Фредерик Марриет
Japhet in Search of a Father
Part 2—Chapter XX
No Hopes of rising next Morning alive—At a last chance I get into Bed.
Kathleen came in with fuel to light the fire, and looking rather hard at me, passed by, and was soon busy blowing up the turf. She was a very handsome dark-eyed girl, about nineteen years of age, stout, and well made. “What is your name?” said I.
“Kathleen, at your service, sir.”
“Listen to me, Kathleen,” said I, in a low voice. “You are a woman, and all women are kind-hearted. I have overheard all that passed between your mistress and you, and that McDermott has stated that I am a tithe collector and an attorney, with a warrant. I am no such thing. I am a gentleman who wish to speak to Sir Henry de Clare on a business which he does not like to be spoken to about; and to shew you what I say is the truth, it is about the daughter of his elder brother, who was killed when hunting, and who is supposed to be dead. I am the only evidence to the contrary; and, therefore, he and McDermott have spread this report that I may come to harm.”
“Is she alive, then?” replied Kathleen, looking up to me with wonder.
“Yes; and I will not tell Sir Henry where she is, and that is the reason of their enmity.”
“But I saw her body,” replied the girl in a low voice, standing up, and coming close to me.
“It was not hers, depend upon it,” replied I, hardly knowing what to answer to this assertion.
“At all events, it was dressed in her clothes; but it was so long before it was discovered, that we could make nothing of the features. Well, I knew the poor little thing, for my mother nursed her. I was myself brought up at the castle, and lived there till after Sir William was killed; then we were all sent away.”
“Kathleen! Kathleen!” cried the landlady.
“Call for everything you can think of one after another,” whispered Kathleen, leaving the room.
“I cannot make the peat burn,” said she to the landlady, after she had quitted the little room; “and the gentleman wants some whisky.”
“Go out then, and get some from the middle of the stack, Kathleen, and be quick; we have others to attend besides the tithe proctor. There’s the O’Tooles all come in, and your own Corny is with them.”
“My Corny, indeed!” replied Kathleen; “he’s not quite so sure of that.”
In a short time Kathleen returned, and brought some dry peat and a measure of whisky. “If what you say is true,” said Kathleen, “and sure enough you’re no Irish, and very young for a tithe proctor, who must grow old before he can be such a villain, you are in no very pleasant way. The O’Tooles are here, and I’ve an idea they mean no good; for they sit with all their heads together, whispering to each other, and all their shillelaghs by their sides.”
“Tell me, Kathleen, was the daughter of Sir William a fair-haired, blue-eyed girl?”
“To be sure she was,” replied Kathleen, “and like a little mountain fairy.”
“Now, Kathleen, tell me if you recollect if the little girl or her mother ever wore a necklace of red beads mixed with gold.”
“Yes, that my lady did; and it was on the child’s neck when it was lost, and when the body was found it was not with it. Well I recollect that, for my mother said the child must have been drowned or murdered for the sake of the gold beads.”
“Then you have proved all I wished, Kathleen; and now I tell you that this little girl is alive, and that I can produce the necklace which was lost with her; and more, that she was taken away by Sir Henry himself.”
“Merciful Jesus!” replied Kathleen; “the dear little child that we cried over so much.”
“But now, Kathleen, I have told you this, to prove to you that I am not what McDermott has asserted, no doubt, with the intention that my brains shall be knocked out this night.”
“And so they will, sure enough,” replied Kathleen, “if you do not escape.”
“But how am I to escape? and will you assist me?”
And I laid down on the table ten guineas from my purse.
“Take that, Kathleen, and it will help you and Corny. Now will you assist me?”
“It’s Corny that will be the first to knock your brains out,” replied Kathleen, “unless I can stop him. I must go now, and I’ll see what can be done.”
Kathleen would have departed without touching the gold; but I caught her by the wrist, collected it, and put it into her hand.
“That’s not like a tithe proctor, at all events,” replied Kathleen; “but my heart aches and my head swims, and what’s to be done I know not.” So saying, Kathleen quitted the room.
