CHAPTER LVII.
THE CHAPLAIN'S ARRIVAL AT MORLEY COURT—THE KEY—AND THE BOOZE IN THE BOUDOIR.
The hall door was opened to the summons of the two gentlemen by no less a personage than Nicholas Blarden himself, who, having carefully locked it again, handed the key to his accomplice, Gordon Chancey.
"Here, take it, Gordy, boy," exclaimed he, "I make you porter for the term of the honeymoon. Keep the gates well, old boy, and never let the keys out of your pocket unless I tell you. And so," continued he, treating the Reverend Ebenezer Shycock to a stare which took in his whole person, "you have caught the doctor and landed him fairly. Doctor—what's your name? no matter—it's a delightful turn-up for a sinner like me to have the heavenly consolation of your pious company. Follow me in here; I dare say your reverence would not object to a short interview with the brandy flask, or something of the kind—even saints must wet their whistles now and again."
So saying, Blarden led the way into the parlour.
"Here, guzzle away, old gentleman, there's plenty of the stuff here," said Blarden, "only beware how you make a beast of yourself. You mustn't tie up your red rag, do you mind? We'll want you to stand and read; and if you just keep senses enough for that, you may do whatever you like with the rest."
The clergyman nodded, and with a single sweep of his grey eyes, took in the contents of the whole table. His shaking hand quickly grasped the neck of the brandy flask, and he filled out and quaffed a comforting bumper.
"Now, take it easy, do, or, by Jove, you'll notkeeptill evening," said Blarden. "Chancey, have an eye on the parson, for his mind's so intent on heaven that he may possibly forget where he is and what he's doing. After dinner, Ashwoode and I have to go into town—some matters that must be wound up before the evening's entertainment begins—we'll be out, however, at eight o'clock or so. And mind this," he continued, gripping the barrister's shoulder in his hand with an energizing pressure, and speaking into his ear to secure attention, "you know that little room upstairs wherein we had the bit of chat with my lady love—the—the boudoir, I think they call it—now, mind me well—when the dusk comes on, do you and his reverence there take your pipes and your brandy, or whatever else you're amusing yourselves with at the time, and sit in that same room together, so that not a mouse can cross the floor unknown to you. Don't forget this, for we can't be too sharp. Do you hear me, old Lucifer?"
"Never fear, never fear," rejoined Mr. Chancey. "The Reverend Ebenezer and I will spend the evening there—and, indeed, I declare to God, it's a very neat little room, so it is, for a quiet pipe and a pot of sack."
"Well, that's a point settled," rejoined Blarden. "And do you mind me, don't let that beastly old sot knock himself up before we come home. Do you hear me, old scarecrow," he continued, poking the reverend doctor somewhere about the region of the abdomen with the hilt of his sword, which he was adjusting at his side, and addressing himself to that gentleman, "if I find you drunk when I return this evening, I'll make it your last bout—I'll tap the brandy, old tickle pitcher, and stave the cask, and send you to seek your fortune in the other world. Mind my words—I'm not given to joking when I have real business on hand; and faith, you'll find me as ready todoas to promise."
So saying, he left the room.
"A rum cove, that, upon my little word," said the Reverend Ebenezer Shycock, filling out another bumper of his beloved cordial. "Take the bottle away at once; lock it up, my fellow-worm, lock it up, or I'll be at it again. Lock it up while I have this glass in my hand, or I must have another, and that might be—might, I say—possiblymight—but d——n it, no, it can't—I will have one more." And so saying, with desperate resolution, he quaffed what he had already in his hand and filled out another.
Chancey did not wait till he had repeated his mandate, but quietly removed the seductive flask and placed it beyond the reach and the sight of his clerical friend, who, feeling himself a little pleasant, sat down before the hearth, and in a voice whose tone nearly resembled that of a raven labouring under an affection of the chest, he chaunted through his nose, with many significant winks and grimaces, a ditty at that time in high acceptance among the votaries of vice and license, and whose words were such as even the 'Old St. Columbkill' would hardly have tolerated. This performance over—which, by the way, Chancey relished in his own quiet way with intense enjoyment—the reverend gentleman, composed himself for a doze for several hours, from which he aroused himself to eat and to drink a little more.
Thus pleasantly the day wore on, until at length the sun descended in glory behind the far-off blue hills, and the pale twilight began to herald the approach of night.
That day Mary Ashwoode appeared to have lost all energy of thought and feeling; she lay pale and silent upon her bed, seeming scarcely conscious even of the presence of her faithful attendant. From the moment of her yesterday's interview with Blarden, and the meeting with her brother, she had been thus despairing and stupefied. Flora Guy sat in the window, sometimes watching the pale face of the wretched lady, and at others looking out upon the old woodlands and the great avenue, darkened among its double rows of huge old limes. As the day wore on she suddenly exclaimed,—
"Oh, my lady, here's a gentleman coming with Mr. Chancey up the avenue, I see them between the trees, and the coach driving away."
