Delphi Complete Works of Sheridan Le Fanu

by J. Sheridan le Fanu

  “Good God,” said Mary Ashwoode, in the low tones of horror, and with a face as pale as marble, “is that dreadful man here — have you seen him?”

  “Yes, my lady, seen and talked with him, my lady, not ten minutes since,” replied the maid, “and he gave me a guinea, and told me not to let on that I seen him — he did — but he little knew who he was speaking to — oh! ma’am, but it’s a terrible shocking bad world, so it is.”

  Mary Ashwoode leaned her head upon her hand in fearful agitation. This ruffian, who had menaced and insulted and pursued her, a single glance at whose guilty and frightful aspect was enough to warn and terrify, was in league and close alliance with her own brother to entrap and deceive her — Heaven only could know with what horrible intent.

  “Carey, Carey,” said the pale and affrighted lady, “for God’s sake send my brother — bring him here — I must see Sir Henry, your master — quickly, Carey — for God’s sake quickly.”

  The young lady again leaned her head upon her hand and became silent; so the lady’s maid dried her eyes, and left the room to execute her mission.

  The apartment in which Mary Ashwoode was now seated, was a small dressing-room or boudoir, which communicated with her bedchamber, and itself opened upon a large wainscotted lobby, surrounded with doors, and hung with portraits, too dingy and faded to have a place in the lower rooms. She had thus an opportunity of hearing any step which ascended the stairs, and waited, in breathless expectation, for the sounds of her brother’s approach. As the interval was prolonged her impatience increased, and again and again she was tempted to go down stairs and seek him herself; but the dread of encountering Blarden, and the terror in which she held him, kept her trembling in her room. At length she heard two persons approach, and her heart swelled almost to bursting, as, with excited anticipation, she listened to their advance.

  “Here’s the room for you at last,” said the voice of an old female servant, who forthwith turned and departed.

  “I thank you kindly, ma’am,” said the second voice, also that of a female, and the sentence was immediately followed by a low, timid knock at the chamber door.

  “Come in,” said Mary Ashwoode, relieved by the consciousness that her first fears had been delusive — and a good-looking wench, with rosy cheeks, and a clear, goodhumoured eye, timidly and hesitatingly entered the room, and dropped a bashful courtesy.

  “Who are you, my good girl, and what do you want with me?” inquired Mary, gently.

  “I’m the new maid, please your ladyship, that Sir Henry Ashwoode hired, if it pleases you, ma’am, instead of the young woman that’s just gone away,” replied she, her eyes staring wider and wider, and her cheeks flushing redder and redder every moment, while she made another courtesy more energetic than the first.

  “And what is your name, my good girl?” inquired Mary.

  “Flora Guy, may it please your ladyship,” replied the newcomer, with another courtesy.

  “Well, Flora,” said her new mistress, “have you ever been in service before?”

  “No, ma’am, if you please,” replied she, “unless in the old Saint Columbkil.”

  “The old Saint Columbkil,” rejoined Mary. “What is that, my good girl?”

  The ignorance implied in this question was so incredibly absurd, that spite of all her fears and all her modesty, the girl smiled, and looked down upon the floor, and then coloured to the eyes at her own presumption.

  “It’s the great wine-tavern and eating-house, ma’am, in Ship Street, if you please,” rejoined she.

  “And who hired you?” inquired Mary, in undisguised surprise.

  “It was Mr. Chancey, ma’am — the lawyer gentleman, please your ladyship,” answered she.

  “Mr. Chancey! — I never heard of him before,” said the young lady, more and more astonished. “Have you seen Sir Henry — my brother?”

  “Oh! yes, my lady, if you please — I saw him and the other gentleman just before I came upstairs, ma’am,” replied the maid.

  “What other gentleman?” inquired Mary, faintly.

