Delphi Complete Works of Sheridan Le Fanu

by J. Sheridan le Fanu

  “Hoo! hoo!” she screamed, “you think I am afraid to do what I threatened; but wait — wait, I say; and now goodnight to you, Miss Ashwoode, for the first time, and pleasant dreams to you.”

  So saying, the fiendish hag, actually quivering with fury, quitted the room, drawing the door after her with a stunning crash, and leaving Mary Ashwoode and her servant breathless with astonishment and consternation.

  CHAPTER LXVII.

  THE EXPULSION.

  While this scene was going on in Mary Ashwoode’s chamber, our friend Oliver French, having wished Mr. Audley goodnight, had summoned to his presence his confidential servant, Mr. M’Guinness. The corpulent invalid sat in his capacious chair by the fireside, with his muffled legs extended upon a pile of pillows, a table loaded with the materials of his protracted and omnigenous repast at his side. Black M’Guinness made his appearance, evidently a little intoxicated, and not a little excited. He proceeded in a serpentine course through the chamber, overturning, of malice prepense, everything in which he came in contact.

  “What the devil ails you, sir?” ejaculated Mr. French— “what the plague do you mean? D — n you, M’Guinness, you’re drunk, sir, or mad.”

  “Ay, to be sure,” ejaculated M’Guinness, grimly. “Why not — oh, do — I’ve no objection; d —— n away, sir, pray, do.”

  “What do you mean by talking that way, you scoundrel?” exclaimed old French.

  “Scoundrel!” repeated M’Guinness, overturning a small table, and all thereupon, with a crash upon the floor, and approaching the old gentleman, while his ugly face grew to a sickly, tallowy white with rage, “you go for to bring a whole lot of beggarly squatters into the house to make away with your substance, and to turn you against your faithful, tried, trusty, and dutiful servants,” he continued, shaking his fist in his master’s face. “You do, and to leave them, ten to one, in their old days unprovided for. Damn ingratitude! — to the devil with thankless, unnatural vermin! You call me scoundrel. Scoundrel was the word — by this cross it was.”

  While Oliver French, speechless with astonishment and rage, gazed upon the audacious menial, Mistress Martha herself entered the chamber.

  “Yes, they are, you old dark-hearted hypocrite — they’re settled here — fixed in the house — they are,” screamed she; “but they sha’n’t stay long; or, if they do, I’ll not leave a whole bone in their skins. What did they ever do for you, you thankless wretch?”

  “Ay, what did they ever do for you?” shouted M’Guinness.

  “Do you think we’re fools — do you? and idiots — do you? not to know what you’re at, you ungrateful miscreant! Turn them out, bag and baggage — every mother’s skin of them, or I’ll show them the reason why, turn them out, I say.”

  “You infernal hag, I’d see you in hell or Bedlam first,” shouted Oliver, transported with fury. “You have had your way too long, you accursed witch — you have.”

  “Never mind — oh! — you wretch,” shrieked she— “never mind — wait a bit — and never fear, you old crippled sinner, I’ll be revenged on you, you old devil’s limb. Here’s your watch for you,” screamed she, snatching a massive, chased gold watch from her side, and hurling it at his head. It passed close by his ear, and struck the floor behind him, attesting the force with which it had been thrown, as well as the solidity of its workmanship, by a deep mark ploughed in the floor.

  Oliver French grasped his crutch and raised it threateningly.

  “You old wretch, I’ll not let you strike the woman,” cried M’Guinness, snatching the poker, and preparing to dash it at the old man’s head. What might have been the issue of the strife it were hard to say, had not Mr. Audley at that moment entered the room.

  “Heyday!” cried that gentleman, “I thought it had been robbers — what’s all this?”

  M’Guinness turned upon him, but observing that he carried a pistol in each hand, he contented himself with muttering a curse and lowering the poker which he held in his hand.

  “Why, what the devil — your own servants — your own man and woman!” exclaimed Mr. Audley. “I beg your pardon, sir — pray excuse me, Mr. French; perhaps I ought not to have intruded upon you.”

  “Pray don’t go, Mr. Audley — don’t think of going,” said Oliver, eagerly, observing that his visitor was drawing to the door. “These beasts will murder me if you leave me; I can’t help myself — do stay.”

  “Pray, madam, you are the amiable and remarkably quiet gentlewoman with whom I was to-day honoured by an interview? God bless my body and soul, can it possibly be?” said Mr. Audley, addressing himself to the lady.

  “You vile old swindling schemer,” shrieked she, returning— “you skulking, mean dog — you brandy-faced old reprobate, you — hoo! wait, wait — wait awhile; I’ll master you yet — just wait — never mind — hoo!” and with something like an Indian war-whoop she dashed out of the room.

  “Get out of this apartment, you ruffian, you — M’Guinness, get out of the room,” cried old French, addressing the fellow, who still stood grinning and growling there.

  “No, I’ll not till I do my business,” retorted the man, doggedly; “I’ll put you to bed first. I’ve a right to do my own business; I’ll undress you and put you to bed first — bellows me, but I will.”

  “Mr. Audley, I beg pardon for troubling you,” said Oliver, “but will you pull the bell if you please, like the very devil.”

  “Pull away till you are black in the face; I’ll not stir,” retorted M’Guinness.

  Mr. Audley pulled the bell with a sustained vehemence which it put Mr. French into a perspiration even to witness.

