"''Twas on a widow's jointure landThe archer, Cupid, took his stand.'"
"''Twas on a widow's jointure landThe archer, Cupid, took his stand.'"
"''Twas on a widow's jointure land
The archer, Cupid, took his stand.'"
As she said this, she looked so unutterably mischievous and comical, that in spite of his vexation and all his efforts to the contrary, he burst into a long and hearty fit of laughter.
"Emily," said he, at length, "you are absolutely incorrigible—gravity in your company is entirely out of the question; but listen to me seriously for one moment, if you can. I will tell you plainly how I am circumstanced, and you must promise me in return that you will not quiz me any more about the matter. But first," he added, cautiously, "let us guard against eavesdroppers."
He accordingly walked into the next room, which opened upon that in which they were, and proceeded to close the far door. Before he had reached it, however, that in the other room opened, and Lady Stukely herself entered. The instant she appeared, Emily Copland by a gesture enjoined silence, nodded towards the door of the next room, from which Ashwoode's voice, as he carelessly hummed an air, was audible; she then frowned, nodded, and pointed with vehement repetition toward a dark recess in the wall, made darker and more secure by the flanking projection of a huge, black, varnished cabinet. Lady Stukely looked puzzled, took a step in the direction of the post of concealment indicated by the girl, then looked puzzled, and hesitated again. More impatiently Emily repeated her signal, and her ladyship, without any distinct reason, but with her curiosity all alive, glided behind the protecting cabinet, with all its army of china ornaments, into the recess, and there remained entirely concealed. She had hardly effected this movement, which the deep-piled carpet enabled her to do without noise, when Ashwoode returned, closed the door of communication between the two rooms, and then shut that through which Lady Stukely had just entered, almost brushing against her as he did so, so close was their proximity. These precautions taken, he returned.
"Now," said he, in a low and deliberate tone, "the plain facts of the case are just these. I am dipped over head and ears in debt—debts, too, of the most urgent kind—debts which threaten me with ruin. Now, thesemustbe paid—one way or another theymustbe met. And to effect this I have but one course—one expedient, and you have guessed it. No man knows better than I what Lady Stukely is. I can see all that is ridiculous and repulsive about her just as clearly as anybody else. She is old enough to be my grandmother, and ugly enough to be the devil's—and, moreover, painted and varnished over like a signboard. She may be a fool—she may be a termagant—she may be what you please—but—butshe has money. She has been throwing herself into my arms this twelvemonth or more—and—but what the deuce is that?"
This interrogatory was caused by certain choking sounds which proceeded with fearful suddenness from the place of Lady Stukely's concealment, and which were instantaneously followed by the appearance of her ladyship in bodily presence. She opened her mouth, but gave utterance to nothing but a gasp—drew herself up with such portentous and swelling magnificence, that Ashwoode almost expected to see her expand like the spectre of a magic-lantern until her head touched the ceiling. Forward she came, in her progress sweeping a score of china ornaments from the cabinet, and strewing the whole floor with the crashing fragments of monkeys, monsters, and mandarins, breathless, choking, and almost black with rage, Lady Stukely advanced to Ashwoode, who stood, for the first time in his life, bereft of every vestige of self-possession.
"Painted! varnished!" she screamed hysterically, "ridiculous! repulsive! Oh, heaven and earth! you—you preternatural monster!" With these words she uttered two piercing shrieks, and threw herself in strong hysterics into a chair, holding on her wig distractedly with one hand, for fear of accidents.
'Painted! Varnished!' she screamed, hysterically.
"'Painted! Varnished!' she screamed, hysterically."To face page 188.
"Don't—don't ring the bell," said she, with an abrupt accession of fortitude, observing Emily Copland approach the bell. "Don't, I shall be better presently." And then, with another shriek, she opened afresh.
As the hysterics subsided, Ashwoode began a little to recover his scattered wits, and observing that Lady Stukely had sunk back in extreme languor and exhaustion, with closed eyes, he ventured to approach the shrine of his outraged divinity.
"I feel—indeed I own, Lady Stukely," he said, hesitatingly, "I have much to explain. I ought to explain—yes, I ought. I will, Lady Stukely—and—and I can entirely satisfy—completely dispel——"
He was interrupted here; for Lady Stukely, starting bolt upright in the chair, exclaimed,—
"You wretch! you villain! you perjured, scheming, designing, lying, paltry, stupid, insignificant, outrageous——"
Whether it was that her ladyship wanted words to supply a climax, or that hysterics are usually attended with such results, we cannot pretend to say, but certain it is that at this precise point the languishing, fashionable, die-away Lady Stukely actually spat in the young baronet's face.
Ashwoode changed colour, as he promptly discharged the ridiculous but very necessary task of wiping his face. With difficulty he restrained himself under this provocation, but he did command himself so far as to say nothing. He turned on his heel and walked downstairs, muttering as he went,—
"An old painted devil!"
The cool air, as he passed out, speedily dissipated the confusion and excitement of the scene that had just passed, and all the consequences of his rupture with Lady Stukely rushed upon his mind with overwhelming and maddening force.
"You were right, perfectly right—heisa cheat—a trickster—a villain!" exclaimed Lady Stukely. "Only to think of him! Oh, heaven and earth!" And again she was seized with violent hysterics, in which state she was conducted up to her bedroom by Emily Copland, who had enjoyed the catastrophe with an intensity of relish which none but a female, and a mischievous one to boot, can know.
Loud and repeated were Lady Stukely's thanksgivings for having escaped the snares of the designing young baronet, and warm and multiplied and grateful her acknowledgments to Emily Copland—to whom, however, from that time forth she cherished an intense dislike.
CHAPTER XXXVI.
OF JEWELS, PLATE, HORSES, DOGS, AND FAMILY PICTURES—AND CONCERNING THE APPOINTED HOUR.