  “I think Sir Henry was the young gentleman in the frock suit of sky-blue and silver, ma’am — a nice young gentleman, ma’am — and there was another gentleman, my lady, with him; he had a plum-coloured suit with gold lace; he spoke very loud, and cursed a great deal; a large gentleman, my lady, with a very red face, and one of his teeth out. I seen him once in the tap-room. I remembered him the minute I set eyes on him, but I can’t think of his name. He came in, my lady, with that young lord — I forget his name, too — that was ruined with play and dicing, my lady; and they had a quart of mulled sack — it was I that brought it to them — and I remembered the redfaced gentleman very well, for he was turning round over his shoulder, and putting out his tongue, making fun of the young lord — because he was tipsy — and winking to his own friends.”

  “What did my brother — Sir Henry — your master — what did he say to you just now?” inquired Mary, faintly, and scarcely conscious what she said.

  “He gave me a bit of a note to your ladyship,” said the girl, fumbling in the profundity of her pocket for it, “just as soon as he put the other girl — her that’s gone, my lady — into the chaise — here it is, ma’am, if you please.”

  Mary took the letter, opened it hurriedly, and with eyes unsteady with agitation, read as follows: —

  “My dear Mary, — I am compelled to fly as fast as horseflesh can carry me, to escape arrest and the entire loss of whatever little chance remains of averting ruin. I don’t see you before leaving this — my doing so were alike painful to us both — perhaps I shall be here again by the end of a month — at all events, you shall hear of me some time before I arrive. I have had to discharge Carey for very ill-conduct I have not time to write fully now. I have hired in her stead the bearer, Flora Guy, a very respectable, good girl. I shall have made at least two miles away in my flight before you read this. Perhaps you had better keep within your own room, for Mr. Blarden will shortly be here to look after matters in my absence. I have hardly a moment to scratch this line.

  “Always your attached brother,

  “Henry Ashwoode.”

  Her eye had hardly glanced through this production when she ran wildly toward the door; but, checking herself before she reached it, she turned to the girl, and with an earnestness of agony which thrilled to her very heart, she cried, —

  “Is he gone? tell me, as you hope for mercy, is he — is he gone?”

  “Who, who is it, my lady?” inquired the girl, a good deal startled.

  “My brother — my brother: is he gone?” cried she more wildly still.

  “I seen him riding away very fast on a grey horse, my lady,” said the maid, “not five minutes before I came up stairs.”

  “Then it’s too late. God be merciful to me! I am lost, I have none to guard me; I have none to help me — don’t — don’t leave me; for God’s sake don’t leave the room for one instant — — “

  There was an imploring earnestness of entreaty in the young lady’s accents and manner, and a degree of excited terror in her dilated eyes and pale face, which absolutely affrighted the attendant.

  “No, my lady,” said she, “I won’t leave you, I won’t indeed, my lady.”

  “Oh! my poor girl,” said Mary, “you little know the griefs and fears of her you’ve come to serve. I fear me you have changed your lot, however hard before, much for the worst in coming here; never yet did creature need a friend so much as I; and never was one so friendless before,” and thus speaking, poor Mary Ashwoode leaned forward and wept so bitterly that the girl was almost constrained to weep too for very pity.

  “Don’t take it to heart so much, my lady; don’t cry. I’ll do my best, my lady, to serve you well; indeed I will, my lady, and true and faithful,” said the poor damsel, approaching timidly but kindly to her young mistress’s side. “I’ll not leave you, my lady; no one shall harm you nor hurt a hair of your head; I’ll stay with you night and day
as long as you’re pleased to keep me, my lady, and don’t cry; sure you won’t, my lady?”

  So the poor girl in her own simple way strove to comfort and encourage her desolate mistress.

  It is a wonderful and a beautiful thing how surely, spite of every difference of rank and kind and forms of language, the words of kindness and of sympathy — be they the rudest ever spoken, if only they flow warm from the heart of a fellow-mortal — will gladden, comfort, and cheer the sorrow-stricken spirit. Mary felt comforted and assured.

  “Do you be but true to me; stay by my side in this season of my sorest trouble; and may God reward you as richly as I would my poor means could,” said Mary, with the same intense earnestness of entreaty. “There is kindness and truth in your face. I am sure you will not deceive me.”

  “Deceive you, my lady! God forbid,” said the poor maid, earnestly; “I’d die before I’d deceive you; only tell me how to serve you, my lady, and it will be a hard thing that I won’t do for you.”