"Can it—canit be?" exclaimed Mary, starting wildly up in the bed—"is it he?"
"It's a little stout gentleman, with a red pimply face—they're talking under the window now, my lady; he has a band on, and a black gown across his arm—as sure as daylight, my lady—he is—blessed hour; heisa parson."
Mary Ashwoode did not speak, but the momentary flash of hope faded from her face, and was succeeded by a paleness so deadly that lips and cheeks looked bloodless as the marble lineaments of a statue; in dull and silent despair she sank again where she had lain before.
"Don't fear them, my lady," said the poor girl, placing herself by the bedside where, more like a corpse than a living being, her hapless mistress lay; "I will not leave you, and though they may threaten, they dare not hurt you—don't fear them, my lady."
The blanched cheeks and evident excitement of the honest maiden, however, too clearly belied her words of encouragement.
Twice or thrice the girl, in the course of the day, locking the door of her mistress's chamber, according to the orders of Nicholas Blarden and his confederates, but less in obedience to them than for the sake ofhersecurity, ran downstairs to learn whatever could be gathered from the servants of the intended movements of the conspirators; each time, as she descended the stairs, the parlour bell was rung, and a servant encountered her before she had well reached the hall; and Mr. Chancey, too, with his hands in his pockets, and his cunning eyes glittering suspiciously through their half-closed lids, would meet and question her before she passed: were ever sentinels more vigilant—was eversurveillancemore jealous and complete?
During these excursions she picked up whatever was to be learned of the intentions of those in whose power her young mistress now helplessly and despairingly lay.
"Sir Henry Ashwoode and Mr. Blarden is gone to town together, my lady," said the maid, in a whisper, for she felt the vigilance of Chancey and his creatures might pursue her even to the chamber where she stood; "they'll not be out till about eight o'clock, my lady, at the soonest, maybe not till near nine or ten; at any rate it will be dark long before they come, and God knows what may turn up before then—don't lose heart, my lady—don't give up."
In vain, entirely in vain, however, were the words of hope and courage spoken; they fell cold and dead upon the palsied senses and stricken heart of despairing terror. Mary Ashwoode scarcely understood, and seemed not even to have heard them.
As the evening approached the poor girl made another exploring ramble, in the almost desperate speculation that she might possibly hit upon something which might suggest even a hint of some mode of escape. Having encountered Chancey and one of the serving men, as usual, and passed her examination, she crossed the large old hall, and without any definite pre-determination, entered Sir Henry's study, where he and Blarden had been sitting, and carelessly thrown upon the table a large key. For a moment she could scarcely believe her eyes, and her heart bounded high with hope as she grasped it quickly and rolled it in her apron—"Could it be the key of one of the doors through which alone liberty was to be regained?" With a deliberate step, which strangely belied her restless anxiety, she passed the door within which Chancey was sitting, and ascended to the young lady's chamber.
"My lady, is this it?" exclaimed she, almost breathless with excitement, and holding the key before the lady's face.
Mary Ashwoode with a momentary eagerness glanced at it.
"No, no," said she, faintly, "I know all the keys of the outer doors; it was I who brought them to my father every night; but this is none of them—no, no, no, no." There was a dulness and apathy upon the young lady, and a seeming insensibility to everything—to hope, to danger—to all, in short, which had intensely interested every faculty of mind and feeling but the day before—which frightened and dismayed her humble friend.
"Don't, my lady—don't give up—oh, sure you won't lose heart entirely; see if I won't think of something—never mind, if I don't think of some way or another yet."
The red discoloured tints of evening were now fading from the landscape, and rapidly giving place to the dim twilight—the harbinger of a night of dangers, terrors, and adventures; and as the poor maiden sat by the young lady's side, with a heart full of dark and ominous foreboding, she heard the door of the outer chamber—the little boudoir which we have often had occasion to mention—opened, and two persons entered it.
"They are here—they are come. Oh, God! they are here," exclaimed Mary Ashwoode, clasping her small hand in terror round the girl's wrist.
"The door's locked, my lady," said the girl, scarcely less terrified than her mistress; "they can't come in without letting us know first.' So saying, she ran to the door and peeped through the keyhole, to reconnoitre the party, and then stepping on tip-toe to the young lady, who, more dead than alive, was sitting by the bed-side, she said in a whisper,—
"Who do you think it is, ma'am? blessed hour! my lady, who should it be but that lawyer gentleman—that Mr. Chancey, and the old parson—they are settling themselves at the table."
Mr. Gordon Chancey and the Reverend Ebenezer Shycock were determined to make themselves comfortable in their new quarters. Accordingly they heaped wood and turf upon the expiring fire, and compelled the servant to ply the kitchen bellows, until the hearth crackled and roared again; then drawing the table to the fire-side—a pretty little work-table of poor Mary's—now covered with brandy-flasks, pieces of tobacco, pipes, and the other apparatus of their coarse debauch—the two worthies, illuminated by a pair of ponderous wax-candles, and by the blaze of a fire, and having drawn the curtains, sat themselves down and commenced their jolly vigils.