In a state little, if at all, short of distraction, Sir Henry Ashwoode threw himself from his horse at Morley Court. That resource which he had calculated upon with absolute certainty had totally failed him; his last stake had been played and lost, and ruin in its most hideous aspect stared him in the face.
Spattered from heel to head with mud—for he had ridden at a reckless speed—with a face pale as that of a corpse, and his dress all disordered, he entered the great old parlour, and scarcely knowing what he did, dashed the door to with violence and bolted it. His brain swam so that the floor seemed to heave and rock like a sea; he cast his laced hat and his splendid peruke (the envy and admiration of half thepetit maîtresin Dublin) upon the ground, and stood in the centre of the room, with his hands clutched upon the temples of his bare, shorn head, and his teeth set, the breathing image of despair. From this state he was roused by some one endeavouring to open the door.
"Who's there?" he shouted, springing backward and drawing his sword, as if he expected a troop of constables to burst in.
Whoever the party may have been, the attempt was not repeated.
"What's the matter with me—am I mad?" said Ashwoode, after a terrible pause, and hurling his sword to the far end of the room. "Lie there. I've let the moment pass—I might have done it—cut the Gordian knot, and there an end of all. What brought me here?"
He stared about the room, for the first time conscious where he stood.
"Damn these pictures," he muttered; "they're all alive—everything moves towards me." He flung himself into a chair and clasped his fingers over his eyes. "I can't breathe—the place is suffocating. Oh, God! I shall go mad!" He threw open one of the windows and stood gasping at it as if he stood at the mouth of a furnace.
"Everything is hot and strange and maddening—I can't endure this—brain and heart are bursting—it isHELL."
In a state of excitement which nearly amounted to downright insanity, he stood at the open window. It was long before this extravagant agitation subsided so as to allow room for thought or remembrance. At length he closed the window, and began to pace the room from end to end with long and heavy steps. He stopped by a pier-table, on which stood a china bowl full of flowers, and plunging his hands into it, dashed the water over his head and face.
"Let me think—let me think," said he. "I was not wont to be thus overcome by reverse. Surely I can master as much as will pay that thrice-accursed bond, if I could but collect my thoughts—there must yet be the means of meeting it. Letthatbe but paid, and then, welcome ruin in any other shape. Let me see. Ay, the furniture; then the pictures—some of them valuable—veryvaluable; then the horses and the dogs; and then—ay, the plate. Why, to be sure—what have I been dreaming of?—the plate will go half-way to satisfy it; and then—what else? Let me see. The whole thing is six thousand four hundred and fifty pounds—what more? Is therenothingmore to meet it? The plate—the furniture—the pictures—ay, idiot that I am, why did I not think of them an hour since?—my sister's jewels—why, it's all settled—how the devil came it that I never thought of them before? It's very well, however, as it is—for if I had, they would have gone long ago. Come, come, I breathe again—I have gotten my neck out of the hemp, at all events. I'll send in for Craven this moment. He likes a bargain, and he shall have one—before to-morrow's sun goes down, that d——d bond shall be ashes. Mary's jewels are valued at two thousand pounds. Well, let him take them at one thousand five hundred; and the pictures, plate, furniture, dogs, and horses for the rest—and he has a bargain. These jewels have saved me—bribed the hangman. What care I how or when I die, if I but avert that. Ten to one I blow my brains out before another month. A short life and a merry one was ever the motto of the Ashwoodes; and as the mirth is pretty well over with me, I begin to think it time to retire.Satis edisti, satis bipisti, satis lusisti, tempus est tibi abire—what am I raving about? There's business to be done now—to it, then—to it like a man—while wearealive let usbealive."
Craven liked his bargain, and engaged that the money should be duly handed at noon next day to Sir Henry Ashwoode, who forthwith bade the worthy attorney good-night, and wrote the following brief note to Gordon Chancey, Esq.:—
"Sir,"I shall call upon you to-morrow at one of the clock, if the hour suit you, upon particular business, and shall be much obliged by your having acertain securityby you, which I shall then be prepared to redeem."I remain, sir, your very obedient servant,"Henry Ashwoode."
"Sir,
"I shall call upon you to-morrow at one of the clock, if the hour suit you, upon particular business, and shall be much obliged by your having acertain securityby you, which I shall then be prepared to redeem.
"I remain, sir, your very obedient servant,
"Henry Ashwoode."
"So," said Sir Henry, with a half shudder, as he folded and sealed this missive, "I shall, at all events, escape the halter. To-morrow night, spite of wreck and ruin, I shall sleep soundly. God knows, I want rest. Since I wrote that name, and gave that accursed bond out of my hands, my whole existence, waking and sleeping, has been but one abhorred and ghastly nightmare. I would gladly give a limb to have that d——d scrap of parchment in my hand this moment; but patience, patience—one night more—one night only—of fevered agony and hideous dreams—one last night—and then—once more I am my own master—my character and safety are again in my own hands—and may I die the death, if ever I risk them again as I have done—one night more—would—wouldto God it were morning!"
CHAPTER XXXVII.
THE RECKONING—CHANCEY'S LARGE CAT—AND THE COACH.
The morning arrived, and at the appointed hour Sir Henry Ashwoode dismounted in Whitefriar Street, and gave the bridle of his horse to the groom who accompanied him.
"Well," thought he, as he entered the dingy, dilapidated square in which Chancey's lodgings were situated, "this matter, at all events, is arranged—I sha'n't hang, though I'm half inclined to allow I deserve to do so for my infernal folly in trying the thing at all; but no matter, it has given me a lesson I sha'n't soon forget. As to the rest, what care I now? Let ruin pounce upon me in any shape but that—luckily I have still enough to keep body and soul together left."
