The Greatest Works of Sheridan Le Fanu (65+ Novels & Short Stories in One Edition). Joseph Sheridan Le Fanu
assented.
"Ah! yees," said the Neapolitan, with a winning smile; "he has see me vary often. Signor O'Connor—he know me vary well. I am so happy to see him again—vary—oh! vary."
"Let Mr. O'Connor know briefly and distinctly what you have already told me," said O'Hanlon.
"About the letters?" asked the Italian.
"Yes, be brief," replied O'Hanlon.
"Ah! did he not guess?" rejoined the Neapolitan; "per crilla! the deception succeed, then—vary coning faylow was old Sir Richard—bote not half so coning as his son, Sir Henry. He never suspect—Mr. O'Connor never doubt, bote took all the letters and read them just so as Sir Henry said he would. Malora! what great meesfortune."
"Parucci, speak plainly to the point; I cannot endure this. Say at once what has he done—how have I been deceived?" cried O'Connor.
"You remember when the old gentleman—Mr. Audley, I think he is call—saw Sir Richard—immediately after that some letters passed between you and Mees Mary Ashwoode."
"I do remember it—proceed," replied O'Connor.
"Mees Mary's letters to you were cold and unkind, and make you think she did not love you any more," added Parucci.
"Well, well—say on—say on—for God's sake, man—say on," cried O'Connor, vehemently.
"Those letters you got were not written by her," continued the Italian, coolly; "they were all wat you call forged—written by another person, and planned by Sir Henry and Sir Reechard; and the same way on the other side—the letters you wrote to her were all stopped, and read by the same two gentlemen, and other letters written in stead, and she is breaking her heart, because she thinks you 'av betrayed her, and given her up—rotta di collo! they 'av make nice work!"
"Prove this to me, prove it," said O'Connor, wildly, while his eye burned with the kindling fire of fury.
"I weel prove it," rejoined Parucci, but with an agitated voice and a troubled face; "bote, corpo di Plato, you weel keel me if I tell—promise—swear—by your honour—you weel not horte me—you weel not toche me—swear, Signor, and I weel tell."
"Miserable caitiff—speak, and quickly—you are safe—I swear it," rejoined he.
"Well, then," resumed the Italian, with restored calmness, "I will prove it so that you cannot doubt any more—it was I that wrote the letters for them—I, myself—and beside, here is the bundle with all of them written out for me to copy—most of them by Sir Henry—you know his hand-writing—you weel see the character—corbezzoli! he is a great rogue—and you will find all the real letters from you and Mees Mary that were stopped—I have them here."
He here disengaged from the deep pocket of his coat, a red leathern case stamped with golden flowers, and opening it presented it to the young man.
With shifting colour and eyes almost blinded with agitation, O'Connor read and re-read these documents.
"Where is Ashwoode?" at length he cried; "bring me to him—gracious God, what a monster I must have appeared—will she—can she ever forgive me?"
Disregarding in entire contempt the mean agent of Ashwoode's villainy, and thinking only of the high-born principal, O'Connor, pale as death, but with perfect deliberateness, arose and took the sword which the attendant who conducted him to the room had laid by the wall, and replacing it at his side, said sternly,—
"Bring me to Sir Henry Ashwoode—where is he? I must speak with him."
"I cannot breeng you to him now," replied Parucci, in internal ecstasies, "for I cannot say where he is; bote I know vary well where he weel be to-day after dinner time, in the evening, and I weel breeng you; bote I hope very moche you are not intending any mischiefs; if I thought so, I would be vary sorry—oh! vary."
"Well, be it so, if it may not be sooner," said O'Connor, gloomily, "this evening at all events he shall account with me."
"Meanwhile," said O'Hanlon, "you may as well remain here; and when the time arrives which this Italian fellow names, we can start. I will accompany you, for in such cases the arm of a friend can do you no harm and may secure you fair play. Hear me, you Italian scoundrel, remain here until we are ready to depart with you, and that shall be whenever you think it time to seek Sir Henry Ashwoode; you shall have enough to eat and drink meanwhile; depart, and relieve us of your company."
Signor Parucci smiled sweetly from ear to ear, shrugged, and bowed, and then glided lightly from the room, exulting in the pleasant conviction that he had commenced operations against his ungrateful patron, by involving him in a scrape which must inevitably result in somewhat unpleasant exposures, and which had beside reduced the question of Sir Henry's life or death to an even chance.
Chapter XLVII.
"the Jolly Bowlers"—The Double Fray and the Flight
At the time of which we write, there lay at the southern extremity of the city of Dublin, a bowling-green of fashionable resort, well known as "Cullen's Green." For greater privacy it was enclosed by a brick wall of considerable height, which again was surrounded by stately rows of lofty and ancient elms. A few humble dwellings were clustered about it; and through one of them, a low, tiled public-house, lay the entrance into this place of pastime. Thitherward O'Connor and O'Hanlon, having left their horses at the "Cock and Anchor," were led by the wily Italian.
"The players you say, will not stop till dusk," said O'Connor; "we can go in, and I shall wait until the party have broken up, to speak to Ashwoode; in the interval we can mix with the spectators, and so escape remark."
They were now approaching the little tavern embowered in tufted trees, and as they advanced, they perceived a number of hack carriages and led horses congregated upon the road about its entrance.
"Sir Henry is within; that iron-grey is his horse; sangue dun dua, there is no mistake," observed the Neapolitan.
The little party entered the humble tavern, but here they were encountered by a new difficulty.
"You can't get in to-night, gentlemen—sorry to disappint, gentlemen; but the green's engaged," said mine host, with an air of mysterious importance; "a private party, engaged two days since for fear of a disappint."
"Are they so strictly private, that they would not suffer two gentlemen to be spectators of their play?" inquired O'Hanlon.
"My orders is not to let anyone in, good, bad, or indifferent, while they are playing the match; that's my orders," replied the man; "sorry to disappint, but can't break my word with the gentlemen, you know."
"Is there any other entrance into the bowling-green?" inquired O'Connor, "except through that door."
"Divil a one, sir, where would it be?—divil a one, gentlemen," replied mine host, "no other way in or out."
"We will rest ourselves here for a time, then," said O'Connor.
Accordingly the party seated themselves in the low-roofed chamber through which the bowlers on quitting the ground must necessarily pass; and calling for some liquor to prevent suspicion, moodily awaited the appearance of the young baronet and his companions. Many a stern, impatient glance of expectation did O'Connor direct to the old door which alone separated him from the traitor and hypocrite who had with such monstrous fraud practised upon his unsuspecting confidence. At length he heard gay laughter and the tread of many feet approaching; the proprietor of "The Jolly Bowlers" opened the door, and several merry groups passed them by and took their departure, but O'Connor's eye in vain sought among them the form of young Ashwoode.
"I see the grey horse still at the door; I know it as well as I know my own hand," said the Italian; "as sure as I am leeving man, Sir Henry is there still."
After