  “There is no need to conceal from you what, if you do not already know, you soon must,” said Mary, speaking in a low tone, as if fearful of being overheard; “that redfaced man you spoke of, that talked so loud and swore so much, that man I fear — fear him more than ever yet I dreaded any living thing — more than I thought I could fear anything earthly — him, this Mr. Blarden, we must avoid.”

  “Blarden — Mr. Blarden,” said the maid, while a new light dawned upon her mind. “I could not think of his name — Nicholas Blarden — Tommy, that is one of the waiters in the ‘Columbkil,’ my lady, used to call him ‘red ruin.’ I know it all now, my lady; it’s he that owns the great gaming house near High Street, my lady; and another in Smock Alley; I heard Mr. Pottles say he could buy and sell half Dublin, he’s mighty rich, but everyone says he’s a very bad man: I couldn’t think of his name, and I remember everything about him now; it’s all found out. Oh! dear — dear; then it’s all a lie; just what I thought, every bit from beginning to end — nothing else but a lie. Oh, the villain!”

  “What lie do you speak of?” asked Mary; “tell me.”

  “Oh, the villain!” repeated the girl. “I wish to God, my lady, you were safe out of this house — — “

  “What is it?” urged Mary, with fearful eagerness; “what lie did you speak of? what makes you now think my danger greater?”

  “Oh! my lady, the lies, the horrible lies he told me to-day, when Sir Henry and himself were hiring me,” replied she. “Oh! my lady, I’m sure you are not safe here — — “

  “For God’s sake tell me plainly, what did they say?” repeated Mary.

  “Oh, ma’am, what do you think he told me? As sure as you’re sitting there, he told me he was a mad-doctor,” replied she; “and he said, my lady, how that you were not in your right mind, and that he had the care of you; and, oh, my God, my lady, he told me never to be frightened if I heard you crying out and screaming when he was alone with you, for that all mad people was the same way — — “

  “And was Sir Henry present when he told you this?” said Mary, scarce articulately.

  “He was, my lady,” replied she, “and I thought he turned pale when the redfaced man said that; but he did not speak, only kept biting his lips and saying nothing.”

  “Then, indeed, my case is hopeless,” said Mary, faintly, while all expression, save that of vacant terror, faded from her face; “give me some counsel — advise me, for God’s sake, in this terrible hour. What shall I do?”

  “Ah, my lady, I wish to the blessed saints I could,” rejoined the girl; “haven’t you some friends in Dublin; couldn’t I go for them?”

  “No — no,” said she, hastily, “you must not leave me; but, thank God, you have advised me well. I have one friend, and indeed only one, in Dublin, whom I may rely upon, my uncle, Major O’Leary; I will write to him.”

  She sat down, and with cold trembling hands traced the hurried lines which implored his succour; she then rang the bell. After some delay it was answered by a strange servant; and, after a few brief inquiries, to her unutterable horror she learned that all who remained of the old faithful servants of the family had been dismissed, and persons whose faces she had never seen before, hired in their stead.

  These were prompt and decisive measures, and ominously portended some sinister catastrophe; the whole establishment reduced to a few strangers, and — as she had too much reason to fear — tools and creatures of the wretch Blarden. Having ascertained these facts, Mary Ashwoode, without giving the letter to the man, dismissed him with some trivial direction, and turning to her maid, said, —

  “You see how it is; I am beset by enemies; may God protect and save me; what shall I do? my mind — my senses, will forsake me. Merciful heaven! what will become of me?”

  “Shall I take it myself, my lady?” inquired the maid.

  Mary raised herself eagerly, but with sudden dejection, said, —

  “No — no; it cannot be; you must not leave me. I could not bear to be alone here; besides, they must not think you are my friend; no, no, it cannot be.”

  “Well, my lady,” said the maid decisively, “we’ll leave the house tonight; they’ll not be on their guard against that, and once beyond the walls, you’re safe.”

  “It is, I believe, the only chance of safety left me,” replied Mary, distractedly; “and, as such, it shall be tried.”