“Well,” thought I, after she had left the room, “at all events I have not been on a wrong scent this time. Kathleen has proved to me that Fleta is the daughter of the late Sir William; and if I escape this snare, Melchior shall do her justice.” Pleased with my having so identified Melchior and Fleta, I fell into a train of thought, and for the first time forgot my perilous situation, but I was roused from my meditations by an exclamation from Kathleen. “No, no, Corny, nor any of ye—not now—and mother and me to witness it—it shall not be, Corny, hear me, as sure as blood’s drawn, and we up to see it, so sure does Corny O’Toole never touch this hand of mine.” A pause, and whispering followed, and again all appeared to be quiet. I unstrapped my portmanteau, took out my pistols, which were loaded, re-primed them, and remained quiet, determined to sell my life as dearly as possible.
It was more than half an hour before Kathleen returned; she looked pale and agitated. “Keep quiet, and do not think of resistance,” said she; “it is useless. I have told my mother all, and she believes you, and will risk her life to save him who has watched over the little girl whom she nursed; but keep quiet, we shall soon have them all out of the house. Corny dare not disobey me, and he will persuade the others.”
She then went out again, and did not return for nearly an hour, when she was accompanied by her mother. “Kathleen has told me all, young sir,” said she, “and do what we can, we will; but we hardly know what to do. To go to the castle would be madness.”
“Yes,” replied I: “but cannot you give me one of your horses to return the way I came?”
“That was our intention; but I find that the O’Tooles have taken them all out of the stable to prevent me; and the house is watched. They will come at midnight and attack us, that I fully expect, and how to conceal you puzzles my poor head.”
“If they come, we can but persuade them that he has escaped,” replied Kathleen; “they will no longer watch the house, and he will then have some chance.”
“There is but one chance,” replied the mother, who took Kathleen aside, and whispered to her. Kathleen coloured to the forehead, and made no reply. “If your mother bids you, Kathleen, there can be no harm.”
“Yes; but if Corny was—”
“He dare not,” replied the mother; “and now put this light out, and do you get into bed, sir, with your clothes on.” They led me to a small bed-room, a miserable affair; but in that part of the country considered respectable. “Lie down there,” said the mother, “and wait till we call you.” They took the light away, and left me to myself and my own reflections, which were anything but pleasant. I lay awake, it might be for two hours, when I heard the sound of feet, and then a whispering under the window, and shortly afterwards a loud knocking at the door, which they were attempting to burst open. Every moment I expected that it would yield to the violence which was made use of, when the mother came down half-dressed, with a light in her hand, hastened to me, and desired me to follow her. I did so, and before she left my room, she threw the window wide open. She led me up a sort of half-stairs, half-ladder, to a small room, where I found Kathleen sitting up in her bed, and half-dressed. “O mother! mother!” cried Kathleen.
“I bid ye do it, child,” replied the mother, desiring me to creep into her daughter’s bed, and cover myself up on the side next the wall.
“Let me put on more clothes, mother.”
“No, no, if you do, they will suspect, and will not hesitate to search. Your mother bids you.”
The poor girl was burning with shame and confusion.
“Nay,” replied I, “if Kathleen does not wish it, I will not buy my safety at the expense of her feelings.”
“Yes, yes,” replied Kathleen, “I don’t mind now; those words of yours are sufficient. Come in, quick.”
Part 2—Chapter XXI
Petticoat Interest prevails, and I escape; but I put my Head into the Lion’s Den.
There was no time for apology, and stepping over Kathleen, I buried myself under the clothes by her side. The mother then hastened down stairs, and arrived at the door just as they had succeeded in forcing it open, when in pounced a dozen men armed, with their faces blackened.
“Holy Jesus! what is it that you want?” screamed the landlady.
“The blood of the tithe proctor, and that’s what we’ll have,” replied the O’Tooles.
“Not in my house—not in my house!” cried she. “Take him away, at all events; promise me to take him away.”
“So we will, honey darlint; we’ll take him out of your sight, and out of your hearing, too, only show us where he may be.”
“He’s sleeping,” replied the mother, pointing to the door of the bed-room, where I had been lying down.