Chancey possessed the rare faculty of preserving his characteristic cunning throughout every phase and stage of intoxication short of absolute insensibility; on the present occasion, however, he was resolved not to put this convenient accomplishment to the test. The goodwill of Nicholas Blarden was too lucrative a possession to be lightly parted with, and he could not afford to hazard it by too free an indulgence upon the present important occasion; he therefore conducted his assaults upon the bottle with a very laudable abstemiousness. Not so, however, his clerical companion; he, too, had, in connection with his convivial frailties, a compensating gift of his own; he possessed, in an eminent degree, the power of recovering his intellects upon short notice from the influence of brandy, and of descending almost at a single bound from the loftiest altitude of drunken inspiration to the dull insipid level of ordinary sobriety; all he asked was fifteen minutes to bring himself to. He used to say with becoming pride—"If I could have done it inten, I'd have been a bishop by this time; butdis aliter visum; I had not time one forenoon; being wapper-eyed, I was five minutes short of my allowance to get right, consequently officiated oddly—fell on my back on the way out, and couldn't get up; but what signifies it? I'm better off, as matters stand, ten to one; so here goes, my fellow-sinner, to it again; one brimmer more."
The reverend doctor, therefore, was much less cautious than his companion, and soon began to exhibit very unequivocal symptoms of a declension in his intellectual and physical energies, and a more than corresponding elevation in his hilarious spirits.
"I say," said Chancey, "my good man, you'd better stop; you have too much in as it is; they'll be here before half-an-hour, and if Mr. Blarden finds you this way, I declare to God I think he'll crack your neck down the staircase."
"Well, dearly beloved," said the clerical gentleman, "I believe youareright; I'll bring myself to. Iama little heavy-eyed or so; all I ask for is a towel and cold water." So saying, with many a screw of the lips, and many a hiccough, he made an effort to rise, but tumbled back—with an expression of the most heavenly benevolence—into his chair, knocking his head with an audible sound upon the back of it, and at the same time overturning one of the candles.
"Pull the bell, dearly beloved," said he, with a smile and a hiccough—"a basin of water and a towel."
"Devil broil you, for a drunken beast," said Chancey, seriously alarmed at the condition of the couple-beggar; "he'll never be fit for his work to-night."
"Fifteen minutes, neither more nor less," hiccoughed the divine, with the same celestial smile—"towel, basin of cold water, and fifteen minutes."
Chancey did procure the cold water and a napkin, which, being laid before the clergyman, he proceeded with much deliberation, while various expressions of stupendous solemnity and beaming benevolence flitted in beautiful alternations across his expressive countenance, to prepare them for use. He doffed his wig, and first bathing his head, face, and temples completely in the cool liquid, saturated the towel likewise therein, and wound it round his shorn head in the fashion of a Turkish turban; having accomplished which feat, he leaned back in his chair, closed his eyes, and became, to all intents and purposes, for the time being, stone dead.
Leaving his reverend companion undisturbed to the operation of his own hydropathic treatment, Gordon Chancey drew his seat near to the fire, and filling his pipe anew with tobacco, leaned back in the chair, crossed his legs, and more than half closing his eyes, prepared himself luxuriously for what he called "a raal elegant draw of particular pigtail."
CHAPTER LVIII.
THE SIGNAL.
Flora Guy peeped eagerly through the keyhole of her lady's chamber into the little apartment in which the two boon companions were seated. After reconnoitring for a very long time, she moved lightly to her mistress's side, and said, in a low but distinct tone,—
"Now, my lady, you must get up and rouse yourself—for God's sake, mistress dear, shake off the heaviness that's over you, and we have a chance left still."
"Are they not in the next room to us?" inquired Mary.
"Yes, my lady," replied the maid, "but the parson gentleman is drunk or asleep, and Mr. Chancey is there alone—and—and has the four keys beside him on the table; don't be frightened, my lady, do you stay quite quiet, and I'll go into the room."
Mary Ashwoode made no answer, but pressed the poor girl's hand in her cold fingers, and without moving, almost without breathing, awaited the result. Flora Guy, meanwhile, opened the door, and passed into the outer apartment, assuming, as she did so, an air of easy and careless indifference. Chancey turned as she entered the room, fanning the smoke of his tobacco pipe aside with his hand, and eying her with a jealous glance.
"Well, my little girl," said he, "and what makes you leave your young lady, my dear?"
"An' is a body never to get an instant minute to themselves?" rejoined she, with an indignant toss of her head; "why then, I tell you what it is, Mr. Chancey, I'm tired to death, so I am, sitting in that little room the whole blessed day, and not a word, good or bad, will the young lady say—she's gone stupid like."
"Is the door locked?" said Chancey, suspiciously, and at the same time rising and approaching the young lady's chamber.
