, and free to listen to your supplication. Let us then, if it be your pleasure, go at once; and, in God’s name, try whether you can now prevail with him.”
“You will meet but a cold hearing and a stern judge, my poor Grace,” said her father, slowly shaking his head; “nevertheless, as you desire it still, in God’s name, as you say, so be it, go and try. Here,” he added, as he selected a paper from among several which lay upon the rude table beside him; “here, my poor child, is the paper — place it in the king’s hand, as you desire; but I warn you, be not sanguine — for, calmly viewed, the project is indeed but a hopeless one.”
With a countenance, in which hope contended with awe, the pale girl calmly arose, and did on her simple cloak and hood in silence; then kissing her father fondly and sadly, with a lofty, and serene, and mournful mien, she passed from the chamber, followed closely by Torlogh O’Brien. The official outside the door closed it with a heavy swing, and Grace was now fairly committed to her agitating enterprize.
CHAPTER XXXI.
KING JAMES IN THE CASTLE GARDEN.
CLOSE under the further curtain of the Castle, lay the formal garden, in which it was King James’ wont, during his anxious sojourn in his Irish capital, to take the air, for at least an hour every day.
Across the quadrangle of the old Castle, did Torlogh O’Brien, with his plumed hat in his hand, respectfully conduct the beautiful and silent lady. He led the way into the doorway of a small round tower, one of two which occupied the wall between the Birmingham and the Wardrobe towers. A sour-looking hag of some seventy winters, seated upon a stool in a far recess, was at first scarcely visible in the imperfect light of the stone-vaulted chamber, as she busily plied her distaff, and chanted with an ill-omened croak, from time to time, a snatch of some old Milesian ballad. As the two youthful visitants entered this grim and darksome abode, the crone raised her shrivelled yellow arm, and with her smoke-dried fingers, swept back the straggling long white locks, peering at them with an expression which was anything but inviting.
“Is Nial in the tower, good dame?” asked Torlogh.
“Is Nial in the tower?” she repeated aecoerately, to allow herself full time to reconnoitre; “no he isn’t — sure he’s never where he ought to be — the sturk, and why ud he be here? Nial, indeed! — aye — aye! if its Nial you want, you better go down the back lanes, an hunt through the shebeen shops, for its little his ould mother sees iv him.”
The latter part of this harangue was delivered in the way of a discontented soliloquy, and sunk into an inarticulate grumble at the close — and so she pursued her task, as though she had wholly forgotten their presence.
“Well, honest dame,” said Torlogh, endeavouring, by a gentle address, to conciliate the wayward hag— “though Nial is not at home, I dare say the keys are, and if so, you will do us a great kindness by allowing us to pass into the garden.”
“Into the garden, is it? Why then, an’ id nothing else sarve you but into the garden itself,” she ejaculated, with all the arrogance of office, as she surveyed them both with a half contemptuous leer. “Why then, yez id look well, an’ the king himself, God bless him, there this minute; maybe its to walk with himself yez want — well, but that’s impitence, in airnest.”
“Nay, madam — we may desire to see the king, and even to speak with him, and yet be guilty of no audacity,” said Torlogh, half amused, in spite of his anxiety, at the old woman’s official insolence; “and even such is the truth — this young lady has a message of life and death to deliver to his majesty. Ipray you do us so much kindness as to turn the key in the lock, and suffer us to enter. I will bear you harmless against all consequences — and,” he added, stooping over her, and placing a gold piece in her hand as he spoke, “and reward you for your pains.”
“Well, well acuslila, stop a bit,” said she, in a softened tone, as she deposited the coin in her withered breast; “ax me whatever you plase, an’ I’ll not refuse you anything in raison, barrin’ letting you into the garden, for that’s a thing I wouldn’t do for the holy Saint Ghost, let alone a sinful young dhragoon like yourself; take a pinch iv the snishin, an’ ax anything but that alone.”
She extended a horn snuff-box, as she spoke, and fearful of offending her, Torlogh thanked her, and affected to partake of its contents.
“Well, then,” said he, “if you will not allow us both to enter, at least admit this lady.”
“Nansense!” cried she, “is not it all one — I said I wouldn’t, an’ I’m not goin’ back iv my word. No — no — I know what it is to crass a proud gintleman like the king. My husband, God rest him — an’ glory be his bed — went again General Cromwell once. They called him bloody Cromwell, an’ he had the look iv it — glory be to God — in his face — for I never seen him but my heart riz into my mouth. There was some powdher in the store-honse tower, over the way, and the general ordhered how that no one should smoke a pipe iv tobaccy within the two cannons that was outside iv it — an’ my husband, the saints resave him, poor Connor — he was an aisy goin’, good natured boy — he was so — and mainin’ no harm himself, never throubled his head with dhramin’ any one else meant mischief neither; an’ the dear man, sure enough, he was smokin’ his pipe, quiet an’ aisy, serenadin’ along, right between the two cannons, an’ he feels a walkin’ cane just laid on his shouldher; so when he looked round, who id be in it but the general himself, an’ he was so bothered, that he stood lookin’ at him just like a fool, all as one; an’ Gineral Cromwell just puts out his hand this a way, an’ he takes the pipe out iv his mouth, an’, says he, ‘Clap your thumb in the bowl iv it, friend, an’ walk before me to the gatehouse.’ Them was his very words, an’ poor Connor dar’n’t say boo, for there never was the thing yet, barrin’ the divil maybe, dar’ crass him — so he stuck his thumb in the pipe, an’ he was so freckened, he hardly felt it, though it burnt him a’most to the bone, an’ he walks before him to the guardroom at the drawbridge, an’ he gave him in charge iv the officer, an’ says he, ‘Bring out a file an’ shoot him at eight o’clock tomorrow mornin’, for there must be an end of smokin’ so near my powdher an’ as sure as you’re standin’ there, he’d have shot him dead the next mornin’, only for ould Sir Charles Coote that knew him, an’ begged his life; but he lost his place, an’ for twelve years we wor out iv the Castle, and a sore time we had iv it — an’ it’s that that makes me guarded ever since iv goin’ against great men, even in thrifles, do ye mind.”