He paused to indulge in ruminations of no very pleasant kind, and then half muttered,—
"I have been a fool—I have walked in a dream. Only to think of a man like me, who has seen something of the world, allowing that d——d hag to play him such a trick. Well, I believe itistrue, after all, that we cannot have wisdom without paying for it. If my acquisitions bear any proportion to my outlay, I ought to be a Solomon by this time."
The door was opened to his summons by Gordon Chancey himself. When Ashwoode entered, Chancey carefully locked the door on the inside and placed the key in his pocket.
"It's as well, Sir Henry, to be on the safe side," observed Chancey, shuffling towards the table. "Dear me, dear me, there's no such thing as being too careful—is there, Sir Henry?"
"Well, well, well, let's to business," said young Ashwoode, hurriedly, seating himself at the end of a heavy deal table, at which was a chair, and taking from his pocket a large leathern pocket-book. "You have the—the security here?"
"Of course—oh, dear, of course," replied the barrister; "the bond and warrant of attorney—that d——d forgery—it is in the next room, very safe—oh, dear me, yes indeed."
It struck Ashwoode that there was something, he could not exactly say what, unusual and sinister in the manner of Mr. Chancey, as well as in his emphasis and language, and he fixed his eye upon him for a moment with a searching glance. The barrister, however, busied himself with tumbling over some papers in a drawer.
"Well, why don't you get it?" asked Ashwoode, impatiently.
"Never mind, never mind," replied Chancey; "doyoureckon your money over, and be very sure the bond will come time enough. I don't wonder, though, you're eager to have it fast in your own hands again—but it will come—it will come."
Ashwoode proceeded to open the pocket-book and to turn over the notes.
"They're all right," said he, "they're all right. But, hush!" he added, slightly changing colour—"I hear something stirring in the next room."
"Oh, dear, dear, it's nothing but the cat," rejoined Chancey, with an ugly laugh.
"Your cat treads very heavily," said Ashwoode, suspiciously.
"So it does," rejoined Chancey, "it does tread heavy; it's a very large cat, so it is; it has wonderful great claws; it can see in the dark; it's a great cat; it never missed a rat yet; and I've seen it lure the bird off a branch with the mere power of its eye; it's a great cat—but reckon your money, and I'll go in for the bond."
This strange speech was uttered in a manner at least as strange, and Chancey, without waiting for commentary or interruption, passed into the next room. The step crossed the adjoining chamber, and Ashwoode heard the rustling of papers; it then returned, the door opened, andnotGordon Chancey, but Nicholas Blarden entered the room and confronted Sir Henry Ashwoode. Personal fear in bodily conflict was a thing unknown to the young baronet, but now all courage, all strength forsook him, and he stood gazing in vacant horror upon that, to him, most tremendous apparition, with a face white as ashes, and covered with the starting dews of terror.
With that hideous combination, a smile and a scowl, stamped upon his coarse features, the wretch stood with folded arms, in an attitude of indescribable exultation, gazing with savage, gloating eyes full upon his appalled and terror-stricken victim. Fixed as statues they both remained for several minutes.
"Ho, ho, ho! you look frightened, young man," exclaimed Blarden, with a horse laugh; "you look as if you were going to be hanged—you look as if the hemp were round your neck—you look as if the hangman had you by the collar, you do—ho, ho, ho!"
Ashwoode's bloodless lips moved, but utterance was gone.
"It's hard to get the words out," continued Blarden, with ferocious glee. "I never knew the man yet could do a last dying speech smooth—a sort of choking comes on, eh?—the sight of the minister and the hangman makes a man feel so quare, eh?—and the coffin looks so ugly, and all the crowd; it's confusing somehow, and puts a man out, eh?—ho, ho, ho!"
Ashwoode laid his hand upon his forehead, and gazed on in blank horror.
"Why, you're not such a great man, by half, as you were in the play-house the other evening," continued Blarden; "you don't look so grand, by any manner of means. Some way or other, you look a little sickish or so. I'm afraid you don't like my company—ho, ho, ho!"
Still Sir Henry remained locked in the same stupefied silence.
"Ho, ho! you seem to think your hemp is twisted, and your boards sawed," resumed Blarden; "you seem to think you're in a fix at last—and so do I, by ——!" he thundered, "forIhave the rope fairly round your weasand, and, by —— I'll make you dance upon nothing, at Gallows Hill, before you're a month older. Do you hearthat—do you—you swindler? Eh—you gaol-bird, you common forger, you robber, you crows' meat—who holds the winning cards now?"
"Where—where's the bond?" said Ashwoode, scarce audibly.
"Where's your precious bond, you forger, you gibbet-carrion?" shouted Blarden, exultingly. "Where's your forged bond—the bond that will crack your neck for you—where is it, eh? Why, here—here in my breeches pocket—that'swhere it is. I hope you think it safe enough—eh, you gallows-tassle?"
Yielding to some confused instinctive prompting to recover the fatal instrument, Ashwoode drew his sword, and would have rushed upon his brutal and triumphant persecutor; but Blarden was not unprepared even for this. With the quickness of light, he snatched a pistol from his coat pocket, recoiling, as he did so, a hurried pace or two, and while he turned, coward as he was, pale and livid as death, he levelled it at the young man's breast, and both stood for an instant motionless, in the attitudes of deadly antagonism.
"Put up your sword; I have you there, as well as everywhere else—regularly checkmated, by ——!" shouted Blarden, with the ferocity of half-desperate cowardice. "Put up your sword, I say, and don't be a bloody idiot, along with everything else. Don't you see you're done for?—there's not a chance left you. You're in the cage, and there's no need to knock yourself to pieces against the bars—you're done for, I tell you."
With a mute but expressive gesture of despair, Ashwoode grasped his sword by the slender, glittering blade, and broke it across. The fragments dropped from his hands, and he sunk almost lifeless into a chair—a spectacle so ghastly, that Blarden for a moment thought that death was about to rescue his victim.