The party took the light from her hand, and went into the room, where they perceived the bed empty and the window open. “Devil a bit of a proctor here anyhow,” cried one of them, “and the window open. He’s off—hurrah! my lads, he can’t be far.”
“By the powers! it’s just my opinion, Mrs McShane,” replied the elder O’Toole, “that he’s not quite so far off; so with your lave, or by your lave, or without your lave, we’ll just have a look over the premises.”
“O! and welcome, Mister Jerry O’Toole: if you think I’m the woman to hide a proctor, look everywhere just as you please.”
The party, headed by Jerry O’Toole, who had taken the light out of Mrs McShane’s hand, now ascended the ladder to the upper storey, and as I lay by Kathleen, I felt that she trembled with fear. After examining every nook and cranny they could think of, they came to Mrs McShane’s room—“O! go in—go in and look, Mr O’Toole; it’s a very likely thing to insinuate that I should have a tithe proctor in my bed. Search, pray,” and Mrs McShane led the way into her own room.
Every part had been examined, except the small sleeping room of Kathleen; and the party paused before the door. “We must search,” observed O’Toole, doggedly.
“Search my daughter’s! very well, search if you please; it’s a fine story you’ll have to tell, how six great men pulled a poor girl out of her bed to look for a tithe proctor. It will be a credit to you anyhow; and you, Corny O’Toole, you’ll stand well in her good graces, when you come to talk about the wedding-day; and your wife that is to be, pulled out of her bed by a dozen men. What will ye say to Kathleen, when you affront her by supposing that a maiden girl has a tithe proctor in bed with her? D’ye think that ye’ll ever have the mother’s consent or blessing?”
“No one goes into Kathleen’s room,” cried Corny O’Toole, roused by the sarcasms of Mrs McShane.
“Yes, Corny,” replied Mrs McShane, “it’s not for a woman like me to be suspected, at all events; so you, and you only, shall go into the room, if that will content ye, Mr Jerry O’Toole.”
“Yes!” replied the party, and Mrs McShane opened the door.
Kathleen rose up on her elbow, holding the bed-clothes up to her throat, and looking at them, as they entered, said, “O Corny! Corny! this to me?”
Corny never thought of looking for anybody, his eyes were rivetted upon his sweetheart. “Murder, Kathleen, is it my fault? Jerry will have it.”
“Are you satisfied, Corny?” said Mrs McShane.
“Sure enough I was satisfied before I came in, that Kathleen would not have anyone in her bed-room,” replied Corny.
“Then good night, Corny, and it’s to-morrow that I’ll talk with ye,” replied Kathleen.
Mrs McShane then walked out of the room, expecting Corny to follow; but he could not restrain himself, and he came to the bedside. Fearful that if he put his arms round her, he would feel me, Kathleen raised herself, and allowed him to embrace her. Fortunately the light was not in the room, or I should have been discovered, as in so doing she threw the clothes off my head and shoulders. She then pushed back Corny from her, and he left the room, shutting the door after him. The party descended the ladder, and as soon as Kathleen perceived that they were all down, she sprang out of bed and ran into her mother’s room. Soon after I heard them depart. Mrs McShane made fast the door, and came up stairs. She first went to her own room, where poor Kathleen was crying bitterly from shame and excitement. I had got up when she came into Kathleen’s room for her clothes, and, in about five minutes, they returned together. I was sitting on the side of the bed when they came in: the poor girl coloured up when our eyes met. “Kathleen,” said I, “you have, in all probability, saved my life, and I cannot express my thanks. I am only sorry that your modesty has been put to so severe a trial.”
“If Corny was to find it out,” replied Kathleen, sobbing again. “How could I do such a thing?”
“Your mother bid you,” replied Mrs McShane, “and that is sufficient.”
“But what must you think of me, sir?” continued Kathleen.
“I think that you have behaved most nobly. You have saved an innocent man at the risk of your reputation, and the loss of your lover. It is not now that I can prove my gratitude.”
“Yes, yes, promise me by all that’s sacred, that you’ll never mention it. Surely you would not ruin one who has tried to serve you.”
“I promise you that, and I hope to perform a great deal more,” replied I. “But now, Mrs McShane, what is to be done? Remain here I cannot.”