As he did so, Flora Guy, availing herself instantly of this averted position, snatched up, without waiting to choose, one of the four great keys which lay upon the table, and replaced it dexterously with that which she had but a short time before shown to her mistress; in doing so, however, spite of all her caution, a slight clank was audible.
"Well,isit locked?" inquired the damsel, hoping by the loud tone in which she uttered the question to drown the suspicious sounds which threatened her schemes with instant detection.
"Yes, it is locked," rejoined Chancey, glancing quickly at the keys; "but what do you want there? move off from my place, will you?" and shambling to the table he hastily gathered the four keys in his grasp, and thrust them into his deep coat pocket.
"You're in a mighty quare humour, so you are, Mr. Chancey," said the girl, affecting a saucy tone, through which, had his ear been listening for the sound, he might have detected the quaver of extreme agitation, "you usedn't to be so cross by no means at the Columbkil, but mighty pleasant, so you used."
"Well, my little girl," said Chancey, whose suspicions were now effectually quieted, "I declare to God you're the first that ever said I was bad tempered, so you are—will you have something to drink?"
"What have you there, Mr. Chancey?" inquired she.
"This is brandy, my little girl, and this is sack, dear," rejoined Chancey, "both of them elegant; you must have whichever you like—which will you choose, dear?"
"Well, then, I'll have a little drop of the sack, mulled, I thank you, Mr. Chancey," replied she.
"There's nothing to mull it in here, my little girl," objected the barrister.
"Oh, but I'll get it in a minute though," replied she, "I'll run down for a saucepan."
"Well, dear, run away," replied he, "but don't be long, for Miss Ashwoode might want you, my little girl, and it wouldn't do if you were out of the way, you know."
Without waiting to hear the end of this charge, Flora Guy ran down the staircase, and speedily returned with the utensil required.
"Maybe I'd better go in for a minute first, and see if she wants me," suggested the girl.
"Very well, my dear," replied Chancey.
And accordingly, she turned the key in the chamber door, closed it again, and stood by the young lady's side; such was her agitation that for three or four seconds she could not speak.
"My lady," at length she said, "I have one of the keys—when I go in next I'll leave your room door unlocked, only closed just, and no more—the lobby door is ajar—I left it that way this very minute; and when you hear me saying 'the sack's upset!'—do you open your door, and cross the room as quick as light, and out on the lobby, and stop by the stairs, my lady, and I'll follow you as fast as I can. Here, my lady," continued the poor girl, bringing a small box from her mistress's toilet; "your rings, my lady—they'll be wanted—mind, your rings, my lady—there is the little case, keep it in your pocket; if we escape, my lady, they'll be wanted—mind, Mr. Chancey has ears like needle points. Keep up your heart, my lady, and in the name of God we'll try this chance."
"Into His hands I commit myself," said the young lady, with a tone and air of more firmness and energy than she had shown for days; "my heart is strengthened, my courage comes again—oh, thank God, I am equal to this dreadful hour."
Flora Guy made a gesture of silence, and then, opening the door briskly, and shutting it again with an ostentatious noise, and drawing the key from the lock, she crossed the room to where Chancey, who had watched her entrance, was sitting.
"Well, my dear," said he, "how is that delicate young lady in there?"
"Why, she's raythur bad, I'm afraid," rejoined the girl; "she's the whole day long in a sort of a heavy dulness like—she don't seem to mind anything."
"So much the better, my dear," said Chancey, "she'll be the less inclined to gad, or to be troublesome—come, mix the spices and the sugar, dear, and settle the liquor in the saucepan—you want some refreshment, so you do, for I declare to God, I never saw anyone so pale in all my life as you are this minute."
"I'll not be long so," said the girl, affecting a tone of briskness, and proceeding to mingle the ingredients in the little saucepan, "for I think if I was dead itself, let alone a little bit tired, a cup of mulled sack would cheer me up again."
So saying, she placed the little saucepan on the bar.
"Is the parson asleep?" inquired she.
"Indeed, my dear, I'm very much afraid it's tipsy he is," drawled Chancey, demurely, "take care of that clergyman, my dear, for indeed I'm afraid he has very loose conduct."
"Will I blacken his nose with a burned cork?" inquired she.
"Oh! no, my little girl," replied Chancey, with a tranquil chuckle, and turning his sleepy grey eyes upon the apoplectic visage of the stupefied drunkard who sat bolt upright before him; "no, no, we don't know the minute he may be wanted; he'll have to perform the ceremony very soon, my dear; and Mr. Blarden, if he took the fancy, would think nothing of braining half a dozen of us. I declare to God he wouldn't."
"Well, Mr. Chancey, will you mind the little saucepan for one minute," said she, "while I'm putting a bit of turf or a few sticks under it."