"Chancey, come out here," exclaimed Blarden; "the fellow has taken the staggers—come out, will you?"
"Oh! dear me, dear me," said Chancey, in his own quiet way, "but he looks very bad."
"Go over and shake him," said Blarden, still holding the pistol in his hand. "What are you afraid of? He can't hurt you—he has broken his bilbo across—the symbol of gentility. By ——! he's a good deal down in the mouth."
While they thus debated, Ashwoode rose up, looking more like a corpse endowed with motion than a living man.
"Take me away at once," said he, with a sullen wildness—"take me away to gaol, or where you will—anywhere were better than this place. Take me away; I am ruined—blasted. Make the most of it—your infernal scheme has succeeded—take me to prison."
"Oh, murder! he wants to go to gaol—do you hear him, Chancey?" cried Blarden—"such an elegant, fine gentleman to think of such a thing: only to think of a baronet in gaol—and for forgery, too—and the condemned cell such an ungentlemanly sort of a hole. Why, you'd have to use perfumes to no end, to make the place fit for the reception of your aristocratic visitors—my Lord this, and my Lady that—for, of course, you'll keep none but the best of company—ho, ho, ho! Perhaps the judge that's to try you may turn out to be an old acquaintance, for your luck is surprising—isn't it, Chancey?—and he'll pay you a fine compliment, and express his regret when he's going to pass sentence, eh?—ho, ho, ho! But, after all, I'd advise you, if the condescension is not too much to expect from such a very fine gentleman as you, to consort as much as possible with the turnkey—he's the most useful friend you can make, under your peculiarly delicate circumstances—ho, ho!—eh? It's just possible he mayn't like to associate with you, for some of them fellows are rather stiff, d'ye see, and won't keep company with certain classes of the coves in quod, such as forgers or pickpockets; but if he'll allow it, you'd better get intimate with him—ho, ho, ho!—eh?"
"Take me to the prison, sir," said Ashwoode, sternly—"I suppose you mean to do so. Let your officers remove me at once—you have, no doubt, men for the purpose in the next room. Let them call a coach, and I will go with them—but let it be at once."
"Well, you're not far out there, by ——!" replied Blarden. "Ihavea broad-shouldered acquaintance or two, and a little bit of a warrant—you understand?—in the next apartment. Grimes, Grimes, come in here—you're wanted."
A huge, ill-looking fellow, with his coat buttoned up to his chin, and a short pipe protruding from the corner of his mouth, swaggered into the chamber, with that peculiar gait which seems as if contracted by habitually shouldering and jostling through mobs and all manner of riotous assemblies.
"That'sthe bird?" said the fellow, interrogatively, and pointing with his pipe carelessly at Ashwoode. "You're my prisoner," he added, gruffly addressing the unfortunate young man, and at the same time planting his ponderous hand heavily upon his shoulder, he in the other exhibited a crumpled warrant.
"Grimes, go call a coach," said Blarden, "and don't be a brace of shakes about it, do you mind."
Grimes departed, and Blarden, after a long pause, suddenly addressing himself to Ashwoode, resumed, in a somewhat altered tone, but with intenser sternness still,—
"Now, I tell you what it is, my young cove, I have a sort of half a notion not to send you to gaol at all, do you hear?"
"Pshaw, pshaw!" said Ashwoode, turning bitterly away.
"I tell you I'm speaking what I mean," rejoined Blarden; "I'll not send you therenowat any rate. I want to have a bit of chat with you this evening, and it shall rest with you whether you go there at all or not; I'll give you the choice fairly. We'll meet, then, at Morley Court this evening, at eight o'clock; and for fear of accidents in the meantime, you'll have no objection to our mutual friend, Mr. Chancey, and our common acquaintance, Mr. Grimes, accompanying you home in the coach, and just keeping an eye on you till I come, for fear you might be out walking when I call—you understand me? But here's Grimes. Mr. Grimes, my particular friend Sir Henry Ashwoode has taken an extraordinary remarkable fancy to you, and wishes to know whether you'll do him the favour to take a jaunt with him in a carriage to see his house at Morley Court, and to spend the day with him and Mr. Chancey, for he finds that his health requires him to keep at home, and he has a particular objection to be left alone, even for a minute. Sir Henry, the coach is at the door. You'd better bundle up your bank-notes, they may be useful to you. Chancey, tell Sir Henry's groom, as you pass, that he'll not want his horse any more to-day."
The party went out; Sir Henry, pale as death, and scarcely able to support himself on his limbs, walking between Chancey and the herculean constable. Blarden saw them safely shut up in the vehicle, and giving the coachman his orders, gazed after them as they drove away in the direction of Morley Court, with a flushed face and a bounding heart.
CHAPTER XXXVIII.
STRANGE GUESTS AT THE MANOR.
The coach jingled, jolted, and rumbled on, and Ashwoode lay back in the crazy conveyance in a kind of stupefied apathy. The scene which had just closed was, in his mind, a chaos of horrible confusion—a hideous, stunning dream, whose incidents, as they floated through his passive memory, seemed like unreal and terrific exaggerations, into whose reality he wanted energy and power to inquire. Still before him sate a breathing evidence of the truth of all these confused and horrible recollections—the stalwart, ruffianly figure of the constable—with his great red horny hands, and greasy cuffs, and the heavy coat buttoned up to his unshorn chin—and the short, discoloured pipe, protruding from the corner of his mouth—lounging back with half-closed eyes, and the air of a man who had passed the night in wearisome vigils among strife and riot, and who has acquired the compensating power of dividing his faculties at all times pretty nearly between sleep and waking—a kind of sottish, semi-existence—something between that of a swine and a sloth. Over this figure the eyes of the young man vacantly wandered, and thence to the cheerful fields and trees visible from the window, and back again to the burly constable, until every seam and button in his coat grew familiar to his mind as the oldest tenants of his memory. Beside him, too, sate Chancey—his artful, cowardly betrayer. Yet even against him he could not feel anger; all energy of thought and feeling seemed lost to him; and nothing but a dull ambiguous incredulity and a scared stupor were there in their stead. On—on they rolled and rumbled, among pleasant fields and stately hedge-rows, toward the ancestral dwelling of the miserable prisoner, who sate like a lifeless effigy, yielding passively to every jolt and movement of the carriage.