As she thus spoke, a key was turned in the door communicating with the garden; it opened, and a tall, striking-looking officer entered from the garden; it was Colonel Sarsfield.
“Ha, O’Brien!” said he, gaily glancing from him to the cloaked form of the girl— “why, what a romantic tableau! — a youthful warrior — a distressed damsel — and something very like a fell enchantress in the background of this sombre tower; prithee, what part is reserved for me — giant or — ?”
“Nay, deliverer,” said Torlogh, “for unless you enact that part, I fear me the adventure must stand still for lack of it.”
And so saying, he drew him aside, and spoke earnestly with him for a few minutes, during which time Sarsfield’s countenance grew grave, and he several times glanced with apparent interest at the form of the young lady.
“Certainly,” said he; “but take my advice and let the lady go alone his majesty’s respect for the sex will insure her a more courteous hear ing, if not a more favourable one, than, perhaps, you or I could hope for.”
Grace thanked him hurriedly, but earnestly, said she would follow his advice, and go alone; and passing through the narrow portal which he held open with one hand, while with the other he gracefully raised his military hat — she found herself within the tall close hedges, and darksome alleys of the formal garden. She walked on slowly to recover completely her self-possession, and to prepare herself as well as she might, for the agitating interview which was now at hand. She thus passed through the length of the garden, without encountering any living thing, and in like manner through another alley, with its stately statues, showing in classic relief against the deep shadows of the straight yew hedge; as she drew near the corner of this, she felt convinced she should, on turning it, behold the object of her search — and the suspense of that moment so overwhelmed her, that she could scarce summon resolution to pass the angle of the closely shaded walk. She speedily mastered her agitation, however, and drawing a long, deep sigh, like one about to plunge into an unfathomed and perilous sea, she passed onward and entered the long walk; a single glance down its long perspective sufficed to assure her that her anticipations had not misled her. From the further extremity two figures were slowly advancing toward her. Ont was that of the king, plainly dressed, and leaning upon a cane; the other was that of a younger man, attired in a suit of black cloth; they seemed to be communing earnestly, for they often stopped and faced one another, and thus pursuing their desultory ramble, they slowly approached the spot where she stood.
CHAPTER XXXII.
THE ANSWER.
IT was not until they had nearly reached the statue by which she had taken her stand, that the king became aware of her presence.
“Whom have we here?” he said, with good humoured surprize, as he paused within a few paces of the girl, and gazed with some curiosity, and obviously not a little admiration upon her; “par ma foi c’est une jolie fille,” he continued, looking toward his grave companion, who had lowered his eyes demurely to the ground. The king turned his gaze again full upon the shrinking girl, with that bold look of undisguised admiration which had earned for him, in his earlier days, the reputation of being the most conspicuous ogler at court; “by my word, good father, I incline to think the true divinity hath descended in person to shame these counterfeit graces of lead and stone, and tempt me from your colder orthodoxy, into the charming follies of the antique worship.”
“What say you, father — are you, too, a proselyte,” he added, gaily, laying his cane upon his companion’s shoulder— “are you, too, in danger?”
Father Petre answered not, but lowered his head, it might be about an inch more, with an almost imperceptible shake of grave disapprobation.
“My liege,” said the girl, while the colour which his bold criticism had called to her cheek again retired, leaving her features almost as pale as marble, and at the same time approaching and extending a folded paper in her hands, “if your majesty will graciously be pleased to read this petition, you will learn briefly the subject of my humble supplication.”
James removed his glove gallantly, and taking the paper in his finger and thumb, held it up, and waved it warningly at her with a smile as he said —
“I see how it is, I would stake my life on’t — a place for a clever young fellow who needs but experience to turn out a capital financier; or, let us say, rather a commission for a brave gentleman, who asks but opportunity to prove a hero and a general? What say you, father, have we read aright our fair petitioner’s memorial in her eyes?”
“My liege, it is no such matter,” she began.
“By my faith, then, we are at fault,” said the king, raising his eyebrows, and good humouredly shaking his head; “you have baulked our penetration, and for a penance, we will have thee open the matter to us by word of mouth.” —
“I will do so, may it please your majesty,” said the girl, spiritedly. “I am the daughter — the only child of Sir Hugh Willoughby, a true subject of your majesty, accused of treason by false witnesses, and now condemned to die.”
The king’s face darkened ominously as she spoke, and he interrupted her by saying coldly —
“We will read the paper — we will read it.”
James walked slowly away, as he deliberately unfolded the petition, and paused, while he read it; then walked on a pace or two further, and read a little more.
In all the sickening uncertainty of suspense, meanwhile, did poor Grace Willoughby watch his movements, striving to read in every look and gesture some ground of hope. James had walked some twenty yards away, in this desultory and broken fashion, when, at length, he turned to the Jesuit who accompanied him, and placing his arm within his companion’s, continued to walk down the trim alley, evidently conversing upon the topic which was, at that moment, making the heart of the poor girl flutter and throb, as though its pulsations would choke her. She saw them again pause, while the king read the petition through, and while he was thus employed, to her extreme dismay, the Duke of Tyrconnel entered the walk, and with the suavity of a courtier, and the confidence of a favourite, approached his royal benefactor.