"Indeed I will," said he, turning his eyes lazily upon the utensil, but doing nothing more to secure it. Flora Guy accordingly took some wood, and, pretending to arrange the fire, overturned the wine; the loud hiss of the boiling liquid, and the sudden cloud of whirling steam and ashes, ascending toward the ceiling, and puffing into his face, half confounded the barrister, and at the same instant, Flora Guy, clapping her hands, and exclaimed with a shrill cry,—
"The sack's upset! the sack's upset!lend a hand, Mr. Chancey—Mr. Chancey, do you hear?" and, while thus conjured, the barrister, in obedience to her vociferous appeal, made some indistinct passes at the saucepan with the poker, which he had grasped at the first alarm; the damsel, without daring to look directly where every feeling would have riveted her eyes, beheld a dark form glide noiselessly behind Chancey, and pass from the room. For the moment, so intense was her agony of anxiety, she felt upon the very point of fainting; in an instant more, however, she had recovered all her energies, and was bold and quick-witted as ever; one glance in the direction of the lady's chamber showed her the door slowly swinging open; fortunately the barrister was at the moment too much occupied with the extraction of the remainder of the saucepan from the fire, to have yet perceived the treacherous accident, one glance at which would have sealed their ruin, and Flora Guy, running noiselessly to the door, remedied the perilous disclosure by shutting it softly and quickly; and then, with much clattering of the key, and a good deal of pushing beside, forcing it open again, she passed into the room and spoke a little in a low tone, as if to her mistress; and then, returning, she locked the door of the then untenanted chamber in real earnest, and, crossing to Chancey, said:—"I wonder at you, so I do, Mr. Chancey; you frightened the young mistress half out of her wits; and I'm all over dust and ashes; I must run down and wash every inch of my face and hands, so I must; and here, Mr. Chancey, will you keep the key of the bed-room till I come back? afraid I might drop it; and don't let it out of your hands."
Glide noiselessly behind Chancey.
"Glide noiselessly behind Chancey."To face page 293.
"I will indeed, dear; but don't be long away," rejoined the barrister, extending his hand to receive the key of the now vacant chamber.
So Flora Guy boldly walked forth upon the lobby, and closing the chamber door behind her, found herself in the vast old gallery, hung round with grim and antique portraits, and lighted only by the fitful beams of a clouded moon shining doubtfully through the stained glass of a solitary window.
Mary Ashwoode awaited her approach, concealed in a small recess or niche in the wall, shrined like an image in the narrow enclosure of carved oak, not daring to stir, and with a heart throbbing as though it would burst.
"My lady, are you there?" whispered the maid, scarce audibly; great nervous excitement renders the sense morbidly acute, and Mary Ashwoode heard the sound distinctly, faint though it was, and at some distance from her; she stepped falteringly from her place of concealment, and took the hand of her conductress in a grasp cold as that of death itself, and side by side they proceeded down the broad staircase. They had descended about half-way when a loud and violent ringing from the bell of the chamber where Chancey was seated made their very hearts bound with terror; they stood fixed and breathless on the stair where the fearful peal had first reached their ears. Again the summons came louder still, and at the same moment the sounds of steps approached from below, and the gleam of a candle quickly followed; Mary Ashwoode felt her ears tingle and her head swim with terror; she was on the point of sinking upon the floor. In this dreadful extremity her presence of mind did not forsake Flora Guy: disengaging her hand from that of her terrified mistress, she tripped lightly down the stairs to meet the person who was approaching—a turn in the staircase confronted them, and she saw before her the serving man whose treachery had already defeated Mary Ashwoode's hopes of deliverance.
"What keeps you such a time answering the bell?" inquired she, saucily, "you needn't go up now, for I've got your message; bring up clean cups and a clean saucepan, for everything's destroyed with the dust and dirt Mr. Chancey's after kicking up; what did he do, do you think, but upsets the sack into the fire. Now be quick with the things, will you? the bell won't be easy one minute till they're done."
"Give me a kiss, sweet lips," exclaimed the man, setting down his candle, "and I'll not be a brace of shakes about the message; come, youmust," he continued, playfully struggling with the affrighted girl.
"Well, do the message first, at any rate," said she, forcing herself, with some difficulty, from his grasp, as the bell rang a third time; "it will be a nice piece of business, so it will, if Mr. Chancey comes down and catches you here, pulling me about, so it will, you'll look well, won't you, when he's telling it to Mr. Blarden?—don't be a fool."
The reiterated application to the bell had more effect upon the serving man than all her oratory, and muttering a curse or two, he ran down, determined, vindictively, to bring up soiled cups, and a dirty saucepan. The man had hardly departed, when the maid exclaimed, in a hurried whisper, "Come—come—quick—quick, for your life!" and with scarcely the interval of three seconds, they found themselves in the hall.
"Here's the key, my lady; see which of the doors does it open," whispered she, exhibiting the key in the dusky and imperfect light.
"Here—here—this way," said Mary Ashwoode, moving with weak and stumbling steps through a tiled lobby which opened upon the great hall, and thence along a narrow passage upon which several doors opened. "Here, here," she exclaimed, "this door—this—I cannot open it—my strength is gone—this is it—for God's sake, quickly."
