Читать книгу The Fortunes of Hector O'Halloran, and His Man, Mark Antony O'Toole - W. H. Maxwell - Страница 8

The clock struck eleven.—My mother retired for the night, and the priest had been called out to prescribe for a sick soldier,—for his reverence united leechcraft to divinity, and thus was doubly useful. My father and Dr. Hamilton were consequently left alone, and both for some minutes had been communing with their own thoughts—my father broke the silence.

“I know not wherefore,” said he, “but something whispers me that this night is fated to be an important one in the history of the old house. I’m not inclined for sleep, and I feel a sort of restlessness, as if the day’s events had not yet closed.”

“It is the mental reaction which follows some unusual excitement, replied the divine.

“It may be so,” returned my father. “On with more wood. We’ll order a light supper, and borrow an hour from the night.”

The Doctor threw some billets on the fire, while my father filled his glass, and transferred the wine duly to the churchman.

“Did you remark the opposition which Hackett made when I gave orders to admit the soldiers?”

“I watched him attentively,” replied the Doctor. “His lips grew pale, his brows lowered, and with great difficulty he suppressed a burst of angry feelings which seemed almost too strong to be controlled. Be assured, my dear Colonel, that man is dangerous. If he be not traitor, I wrong him sorely.”

“Hush!” said my father, “the dog is growling. What! more late visitors? This is indeed a busy night; and again honest Cæsar proves himself a worthy sentinel. Wherever treachery may lurk, there’s none within his kennel, Doctor.”

The Colonel reconnoitred from his embrasure, but there was nothing to excite alarm. The moon had risen, and the sky, spangled with frost-stars, was bright and clear. Cæsar, advanced to the full length of his chain, was patted upon the head by a person closely wrapped up, who spoke to him with the admitted familiarity of an old acquaintance. To the Colonel’s demand of name and business, a female voice replied, “I beg your honour’s pardon, it’s me, Mary Halligan. My mother-in-law won’t put over the night. She wants to see his reverence in private, and sent me with some lines * to the priest. None of the boys would venture to the Castle after dark, for fear of Cæsar and your honour.”

* The term “lines” is generally used by the Irish peasantry

instead of “letter.”

“Well, Mary, late as it is, we’ll allow you in. Will you, Hamilton, unlock the door, and let us have the lady here—for entre nous, she belongs to a faithless family.”

The peasant now in waiting at the hall-door was decidedly the handsomest woman in the parish. For time immemorial her fathers had been servants in Knockloftie, and she an occasional inmate of the house. Her brother, educated by my grandfather, had discharged the double duty of schoolmaster and driver—the latter, in plain English, meaning the factotum of an Irish gentleman of small estate. In this department, Halligan had been found dishonest, was disgracefully turned off, joined lawless men, obtained among them a bad pre-eminence, and now, under the double ban of murder and sedition, was skulking in the hills with a reward of fifty pounds offered for his apprehension. After her brother’s disgrace, Mary had seldom visited the mansion of her former master—and, as report said, she was affianced to one of the most troublesome and disaffected scoundrels in the barony.

Mary Halligan, and much against her own inclination, was inducted by the churchman into my father’s presence. “It was too much trouble to his honour,” she muttered; “Mr. Hackett the butler would do all she wanted, and give the lines to Father Dominic.”

“Mary,” said my father, as he handed her a glass of wine, “you tremble. Has anything alarmed you?”

“It is very, very cold, your honour, out of doors.”

“Cold it is, certainly, and Father Dominic will have a dreary ride. ‘Where is the letter for him?”

Mary Halligan’s colour went and came, for my father’s searching eye was turned upon her, and that added to her confusion. She-fumbled in her bosom—pulled out one paper,—a second fell upon the carpet—one she caught up—the other she hastily delivered—and the latter, was the wrong one.

My father carelessly looked over it, while Mary Halligan scrutinized his face with deep attention. As he read it—she became pale as death, and seemed hanging in fearful expectation upon the first words that Colonel O’llalloran would litter.