"I say, Grimes, were you ever out here before?" inquired Mr. Chancey. "We'll soon be in the manor, driving up to Morley Court. It's a fine place, I'm given to understand. I never was here but once before, long as I know Sir Henry; but better late than never. Do you know this place, Mr. Grimes?"
A negative grunt and a short nod relieved Mr. Grimes from the painful necessity of removing his pipe for the purpose of uttering an articulate answer.
"Oh, dear me, dear me," resumed Mr. Chancey, "but I'm uncommon hungry and dry. I wish to God we were safe and sound in Sir Henry's house. Grimes, areyoudry?"
Mr. Grimes removed his pipe, and spat upon the coach floor.
"Am I dhry?" said he. "About as dhry as a sprat in a tindher-box, that's all. Is there much more to go?"
Chancey stretched his head out of the coach window.
"I see the old piers of the avenue," said he; "and God knows but it's I that's glad we're near our journey's end. Now we're passing in—we're in the avenue."
Mr. Grimes hereupon uttered a grunt of approbation; and pressing down the ashes of his pipe with his thumb, he deposited that instrument in his waistcoat pocket—whence, at the same time, he drew a small plug of tobacco, which he inserted in his mouth, and rolled it about with his tongue from time to time during the remainder of their progress.
"Sir Henry, we're arrived," said Chancey, admonishing the baronet with his elbow—"we're at the hall-door at Morley Court. Sir Henry—dear me, dear me, he's very abstracted, so he is. I say, Sir Henry, we're at Morley Court."
Ashwoode looked vacantly in Chancey's face, and then upon the stately door of the old house, and suddenly recollecting himself, he said with strange alacrity,—
"Ay, ay—at Morley Court—so we are. Come, then, gentlemen, let us get down."
Accordingly the three companions descended from the conveyance, and entered the ancient dwelling-house together.
"Follow me, gentlemen," said Ashwoode, leading the way to a small, oak-wainscoted parlour. "You shall have refreshments immediately."
He called the servant to the door, and continued addressing himself to Chancey, and his no less refined companion.
"Order what you please, gentlemen—I can't think of these things just now; and, sirrah, do you hear me, bring a large vessel of water—my throat is literally scorched."
"Well, Mr. Chancey, what do you say?" said Grimes. "I'm for a couple of bottles of sack, and a good pitcher of ale, to begin with, in the way of liquor."
"Well, it wouldn't be that bad," said Chancey. "What meat have you on the spit, my good man?"
"I don't exactly know, sir," replied the wondering domestic; "but I'll inquire."
"And see, my good man," continued Chancey, "ask them whether there isn't some cold roast beef in the buttery; and if so, bring it up in a jiffy, for, I declare to G—d I'm uncommon hungry; and let the cook send up a hot joint directly;—and do you mind, my honest man, light a bit of a fire here, for it's rather chill, and put plenty of dry sticks——"
"Give us the ale and the sack this instant minute, do you see," said Mr. Grimes. "You may do the rest after."
"Yes, you may as well," resumed Chancey; "for indeed I'm lost with the drooth myself."
"Cut your stick, saucepan," said Mr. Grimes, authoritatively; and the servant departed in unfeigned astonishment to execute his various commissions.
Ashwoode threw himself into a seat, and in silence endeavoured to collect his thoughts. Faint, sick, and stunned, he nevertheless began gradually to comprehend every particular of his position more and more fully—until at length all the ghastly truth stood revealed to his mind's eye in vivid and glaring distinctness. While Ashwoode was engaged in his agreeable ruminations, Mr. Chancey and Mr. Grimes were busily employed in discussing the substantial fare which his larder had supplied, and pledging one another in copious libations of generous liquor.
CHAPTER XXXIX.
THE BARGAIN, AND THE NEW CONFEDERATES.
At length the evening came—darkness closed over the old place, and as the appointed hour approached, Ashwoode became more and more excited.
"I must," thought he, "keep every faculty intensely on the stretch, to detect, if possible, the nature of their schemes. Blarden and Chancey have unquestionably hatched some other d——d plot, though what worse can befall me?Iam netted as completely as their worst malice can desire. It is now seven o'clock. Another hour will determine all my doubts. Hark you, sirrah!" continued he, raising his voice, and addressing a servant who had entered the chamber, "I expect a gentleman upon particular business at eight o'clock. On his arrival conduct him directly to this room."
He then relapsed into the same train of gloomy and agitated thought.
Chancey and his burly companion both sat snugly before the fire smoking their pipes in silent enjoyment, while their miserable host paced the room from wall to wall in mental torments indescribable.
At length the weary interval expired, and within a few minutes of the appointed hour, Nicholas Blarden was admitted by the servant, and ushered into the chamber in which Ashwoode expected his arrival.
"Well, Sir Henry," exclaimed Blarden, as he swaggered into the room, "you seem a little flustered still—eh? Hope you found your company pleasant. My friends' society is considered uncommon agreeable."
The visitor here threw himself into a chair, and continued—
"By the holy Saint Paul, as I rode up your cursed old dusky avenue, I began to think the chances were ten to one you had brought your throat and a razor acquainted before this. I have known men do it under your circumstances—of course I meangentlemen, with fine friends and delicate habits, and who could not stand exposure and all that kind of thing. I say, Mr. Grimes, my sweet fellow, you may leave the room, but keep within call, do ye mind. Mr. Chancey and I want to have a little confidential conversation with my friend, Sir Henry. Bundle out, and the moment you hear me call your name, bolt in again like a shot."