After two or three trials, Flora Guy succeeded in getting the key into the lock, and then exerting the whole strength of her two hands, with a hoarse jarring clang the bolt revolved, the door opened, and they stood upon the fresh and dewy sward, beneath the shadow of the old ivy-mantled walls. The girl locked the door upon the outside, fearful that its lying open should excite suspicion, and flung the key away into the thick weeds and brushwood.
"Now, my lady, the shortest way to the high road?" inquired Flora in a hurried whisper, and supporting, as well as she could, the tottering steps of her mistress, "how do you feel, my lady? Don't lose heart now, a few minutes more and you will be safe—courage—courage, my lady."
"I am better now, Flora," said Mary faintly, "much better—the cool air refreshes me." As she thus spoke, her strength returned, her step grew fleeter and firmer, and she led the way round the irregular ivy-clothed masses of the dark old building and through the stately trees that stood gathered round it. Over the unequal sward they ran with the light steps of fear, and under the darksome canopy of the vast and ancient linden-trees, gliding upon the smooth grass like two ghosts among the chequered shade and dusky light. On, on they sped, scarcely feeling the ground beneath their feet as they pursued their terrified flight; they had now gained the midway distance in the ancient avenue between the mansion and great gate, and still ran noiselessly and fleetly along, when the quick ear of Mary Ashwoode caught the distant sounds of pursuit.
"Flora—Flora—oh, God! we are followed," gasped the young lady.
"Stop an instant, my lady," rejoined the maid, "let us listen for a second."
They did pause, and distinctly, between them and the old mansion, they heard, among the dry leaves with which in places the ground was strewn, the tread of steps pursuing at headlong speed.
"It is—it is, I hear them," said Mary distractedly.
"Now, my lady, we must run—run for our lives; if we but reach the road before them, we may yet be saved; now, my lady, for God's sake don't falter—don't give up."
And while the sounds of pursuit grew momentarily louder and more loud, they still held their onward way with throbbing hearts, and eyes almost sightless with fatigue and terror.
CHAPTER LIX.
HASTE AND PERIL.
The rush of feet among the leaves grew every moment closer and closer upon them, and now they heard the breathing of their pursuer—the sounds came near—nearer—they approached—they reached them.
"Oh, God! they are up with us—they are upon us," said Mary, stumbling blindly onward, and at the same moment she felt something laid heavily upon her shoulder—she tottered—her strength forsook her, and she fell helplessly among the branching roots of the old trees.
"My lady—oh, my lady—thank God, it's only the dog," cried Flora Guy, clapping her hands in grateful ecstasies; and at the same time, Mary felt a cold nose thrust under her neck and her chin and cheeks licked by her old favourite, poor Rover. More dead than alive, she raised herself again to her feet, and before her sat the great old dog, his tail sweeping the rustling leaves in wide circles, and his good-humoured tongue lolling from among his ivory fangs. With many a frisk and bound the fine dog greeted his long-lost mistress, and seemed resolved to make himself one of the party.
"No, no, poor Rover," said Mary, hurriedly—"we have rambled our last together—home, Rover, home."
The old dog looked wonderingly in the face of his mistress.
"Home, Rover—home," repeated she, and the noble dog did credit to his good training by turning dejectedly, and proceeding at a slow, broken trot homeward, after stopping, however, and peeping round his shoulder, as though in the hope of some signal relentingly inviting his return.
Thus relieved of their immediate fears, the two fugitives, weak, exhausted, and breathless, reached the great gate, and found themselves at length upon the high road. Here they ventured to check their speed, and pursue their way at a pace which enabled them to recover breath and strength, but still fearfully listening for any sound indicative of pursuit.
The moon was high in the heavens, but the dark, drifting scud was sailing across her misty disc, and giving to her light the character of ceaseless and ever varying uncertainty. The road on which they walked was that which led to Dublin city, and from each side was embowered by tall old trees, and rudely fenced by unequal grassy banks. They had proceeded nearly half-a-mile without encountering any living being, when they heard, suddenly, a little way before them, the sharp clang of horses' hoofs upon the road, and shortly after, the moon shining forth for a moment, revealed distinctly the forms of two horsemen approaching at a slow trot.
"As sure as light, my lady, it's they," said Flora Guy, "I know Sir Henry's grey horse—don't stop, my lady—don't try to hide—just draw the hood over your head, and walk on steady with me, and they'll never mind us, but pass on."
With a throbbing heart, Mary obeyed her companion, and they walked side by side by the edge of the grassy bank and under the tall trees—the distance between them and the two mounted figures momentarily diminishing.
"I say he's as lame as a hop-jack," cried the well-known voice of Nicholas Blarden, as they approached—"hav'n't you an eye in your head, you mouth, you—look there—another false step, by Jove."
Just at this moment the girls, looking neither to the right nor left, and almost sinking with fear, were passing them by.