“Ha!” said my father carelessly, “so the old woman’s bad it seems. She wants, I suppose, to make her will—leave you an heiress, Mary,—and Father Dominic will assist her. Well, the priest will be here directly. Come, Mary, ‘for auld lang syne’ we’ll have a glass. What has become of your brother, the schoolmaster?”

“May God forgive the liars! They slandered him, and turned your honour again him. He would die for a dog belonging to Knockloftie,—and if he didn’t, the bigger villain he!”

“And the young miller, Mary? people say you are about to marry him. Is he slandered, too?”

“God sees he is,” was the response.

“Any nightly meetings at the chapel, Mary?” said the Colonel. The girl changed colour again: “None, your honour—not one. Thanks be to God! the bad people have left the parish.”

“When did you see your brother? To-night?” said the Colonel sharply.

“To-night!” returned the girl, in tones which indicated deep confusion.

“I am jesting, Mary. Where is he now?”

“In Connaught, your honour, with a cousin of my mother’s.”

“There let him remain, Mary. There, he will be safe until things become more quiet. But, Mary, the times are not as they were five years ago, when you and I used to meet by moonlight near the bouilee. * Pshaw! don’t blush;—it was only to gather bilberries, and exchange kisses for new ribbons. Did you come here alone?—no lover—no comrade—none to bear you company?”

* The mountain bivouac of the peasant girls, where during

the summer months they attend to the cattle which are then

driven to the hills.

“I put my trust in God,” said the girl, “and then, Colonel, you know I was safe.”

“Just as we used to do in Glencullen. Ah, Mary, would that all young women had your prudence and religion, and poor Father Dominic would not be broken-hearted as he is, in fulminating vengeance against broken vows and repairing damaged reputations.”

Notwithstanding my father’s badinage Mary Halligan seemed ill at ease.

“Plase you honour, I would wish to be going,” she said, “and as Father Dominic is not in the way, I would like to say a word or two to Mr. Hackett.”

“Ay, certainly; but, Mary, will you not stop, and see your mistress? Doctor, I must trespass on you to ask my wife to come down.”

The parson left the room, and speedily returned with my mother.

“This, Emily, is an old acquaintance. Not a word, Mary, about bilberries or the bouillee. Bring her to the nursery, my love—and,” he added in a suppressed voice, “be sure you keep her there.”

When the door closed, my father handed the letter he had received from the peasant-girl to the parson, and as the latter read it he became red and pale alternately.

“Good Heaven!” he exclaimed, “how could you with this murderous missive in your hand talk lightly with its bearer, and jest with that fiend in woman’s form, who brought an order that doomed to death or outrage all that your roof-tree covers?”

“Because,” replied my father coolly, “it furnished me with a glorious counterstroke. I threw my eye but hastily over it—read me that precious document!”

The appearance of the paper was remarkable. At the top, a scull and cross-bones were rudely stamped, and though the handwriting was tolerable, the sentences were ungrammatical, and many of the words misspelt. The letter ran thus:—

“Dear Pat.

“I made two attempts to send you information, but your d———d master, like bad fortune, was always in the way; my sister Mary will strive to hand you this. To-night our fate must be decided, for Luke Byrn, Cooney, and your brother are betrayed, and at sunrise to-morrow, if there be a living man in Knockloftie, they’re all dead men; the witnesses are to be removed to Donegal, and if they once reach it, Cooney will split, and you and I are certain of the gallows. At one o’clock I’ll be with you; lave the window open, and I’ll show the boys the way in, as I know the house, and the smith has keys that will open the yard gate. Once when four or five of us gets in, we’ll open the hall door for the remainder; you can finish the master easily when he hears the first alarm and rushes from his room; the rest will be child’s play, and then no quarter. The black seal is to this paper; mind, Hackett, you’re to watch the Colonel’s door, and I’ll be first man through the window. No more at present, from your friend and commander,

“James Halligan.”

“But here’s a postscript,” and the parson turned the paper.

“‘When the job’s over we’ll have a roaring night. As, captain, you know the Colonel’s lady—‘” He paused.

“Read on!” said my father.

“No, no,—mere ribald nonsense,” returned the churchman.