“No, you must leave, and that very soon. Wait about ten minutes more, and then they will give up their search and go home. The road to E—” (the post I had lately come from) “is the best you can take; and you must travel as fast as you can, for there is no safety for you here.”
“I am convinced that rascal McDermott will not leave me till he has rid himself of me.” I then took out my purse, in which I still had nearly twenty guineas. I took ten of them. “Mrs McShane, I must leave you in charge of my portmanteau, which you may forward by-and-by, when you hear of my safety. If I should not be so fortunate, the money is better in your hands than in the hands of those who will murder me. Kathleen, God bless you! you are a good girl, and Corny O’Toole will be a happy man if he knows your value.”
I then wished Kathleen good-bye, and she allowed me to kiss her without any resistance; but the tears were coursing down her cheeks as I left the room with her mother. Mrs McShane looked carefully out of the windows, holding the light to ascertain if there was anybody near, and, satisfied with her scrutiny, she then opened the door, and calling down the saints to protect me, shook hands with me, and I quitted the house. It was a dark cloudy night, and when I first went out, I was obliged to grope, for I could distinguish nothing. I walked along with a pistol loaded in each hand, and gained, as I thought, the high road to E—, but I made a sad mistake: and puzzled by the utter darkness and turnings, I took, on the contrary, the road to Mount Castle. As soon as I was clear of the houses and the enclosure, there was more light, and I could distinguish the road. I had proceeded about four or five miles, when I heard the sound of horses’ hoofs, and shortly afterwards two men rode by me. I inquired if that was the way to E—. A pause ensued, and a whisper.
“All’s right!” replied a deep voice. I continued my way, glad to find that I had not mistaken it, and cogitating as to what must be the purpose of two men being out at such an hour. About ten minutes afterwards I thought I again heard the sound of horses’ feet, and it then occurred to me that they must be highwaymen, who had returned to rob me. I cocked my pistols, determined to sell my life as dearly as I could, and awaited their coming up with anxiety; but they appeared to keep at the same distance, as the sound did not increase. After half an hour I came to two roads, and was undecided which to take. I stopped and listened—the steps of the horses were no longer to be heard. I looked round me to ascertain if I could recognise any object so as to decide me, but I could not. I took the road to the left, and proceeded, until I arrived at a brook which crossed the road. There was no bridge, and it was too dark to perceive the stepping stones. I had just waded about half way across, when I received a blow on the head from behind, which staggered me. I turned round, but before I could see my assailant, a second blow laid me senseless in the water.
Part 2—Chapter XXII
Under Ground, but not yet dead and buried—The Prospect anything but pleasant.
When my recollection returned I found myself in the dark, but where, I knew not. My head ached, and my brain reeled. I sat up for a moment to collect my senses, but the effort was too painful—I fell back, and remained in a state of half-stupor. Gradually I recovered, and again sat up. I perceived that I had been lying on a bed of straw, composed of two or three trusses apparently. I felt with my extended arms on each side of me, but touched nothing. I opened my eyes, which I had closed again, and tried to pierce through the obscurity, but in vain—all was dark as Erebus. I then rose on my feet, and extending my hands before me, walked five or six steps on one side, till I was clear of the straw, and came to a wall. I followed the wall about twenty feet, and then touched wood; groping about, I found it was a door. I then made the circuit of the walls, and discovered that the other side was built with bins for wine, which were empty, and I then found myself again at the straw upon which I had been laid. It was in a cellar no longer used—but where? Again I lay down upon the straw, and, as it may be imagined, my reflections were anything but pleasing. “Was I in the power of McDermott or Melchior?” I felt convinced that I was; but my head was too painful for long thought, and after half an hour’s reflection, I gave way to a sullen state of half-dreaming, half-stupor, in which the forms of McDermott, Kathleen, Melchior, and Fleta, passed in succession before me. How long I remained in this second species of trance I cannot say, but I was roused by the light of a candle, which flashed in my eyes. I started up, and beheld Melchior in his gipsy’s dress, just as when I had taken leave of him.
“It is to you, then, that I am indebted for this treatment?” replied I.