Mr. Grimes, without answering, rose and lounged out of the room.
"Chancey, shut that door," continued Blarden. "Shut it tight, as tight as a drum. There, to your seat again.Nowthen, Sir Henry, we may as well to business; but first of all, sit down. I have no objection to your sitting. Don't be shy."
Sir Henry Ashwoodedidseat himself, and the three members of this secret council drew their chairs around the table, each with very different feelings.
"I take it for granted," said Blarden, planting his elbow upon the table, and supporting his chin upon his hand, while he fixed his baleful eyes upon the young man, "I take it for granted, and as a matter of course, that you have been puzzling your brains all day to come at the reason why I allow you to be sitting in this house, instead of clapping your four bones under lock and key, in another place."
He paused here, as if to allow his exordium to impress itself upon the memory of his auditory, and then resumed,—
"And I take it for granted, moreover, that you are not quite fool enough to imagine that I care one blast if you were strung up by the hangman, and carved by the doctors, to-morrow—eh?"
He paused again.
"Well, then, it's possible you think I have some end of my own to serve, by letting the matter stand over this way. And so Ihave, by ——. You think right, if you never thought right before. Ihavean object in view, and it lies with you whether it's gained or lost. Do you mind?"
"Go on—go on—go on," repeated Ashwoode, gloomily.
"What a devil of a hurry you're in," observed Blarden, with a scornful chuckle. "But don't tear yourself; you'll have it all time enough. Now I'm going to do great things for you—do you mind me? I'm going, in the first place, to give you your life and your character—such as it is; and, what's more, I'll not let you go to jail for debt neither. I'll not let you be ruined; for Nickey Blarden was never the man to do things by halves. Do you hear all I'm saying?"
"Yes, yes," said Ashwoode, faintly; "but the condition—come to that—the condition."
"Well, Iwillcome to that. I will tell you the terms," rejoined Blarden. "I suppose you need not be told that I am worth a good penny, no matter how much. At any rate I'mrich—that much youdoknow. Well, perhaps you'll think it odd that I have not taken up a little to live more quiet and orderly; in short, that I have not sown my wild oats, and settled down, and all that, and become what they call an ornament to society—eh? You, perhaps, wonder how it comes I have not taken a rib—why I have not got married—eh? Well, I think myself itisa wonder, especially for such an admirer of the sex as I am, and I think it's a pity besides, and so I've made up my mind to mend the matter, do you see, and to take a wife without loss of time. She must have family, for I want that, and she must have beauty, for I would not marry the queen without it—family and beauty. I don't ask money; I have more of my own than I well know what to do with. Family and beauty is what I require. And I have settled the thing in my own mind, that the very article I want, just the thing to a nicety, is your sister—little, bright-eyed Mary—sporting Molly. I wish to marry her, and her I'llhave—and that's the long and the short of the whole business."
"You—youmarry my sister," exclaimed Ashwoode, returning the fellow's insolent gaze with a look of indescribable scorn and astonishment.
"Yes—I—I myself—I, Nicholas Blarden, with more gold than a man could count in three lives," shouted Blarden, returning his gaze with a scowl of defiance—"Icondescend to marry the sister of a ruined, beggared profligate—a commonforger, who has one foot in the dock at this minute. Down upon your marrow-bones, and thank me for my condescension—down, I say."
Overwhelmed with indignation and disgust, Ashwoode could not answer. All his self-command was required to resist his vehement internal impulse to strike the fellow to the ground and trample upon him. This strong emotion, however, had its spring in no generous source. No thought or care for Mary's feelings or fate crossed his mind; but only the sense of insulted pride, for even in the midst of all his misery and abasement, his hereditary pride of birth survived: that this low, this entirely blasted, this branded ruffian should dare to propose to ally himself with the Ashwoodes of Morley Court—a family whose blood was as pure as centuries of aristocratic transmission, and repeated commixture with that of nobility, could make it—a family who stood, in consideration and respect, one of the very highest of the country! Could flesh and blood endure it?
"Make your mind up at once—I have no time to spare; and just remember that the locality of your night's lodging depends upon your decision," said Blarden, coolly, looking at his watch. "If, unfortunately for yourself, you should resolve against the connection, then you must have the goodness to accompany us into town to-night, and the law takes its course quietly with you, and your neck-bone must only reconcile itself to an ugly bit of a twist. If otherwise, you're a made man. Run the matter fairly over in your mind, and see which of us two should desire the thing most. As for me, I tell you plainly, it's a bit of a fancy—no more—and may pass off in a day or two, for I don't pretend to be extraordinarily steady in love affairs, and always had rather a roving eye; and if Ishouldhappen to cool, by ——, you'll be in a nice hobble. So I think you had best take the ball at the hop—do you mind—and make no mouths at your good fortune."
Blarden paused, and looked at his huge chased-gold watch again, and laid it on the table, as if to measure Ashwoode's deliberation by the minute. Meanwhile the young baronet had ample time to recollect the desperate pressure of his circumstances, which outraged pride had for a moment half obliterated from his mind, and the process of remembrance was in no small degree assisted by the heavy tread of the constable, distinctly audible from the hall.
"Blarden," said Ashwoode, in a voice low and husky with agitation, "she'll never consent—you can't expect it: she'll never marry you."
"I'm not talking of the girl's consent just now," replied Blarden: "I'm asking only foryoursin the first place. Am I to understand that you're agreed?"
"Yes," replied Ashwoode, sullenly; "what is there left to me, but to agree?"