Colonel O’Halloran snatched the letter from his hand, and in one glance his eye passed over the portion of the paper which had been previously overlooked. To the expose of Halligan’s murderous intentions my father had listened with cold and contemptuous indifference: but when he read the postscript, a terrible change came over his countenance, and succeeded its previous expression of calm defiance. The eye flashed, the brow contracted, and springing from his chair the Colonel paced the room, muttering something between his clenched teeth which was but partially overheard. The outbreak of his passion was however as momentary as it had been strong,—and in a minute he resumed his seat, and calmly addressed the Doctor.

“We have,” said my father as he looked at the clock on the mantel, “an hour and twenty minutes to put our house in order, and a tenth portion of the time would be sufficient. You shall be aide-de-camp, Hamilton,—and to Father Dominic we’ll entrust the management of the women, and make his reverence keep matters quiet and administer ghostly consolation until the squall blows over. Mr. Hackett must be secured, but Heaven forbid the honest hangman should be anticipated! Cut down that bell-rope—now pull the other one—and then sit down and fill, Doctor,—ay, fill high, Confusion to all traitors! and here comes a most superlative scoundrel.”

The butler had promptly answered the summons of the bell. “Bring slippers,” said the Colonel, and the order was obeyed. Kneeling he removed his master’s boots, placed the slippers on his feet, and was about to rise, when to his astonishment my father’s powerful arm prevented it, and in a minute more he was bound hand and foot, and flung upon the floor in perfect helplessness, with an intimation “deep not loud” that the first movement he attempted of limb or tongue would prove a certain passport to eternity.

Without hurry or alarm the effective strength of my father’s garrison was speedily assembled in the great parlour, and sixteen men were found fit for duty in Knockloftie—a number more than sufficient for its defence. To all, arms and cartridges were delivered,—and every musket was carefully loaded to ensure a certain and effective fire when the moment of action should arrive. My father’s orders were brief, clear, and easily comprehended—and as every spot of vantage had been occupied, every window that looked upon the front or back approaches had one or more marksmen assigned for its defence according to its local importance. The lights were blinded, the strictest silence was enjoined, and not a trigger was to be drawn until my father gave the signal. Never was a small garrison better prepared or more determined; the soldiers, under a belief that they had been specially betrayed, and that they would have been assailed if their route had been continued, were burning to be revenged upon their intended murderers; while those who had found shelter from their enemies in Knockloftie, already doomed men, knew also that they were the chief objects of attack, and that no alternative remained to them but to defeat it or’ to perish. Thus circumstanced, Knockloftie had little to fear from open force. True, treachery or surprise might possibly have succeeded. Against the former, if there were faith in a stout bell-rope and a parson’s knot, the old house for the present was secure; and from the latter, the mal adresse of Miss Halligan had effectually preserved the garrison.

When all his preparations were completed, my father ascended to the upper story of the tower to satisfy himself that his wife and infant were in safety. On opening the door the chamber presented a sad and striking scene. On one bed, the corpse of the soldier’s widow was “laid out,” attired in the simple habiliments of the grave used by the Irish peasantry; and in another, two children were sleeping side by side, unconscious that murder and rapine were abroad, and that guilty steps were moving to this their abode of peace. My mother, bending over both, was murmuring a prayer for their deliverance, while, by the feeble light of a waxen taper, the priest, in a low and monotonous voice, was reading an office for the dead. One other person was there—a worthless woman. Mary Halligan sat before the fire; she neither spoke nor moved, but with her eyes fixed upon the dying embers, in full conviction that her treachery was suspeeted or discovered, she quailed before my father’s glance, and, while he remained in the apartment, never ventured to look up.

The Colonel’s visit was short: he whispered in his wife’s ear assurances of safety, and affectionately kissed her and the infant; then turning a withering glance upon his former mistress, he left the chamber and joined the men below.

The clock chimed three-quarters—no sound was heard that possibly could cause alarm, nor was there a growl from the kennel of the dog—and yet the murderers were at hand unchallenged. No wonder—Hector was in the agonies of death—Curses light upon the traitress! Mary Halligan, while she patted his honest head, had poisoned him!