"Stop you, one of you, will you?" said Blarden, addressing them, and at the same time reining in his horse.
Flora Guy stopped, and making a slight curtsey, awaited his further pleasure, while Mary Ashwoode, with faltering steps and almost dead with terror, walked slowly on.
"Have you light enough to see a stone in a horse's hoof, my dimber hen?—have you, I say?"
"Yes, sir," faltered the girl, with another curtsey, and not venturing to raise her voice, for fear of detection.
"Well, look into them all in turn, will you?" continued Blarden, "while I walk the beast a bit. Do you see anything? is there a stone there?—is there?"
"No, sir," said she again, with a curtsey.
"No, sir," echoed he—"but I say 'yes, sir,' and I'll take my oath of it. D——n it, it can't be a strain. Get down, Ashwoode, I say, and look to it yourself; these blasted women are fit for nothing but darning old stockings—get down, I say, Ashwoode."
Without awaiting for any more formal dismissal, Flora Guy walked quickly on, and speedily overtook her companion, and side by side they continued to go at the same moderate pace, until a sudden turn in the road interposing trees and bushes between them and the two horsemen, they renewed their flight at the swiftest pace which their exhausted strength could sustain; and need had they to exert their utmost speed, for greater dangers than they had yet escaped were still to follow.
Meanwhile Nicholas Blarden and Sir Henry Ashwoode mended their pace, and proceeded at a brisk trot toward the manor of Morley Court. Both rode on more than commonly silent, and whenever Blarden spoke, it was with something more than his usual savage moroseness. No doubt their rapid approach to the scene where their hellish cruelty and oppression were to be completed, did not serve either to exhilarate their spirits or to soothe the asperities of Blarden's ruffian temper. Now and then, indeed, he did indulge in a few flashes of savage exulting glee at his anticipated triumph over the hereditary pride of Sir Henry, against whom, with all a coward's rancour, he still cherished a "lodged hate," and in mortifying and insulting whom his kestrel heart delighted and rioted with joy. As they approached the ancient avenue, as if by mutual consent, they both drew bridle and reduced their pace to a walk.
"You shall be present and give her away—do you mind?" said Blarden, abruptly breaking silence.
"There's no need for that—surely there is none?" said Ashwoode.
"Need or no need, it's my humour," replied Blarden.
"I've suffered enough already in this matter," replied Sir Henry, bitterly; "there's no use in heaping gratuitous annoyances and degradation upon me."
"Ho, ho, running rusty," exclaimed Blarden, with the harsh laugh of coarse insult—"running rusty, eh? I thought you were broken in by this time—paces learned and mouth made, eh?—take care, take care."
"I say," repeated Ashwoode, impetuously, "you can have no object in compelling my presence, except to torment me."
"Well, suppose I allow that—what then, eh?—ho, ho!" retorted Blarden.
Sir Henry did not reply, but a strange fancy crossed his mind.
"I say," resumed Blarden, "I'll have no argument about it; I choose it, and what I choose must be done—that's enough."
The road was silent and deserted; no sound, save the ringing of their own horses' hoofs upon the stones, disturbed the stillness of the air; dark, ragged clouds obscured the waning moon, and the shadows were deepened further by the stooping branches of the tall trees which guarded the road on either side. Ashwoode's hand rested upon the pommel of his holster pistol, and by his side moved the wretch whose cunning and ferocity had dogged and destroyed him—with startling vividness the suggestion came. His eyes rested upon the dusky form of his companion, all calculations of consequences faded away from his remembrance, and yielding to the dark, dreadful influence which was upon him, he clutched the weapon with a deadly gripe.
"What are you staring at me for?—am I a stone wall, eh?" exclaimed Blarden, who instinctively perceived something odd in Ashwoode's air and attitude, spite of the obscurity in which they rode.
The spell was broken. Ashwoode felt as if awaking from a dream, and looked fearfully round, almost expecting to behold the visible presence of the principle of mischief by his side, so powerful and vivid had been the satanic impulse of the moment before.
They turned into the great avenue through which so lately the fugitives had fearfully sped.
"We're at home now," cried Blarden; "come, be brisk, will you?" And so saying, he struck Ashwoode's horse a heavy blow with his whip. The spirited animal reared and bolted, and finally started at a gallop down the broad avenue towards the mansion, and at the same pace Nicholas Blarden also thundered to the hall door.
CHAPTER LX.
THE UNTREASURED CHAMBER.
Their obstreperous summons at the door was speedily answered, and the two cavaliers stood in the hall.
"Well, all's right, I suppose?" inquired Blarden, tossing his gloves and hat upon the table.
"Yes, sir," replied the servant, "all but the lady's maid; Mr. Chancey's been calling for her these five minutes and more, and we can't find her."
"How's this—all the doors locked?" inquired Blarden vehemently.
"Ay, sir, every one of them," replied the man.
"Who has the keys?" asked Blarden.