  CHAPTER LIV.

  THE TWO CHANCES — THE BRIBED COURIER.

  “I don’t half like the girl you’ve picked up,” said Nicholas Blarden, addressing his favourite parasite, Chancey; “she don’t look half sharp enough for our work; she hasn’t the cut of a town lass about her; she’s too like a milkmaid, too simple, too soft. I’ve confounded misgivings she’s no schemer.”

  “Well, well — dear me, but you’re very suspicious,” said Chancey. “I’d like to know did ever anything honest come out of the ‘Old Saint Columbkil!’ there wasn’t a sharper little wench in the place than herself, and I’ll tell you that’s a big word — no, no; there’s not an inch of the fool about her.”

  “Well, she can’t do us much mischief anyway,” said Blarden; “the three others are as true as steel — the devil’s own chickens; and mind you don’t let the door-keys out of your pocket. Honour’s all very fine, and ought not to be doubted; but there’s nothing to my mind like a stiff bit of a rusty lock.”

  Chancey smiled sleepily, and slapped the broad skirt of his coat twice or thrice, producing therefrom the ringing clank which betoken the presence of the keys in question.

  “So then we’re all caged, by Jove,” continued Blarden, rapturously; “and very different sorts of game we are too: did you ever see the show-box where the cats and the rats and the little birds are all boxed up together, higgledy-piggledy, in the same wire cage. I can’t but think of it; it’s so devilish like.”

  “Well, well — dear me; I declare to God but you’re a terrible funny chap,” said Chancey, enjoying a quiet chuckle; “but some way or another,” he continued, significantly, “I’m thinking the cat will have a claw at the little bird yet.”

  “Well, maybe it will;” rejoined Blarden, “you never knew one yet that was not fond of a tit-bit when he could have it. Eh?”

  Thus playfully they conversed, seasoning their pleasantries with sack and claret, and whatever else the cellars of Morley Court afforded, until evening closed, and the darkness of night succeeded.

  Mary Ashwoode and her maid sat prepared for the execution of their adventurous project; they had early left the outer room in which we saw them last, and retired into her bedchamber to avoid suspicion; as the night advanced they extinguished the lights, lest their gleaming through the windows should betray the lateness of their vigil, and alarm the fears of their persecutors. Thus, in silence and darkness, not daring to speak, and almost afraid to breathe, they waited hour after hour until long past midnight. The well-known sounds of riotous swearing and horse-laughter, and the heavy trampling of feet, as the half-drunken revellers
staggered to their beds, now reached their ears in noises faint and muffled by the distance. At length all was again quiet, and nearly a whole hour of silence passed away ere they ventured to move, almost to breathe.

  “Now, Flora, open the outer door softly,” whispered Mary, “and listen for any, the faintest sound; take off your shoes, and for your life move noiselessly.”

  “Never fear, my lady,” responded the girl in a tone as low; and slipping off her shoes from her feet, she pressed her hand upon the young lady’s wrist, to intimate silence, and glided into the little boudoir. With sickening anxiety the young lady heard her cross the small chamber, now and then stumbling against some pieces of furniture and cautiously groping her way; at length the door-handle turned, and then followed a silence. After an interval of a few seconds the girl returned.

  “Well, Flora,” whispered Mary, eagerly, as she approached, “is all still?”

  “Oh! blessed hour! my lady, the door’s locked on the outside,” replied the maid.

  “It can’t be,” said Mary Ashwoode, while her very heart sank within her. “Oh! Flora, Flora — girl, don’t say that.”

  “It is indeed, my lady — as sure as I’m a living soul, it is so,” replied she fearfully; “and it was wide open when I came up. Oh! blessed hour! my lady, what are we to do?”

  “I will try; I will see; perhaps you are mistaken. God grant you may be,” said the young lady, making her way to the door which opened on to the lobby. She reached it — turned the handle — pressed it with all her feeble strength, but in vain; it was indeed securely locked upon the outside; her project of escape was baffled at the very outset, and with a heart-sickening sense of terror and dismay — such as she had never felt before — she returned with her attendant to her chamber.