“No, not to me,” replied Melchior. “I do not command here; but I knew you when they brought you in insensible, and being employed in the castle, I have taken upon myself the office of your gaoler, that I might, if possible, serve you.”
I felt, I knew, this to be false, but a moment’s reflection told me that it was better at present to temporise.
“Who then does the castle belong to, Melchior?”
“To Sir Henry de Clare.”
“And what can be his object in treating me thus?”
“That I can tell you, because I am a party concerned. You remember the little girl, Fleta, who left the gipsy camp with you—she is now somewhere under your care?”
“Well, I grant it; but I was answerable only to you about her.”
“Very true, but I was answerable to Sir Henry; and when I could only say that she was well, he was not satisfied, for family reasons now make him very anxious that she should return to him; and, indeed, it will be for her advantage, as she will in all probability be his heir, for he has satisfactorily proved that she is a near relative.”
“Grant all that, Melchior; but why did not Sir Henry de Clare write to me on the subject, and state his wishes, and his right to demand his relative? and why does he treat me in this way? Another question—how is it that he has recognised me to be the party who has charge of the little girl? Answer me those questions, Melchior, and then I may talk over the matter.”
“I will answer the last question first. He knew your name from me, and it so happened, that a friend of his met you in the coach as you were coming to Ireland: the same person also saw you at the post-house, and gave information. Sir Henry, who is a violent man, and here has almost regal sway, determined to detain you till you surrendered up the child. You recollect, that you refused to tell his agent, the person whose address I gave you, where she was to be found, and, vexed at this, he has taken the law into his own hands.”
“For which he shall smart, one of these days,” replied I, “if there is law in this country.”
“There is a law in England, but very little, and none that will harm Sir Henry in this part of the country. No officer would venture within five miles of the castle, I can assure you; for he knows very well that it would cost him his life; and Sir Henry never quits it from one year’s end to the other. You are in his power, and all that he requires is information where the child may be found, and an order for her being delivered to him. You cannot object to this, as he is her nearest relative. If you comply, I do not doubt but Sir Henry will make you full amends for this harsh treatment, and prove a sincere friend ever afterwards.”
“It requires consideration,” replied I; “at present, I am too much hurt to talk.”
“I was afraid so,” replied Melchior; “that was one reason why I obtained leave to speak to you. Wait a moment.”
Melchior then put the candle down on the ground, went out, and turned the key. I found, on looking round, that I was right in my conjectures. I was in a cellar, which, apparently, had long been in disuse. Melchior soon returned, followed by an old crone, who carried a basket and a can of water. She washed the blood off my head, put some salve upon the wounds, and bound them up. She then went away, leaving the basket.
“There is something to eat and drink in that basket,” observed Melchior; “but I think, Japhet, you will agree with me, that it will be better to yield to the wishes of Sir Henry, and not remain in this horrid hole.”
“Very true, Melchior,” replied I; “but allow me to ask you a question or two. How came you here? where is Nattée, and how is it, that, after leaving the camp, I find you so reduced in circumstances, as to be serving such a man as Sir Henry de Clare?”
“A few words will explain that,” replied he. “In my early days I was wild, and I am, to tell you the truth, in the power of this man; nay, I will tell you honestly, my life is in his power; he ordered me to come, and I dare not disobey him—and he retains me here.”
“And Nattée?”
“Is quite well, and with me, but not very happy in her present situation; but he is a dangerous, violent, implacable man, and I dare not disobey him. I advise you as a friend, to consent to his wishes.”
“That requires some deliberation,” replied I, “and I am not one of those who are to be driven. My feelings towards Sir Henry, after this treatment, are not the most amicable; besides, how am I to know that Fleta is his relative?”
“Well, I can say no more, Japhet. I wish you well out of his hands.”
“You have the power to help me, if that is the case,” said I.
“I dare not.”
“Then you are not the Melchior that you used to be,” replied I.
“We must submit to fate. I must not stay longer; you will find all that you want in the basket, and more candles, if you do not like being in the dark. I do not think I shall be permitted to come again, till to-morrow.”
Melchior then went out, locked the door after him, and I was left to my meditations.