"Then leave me alone to gainherconsent," retorted Blarden, with a brutal smile. "I have a bit of a winning way with me—a knack of my own—for coming round a girl; and if she don't yield to that, why we must only try another course. When love is wanting,obedienceis the next best thing: although we can't charm her, she's no girl if we can't frighten her—eh?"
Ashwoode was silent.
"Now mind, I require your active co-operation," continued Blarden; "there's to be no shamming. I'm no greenhorn, and know a loaded die from a fair one. It's not safe to try hocus pocus with me, and if I don't get the girl, of course you're no brother of mine, and must not expect me to forget the old score that's between us. Do you understand me? Unless you bring this marriage about, you must only take the consequences, and I promise you they'll be of the very ugliest possible description."
"Agreed, agreed; talk no more of it just now," said Ashwoode, vehemently—"we understand one another. Tomorrow we may talk of it again; meanwhile torment me no more!"
"Well, I have said my say," rejoined Blarden, "and have nothing more to do but to inform you, that I intend passing the night here, and, in short, to make a visit of a week or so, for it's right the young lady should have an opportunity of knowing my geography before she marries me; and besides, I have heard a great account of old Sir Richard's cellar. Chancey, do you tell my servant to bring my things up to the room that Sir Henry will point out. Sir Henry, you'll see about my room—have a bit of fire in it—see to it yourself, mind; for do you mind, between ourselves, I think it's on the whole your better course to be uncommonly civil to me. Stir yourselves, gentlemen. And, Chancey, hand Grimes his fee, and let him be off. We'll try a jug of your claret, Sir Henry, and a spatchcock, or some little thing of the kind, and then to our virtuous beds—eh?"
After a carousal protracted to nearly three hours, during which Nickey Blarden treated his two companions to sundry ballads, and other vocal efforts somewhat more boisterous than elegant, and supplying frequent allusion, and not of the most delicate kind, to his contemplated change of condition, that interesting person proceeded somewhat unsteadily upstairs to his bed-chamber. With a suspicion, which even his tipsiness could not overcome, he jealously bolted the door upon the inside, and laid his sword and pistols upon the table by his bed, remembering that it was just possible that his entertainer might conceive an expeditious project for relieving himself of all his troubles, or at least the greater part of them. These pleasant precautions taken, Mr. Blarden undressed himself with all celerity and threw himself into bed.
This gentleman's opinion of mankind was by no means exalted, nor at all complimentary to human nature. Utter, hardened selfishness he believed to be the master-passion of the human race, and any appeal which addressed itself to that, he looked upon as irresistible. In applying this rule to Sir Henry Ashwoode he happened, indeed, to be critically correct, for the young baronet was in very nearly all points fashioned precisely according to honest Nickey's standard of humanity. That gentleman experienced, therefore, no misgivings as to his young friend's preferring at all hazards to remain at Morley Court, rather than quit the country, and enter upon a life of vagabond beggary.
"No, no," thought Blarden, "he'll not take leg bail, just because he can gain nothing earthly by it now; the only thing I can see that could serve him at all—that is, supposing him to be against the match—is to cut my throat; however, I don't think he's wild enough to run that risk, and if he does try it, by ——, he'll have the worst of the game."
Thus, after a day of unclouded triumph, did Mr. Blarden compose himself to light and happy slumbers.
CHAPTER XL.
DREAMS—FIRST IMPRESSIONS—THE MAN IN THE PLUM-COLOURED SUIT.
The sun shone cheerily through the casement of the quaint and pretty little chamber which called Mary Ashwoode its mistress. It was a fresh and sunny autumn morning; the last leaves rustled on the boughs, and the thrush and blackbird sang their merry morning lays. Mary sat by the window, looking sadly forth upon the slopes and woods which caught the slanting beams of the ruddy sun.
"I have passed, indeed, a very troubled night—I have been haunted with strange and fearful dreams. I feel very sorrowful and uneasy—indeed, indeed I do, Carey."
"It's only the vapours, my lady," replied the maid; "a glass of orange-flower water and camphor is the sovereignest thing in the world for them."
"Indeed, Carey," continued the young lady, still gazing sadly from the casement, "I know not why it is so—a foolish dream, wild and most extravagant, yet still it will not leave me. I cannot shake off this fear and depression. I will run down stairs and talk with my dear brother—that may cheer me."
She arose, ran lightly down the stairs, and entered the parlour. The first object that met her gaze, standing full before her, was a large and singularly ill-looking man, arrayed in a suit of plum-coloured cloth, richly laced. It was Nicholas Blarden. With a vulgar swagger, half abashed and half impudent, the fellow acknowledged her entrance by retreating a little and making an awkward bow, while a smile and a leer, more calculated to frighten than to attract, lighted his coarse and swollen features. The girl looked at this object with a startled air, she felt that she had seen that sinister face before, but where or when—whether waking or in a dream, she strove in vain to remember.
"I say, Ashwoode, where's your manners?" said Blarden, turning angrily towards the young baronet, who was scarcely less confounded at her sudden entrance than was the girl herself. "What do you stand gaping there for? Don't you see the young lady wants to know who I am?"
Blarden followed this vehement exhortation with a look which at once recalled Ashwoode to his senses.
"Mary," said he, approaching, "this is my particular friend, Mr. Nicholas Blarden. Mr. Blarden, my sister, Miss Mary Ashwoode."
"Your most obedient humble servant, Mistress Mary," said Blarden, with a gallant air. "Wonderful beautiful weather; d—— me, but it's like the middle of summer. I'm just going out to take a bit of a tramp among the bushes and lead goddesses," he added, not feeling, spite of all his effrontery, quite at his ease in the presence of the elegant and high-born girl; and, more confounded and abashed by the simple dignity of her artless nature than he ever remembered to have been before, under any circumstances whatever, he made his exit from the chamber.