"Mr. Chancey, sir," replied the servant.
"Did he allow them out of his keeping—did he?" urged Blarden.
"No, sir—not a moment—for he was saying this very minute," answered the domestic, "he had them in his pocket, and the key of Miss Mary's room along with them; he took it from Flora Guy, the maid, scarce a quarter of an hour ago."
"Then allisright," said Blarden, while the momentary blackness of suspicion passed from his face, "the girl's in some hole or corner of this lumbering old barrack, but here comes Chancey himself, what's all the fuss about—who's in the upper room—the—the boudoir, eh?" he continued, addressing the barrister, who was sneaking downstairs with a candle in his hand, and looking unusually sallow.
"The Reverend Ebenezer and one of the lads—they're sitting there," answered Chancey, "but we can't find that little girl, Flora Guy, anywhere."
"Have you the keys?" asked Blarden.
"Ay, dear me, to be sure I have, except the one that I gave to little Bat there, to let you in this minute. I have the three other keys; dear me—dear me—what could ail me?" And so saying, Chancey slapped the skirt of his coat slightly so as to make them jingle in his pocket.
"The windows are all fast and safe as the wall itself—screwed down," observed Blarden, "let's see the keys—show them here."
Chancey accordingly drew them from his pocket, and laid them on the table.
"There's the three of them," observed he, calmly.
"Have you no more?" inquired Blarden, looking rather aghast.
"No, indeed, the devil a one," replied Chancey, thrusting his arm to the elbow in his coat pocket.
"D—n me, but I think this is the key of the cellar," ejaculated Blarden, in a tone which energized even the apathetic lawyer, "come here, Ashwoode, what key's this?"
"Itisthe cellar key," said Ashwoode, in a faltering voice and turning very pale.
"Try your pockets for another, and find it, or ——." The aposiopesis was alarming, and Blarden's direction was obeyed instantaneously.
"I declare to God," said Chancey, much alarmed, "I have but the three, and that in the door makes four."
"You d——d oaf," said Blarden, between his set teeth, "if you have botched this business, I'll let you know for what. Ashwoode, which of the keys is missing?"
After a moment's hesitation, Ashwoode led the way through the passage which Mary and her companion had so lately traversed.
"That's the door," said he, pointing to that through which the escape had been effected.
"And what's this?" cried Blarden, shouldering past Sir Henry, and raising something from the ground, just by the door-post, "a handkerchief, and marked, too—it's the young lady's own—give me the key of the lady's chamber," continued he, in a low changed voice, which had, in the ears of the barrister, something more unpleasant still than his loudest and harshest tones—"give me the key, and follow me."
He clutched it, and followed by the terror-stricken barrister, and by Sir Henry Ashwoode, he retraced his steps, and scaled the stairs with hurried and lengthy strides. Without stopping to glance at the form of the still slumbering drunkard, or to question the servant who sat opposite, on the chair recently occupied by Chancey, he strode directly to the door of Mary Ashwoode's sleeping apartment, opened it, and stood in an untenanted chamber.
For a moment he paused, aghast and motionless; he ran to the bed—still warm with the recent pressure of his intended victim—the room was, indeed, deserted. He turned round, absolutely black and speechless with rage. As he advanced, the wretched barrister—the tool of his worst schemes—cowered back in terror. Without speaking one word, Blarden clutched him by the throat, and hurled him with his whole power backward. With tremendous force he descended with his head upon the bar of the grate, and thence to the hearthstone; there, breathless, powerless, and to all outward seeming a livid corpse, lay the devil's cast-off servant, the red blood trickling fast from ears, nose, and mouth. Not waiting to see whether Chancey was alive or dead, Mr. Blarden seized the brandy flask and dashed it in the face of the stupid drunkard—who, disturbed by the fearful hubbub, was just beginning to open his eyes—and leaving that reverend personage drenched in blood and brandy, to take care of his boon companion as best he might, Blarden strode down the stairs, followed by Ashwoode and the servants.
"Get horses—horses all," shouted he, "to the stables—by Jove, it was they we met on the road—the two girls—quick to the stables—whoever catches them shall have his hat full of crowns."
Led by Blarden, they all hurried to the stables, where they found the horses unsaddled.
"On with the saddles—for your life be quick," cried Blarden, "four horses—fresh ones."
While uttering his furious mandates, with many a blasphemous imprecation, he aided the preparations himself, and with hands that trembled with eagerness and rage, he drew the girths, and buckled the bridles, and in almost less than a minute, the four horses were led out upon the broken pavement of the stable-yard.
"Mind, boys," cried Blarden, "they are two mad-women—escaped mad-women—ride for your lives. Ashwoode, do you take the right, and I'll take the left when we come on the road—do you follow me, Tony—and Dick, do you go with Sir Henry—and, now, devil take the hindmost." With these words he plunged the spurs into his horse's flanks, and with the speed of a thunder blast, they all rode helter-skelter, in pursuit of their human prey.