"Who is that man?" said the girl, drawing close to her brother's side, and clinging timidly to his arm. "His face is familiar to me—I have seen or dreamed of it before; it has been before me either in some troubled scene or dream. I feel frightened and oppressed when he is near me. Who is he, brother?"
"Pshaw! nonsense, girl," said her brother, in vain attempting to appear unconstrained and at his ease; "he is a very good, honest fellow, not, as you see, the most polished in the world, but in essentials an excellent fellow; you'll easily get over your antipathy—his oddity of manner and appearance is soon forgotten, and in all other points he is an admirable fellow. Pshaw! you have too much sense to hate a man for his face and manner."
"I do not hate him, brother," said Mary, "how could I? The man has never wronged me; but there is something in his eye, in his air and expression, in his whole appearance, sinister and terrible—something which oppresses and terrifies me. I can scarcely move or breathe in his presence. I only hope that I may never meet him so near again."
"Your hope is not likely to be realized, then," replied Ashwoode, abruptly, "he makes a stay here of a week, or perhaps more."
A silence followed, during which he revolved the expediency of hinting at once at the designs of Blarden. As he thus paused, moodily plotting how best to open the subject, the unconscious girl stood beside him, and, looking fondly in his face, she said,—
"Dear brother, you must not be so sad. When all's done, what have we lost but some of the wealth which we can spare? We have still enough, quite enough. You shall live with your poor little sister, and I will take care of you, and read to you, and sing to you whenever you are sad; and we will walk together in the old green woods, and be far happier and merrier than ever we could have been in the midst of cold and heartless luxury and dissipation. Brother, dear brother, when shall we go to Incharden?"
"I can't say; I—I don't know that we shall go there at all," replied he, shortly.
Deep disappointment clouded the poor girl's face for a moment, but as instantly the sweet smile returned, and she laid her hand affectionately upon her brother's shoulder, and looked in his face.
"Well, dear brother, wherever you go, there ismyhome, and there I will be happy—as happy as being with the only creature that cares for me now can make me."
"Perhaps there are others who care for you—ay—even more than I do," said the young man deliberately, and fixing his eyes upon her searchingly, as he spoke.
"How, brother; what do you mean?" said the poor girl, faintly, and turning pale as death. "Have you seen—have you heard from——" She paused, trembling violently, and Ashwoode resumed,—
"No, no, child; I have neither seen nor heard from anyone whom you know anything of. Why are you so agitated? Pshaw! nonsense."
"I know not how it is, brother; I am depressed, and easily agitated to-day," rejoined she; "perhaps it is that I cannot forget a fearful dream which troubled me last night."
"Tut, tut, child," replied he; "I thought you had other matters to think of."
"And so I have, God knows, dear brother," resumed she—"so I have; but this dream haunted me long, and haunts me still; it was about you. I dreamed that we were walking, lovingly, hand in hand, among the shady walks in this old place; when, on a sudden, a great savage dog—just like the old blood-hound you had shot last summer—came, with open jaws and all its fangs exposed, springing towards us. I threw myself, terrified, into your arms, but you grasped me, with iron strength, and held me forth toward the frightful animal. I saw your face; it was changed and horrible. I struggled—I screamed—and awakened, gasping with afright."
"A silly, unmeaning dream," said Ashwoode, slightly changing colour, and turning from her. "You're not such a child, surely, as to letthattrouble you."
"No, indeed, brother," replied she, "I do not suffer it to trouble my mind; but it has fastened somehow upon my imagination, and spite of all I can do, the impression remains—— There—there—see that horrible man staring in at us, from behind the evergreens," she added, glancing at a large, tufted laurel, which partially screened the unprepossessing form of Nicholas Blarden, who was intently watching the youthful pair as they conversed. Perhaps conscious that he had been observed, he quitted his lurking-place, and plunged deeper into the thick screen of foliage.
"Dear Henry," said she, turning imploringly toward her brother, "there is something about that man which frightens me; my heart sickens whenever I see him. I feel like some poor bird under the eye of a hawk. I do not feel safe when he is looking at me; there is some evil influence in his gaze—something bad, satanic, in his look and presence; I dread him instinctively. For God's sake, dear, dear brother, do not keep company with him—he will harm you—it cannot lead to good."
"This is mere folly—downright raving," said Ashwoode, vehemently, but with an uneasiness which he could not conceal. "He is my guest, and will remain so for some weeks. I must be civil to him—bothof us must."
"Surely, dear brother—after all I have said—you will not ask me to associate with him during his stay, since stay he must," urged Mary.
"We ought not to consult our whims at the expense of civility," retorted the baronet, drily.
"But surely my presence is not required," urged she.
"You cannot tell how that may be," replied Ashwoode, abruptly, and then added, abstractedly, as he walked slowly towards the door: "We often speak, we know not what; we often stand, we know not where—necessity, fate, destiny—whatever is,mustbe. Let this be our philosophy, Mary."
Wholly at a loss to comprehend this incoherent speech, his sister remained silent for some minutes.
"Well, child, how say you?" exclaimed Ashwoode, turning suddenly round.
"Dear brother," said she, "I would fain not meet that man any more while he remains here. You will not ask me to come down."
"A truce to this folly," exclaimed Ashwoode, with loud and sudden emphasis. "You must—youmust, I say, appear at breakfast, at dinner, and at supper. You must see Blarden, and talk with him—he'smyfriend—youmustknow him." Then checking himself, he added, in a less vehement tone—"Mary, don'tactlike a fool—youarenone: these silly fancies must not be indulged—remember, he'smyfriend. There, there, be a good girl—no more folly."
He came over, patted her cheek, and then turned abruptly from her, and left the room. His parting caress, however, was not sufficient to obliterate the painful impression which his momentary violence had left, for in that brief space of angry excitement his countenance had worn the self-same sinister expression which had appalled her in her last night's dream.