  “Pull away, old gentleman — you may pull till you burst — to the devil with you all. I’ll not stir a peg till I choose it myself; I’ll do my business what I was hired for; there’s no treason in that. D —— me, if I stir a peg for you,” repeated M’Guinness, doggedly.

  Meanwhile, two half-dressed, scared-looking servants, alarmed by Mr. Audley’s persevering appeals, showed themselves at the door.

  “Thomas — Martin — come in here, you pair of boobies,” exclaimed French, authoritatively; “Martin, do you keep an eye on that scoundrel, and Thomas, run you down and waken the postboy and tell him to put his horses to, and do you assist him, sir, away!”

  With unqualified amazement in their faces, the men proceeded to obey their orders.

  “So, so,” said Oliver, still out of breath with anger, “matters are come to a pleasant pass, I’m to be brained with my own poker — by my own servant — in my own house — very pleasant, because forsooth, I dare to do what I please with my own — highly agreeable, truly! Mr. Audley, may I trouble you to give me a glass of noyeau — let me recommend that to you, Mr. Audley, it has the true flavour — nay, nay — I’ll hear of no excuse — I’m absolute in my own room at least — come, my dear sir — I implore — I insist — nay, I command; come — come — a bumper; very good health, sir; a pleasant pair of furies! — just give me the legs of that woodcock while we are waiting.”

  Accordingly Mr. Oliver French filled up the brief interval after his usual fashion, by adding slightly to the contents of his stomach, and in a little time the servant whom he had dispatched downward, returned with the postboy in person.

  “Are your horses under the coach, my good lad?” inquired old French.

  “No, but they’re to it, and that’s better,” responded the charioteer.

  “You’ll not have far to go — only to the little village at the end of the avenue,” said Mr. French. “Mr. Audley, may I trouble you to fill a large glass of Creme de Portugal; thank you; now, my good lad, take that,” continued he, delighted at an opportunity of indulging his passion for ministering to the stomach of a fellow mortal, “take it — take it — every drop — good — now Martin, do you and Thomas find that termagant — fury — Martha Montgomery, and conduct her to the coach — carry her down if necessary — put her into it, and one of you remain with her, to prevent her getting out a
gain, and let the other return, and with my friend the postboy, do a like good office by my honest comrade Mr. M’Guinness — mind you go along with them to the village, and let them be set down at Moroney’s public-house; everything belonging to them shall be sent down tomorrow morning, and if you ever catch either of them about the place — duck them — whip them — set the dogs on them — that’s all.”

  Shrieking as though body and soul were parting, Mrs. Martha was half-carried, half-dragged from the scene of her long-abused authority; screaming her threats, curses, and abuse in volleys, she was deposited safely in the vehicle, and guarded by the footman — who in secret rejoiced in common with all the rest of the household at the disgrace of the two insolent favourites — and was forced to sit therein until her companion in misfortune being placed at her side, they were both, under a like escort, safely deposited at the door of the little public-house, scarcely crediting the evidence of their senses for the reality of their situation.

  Henceforward Ardgillagh was a tranquil place, and day after day old Oliver French grew to love the gentle creature, whom a chance wind had thus carried to his door, more and more fondly. There was an artlessness and a warmth of affection, and a kindliness about her, which all, from the master down to the humblest servant, felt and loved; a grace, and dignity, and a simple beauty in every look and action, which none could see and not admire. The strange old man, whose humour had never brooked contradiction, felt for her, he knew not why, a tenderness and respect such as he never before believed a mortal creature could inspire; her gentle wish was law to him; to see her sweet face was his greatest joy — to please her his first ambition; she grew to be, as it were, his idol.

  It was her chief delight to ramble unattended through the fine old place. Often, with her faithful follower, Flora Guy, she would visit the humble dwellings of the poor, wherever grief or sickness was, and with gentle words of comfort and bounteous pity, cheer and relieve. But still, from week to week it became too mournfully plain that the sweet, sad face was growing paler and ever paler, and the graceful form more delicately slight. In the silent watches of the night often would Flora Guy hear her loved young mistress weep on for hours, as though her heart were breaking; yet from her lips there never fell at any time one word of murmuring, nor any save those of gentle kindness; and often would she sit by the casement and reverently read the pages of one old volume, and think and read again, while ever and anon the silent tears, gathering on the long, dark lashes, would fall one by one upon the leaf, and then would she rise with such a smile of heavenly comfort breaking through her tears, that peace, and hope, and glory seemed beaming in her pale angelic face.

  Thus from day to day, in the old mansion of Ardgillagh, did she, whose beauty none, even the most stoical, had ever seen unmoved — whose artless graces and perfections all who had ever beheld her had thought unmatched, fade slowly and uncomplainingly, but with beauty if possible enhanced, before the eyes of those who loved her; yet they hoped on, and strongly hoped — why should they not? She was young — yes, very young, and why should the young die in the glad season of their early bloom?

  Mr. Audley became a wondrous favourite with his eccentric entertainer, who would not hear of his fixing a time for his departure, but partly by entreaties, partly by bullying, managed to induce him to prolong his stay from week to week. These concessions were not, however, made without corresponding conditions imposed by the consenting party, among the foremost of which was the express stipulation that he should not be expected, nor by cajolery nor menaces induced or compelled, to eat or drink at all more than he himself felt prompted by the cravings of his natural appetite to do. The old gentlemen had much in common upon which to exercise their sympathies; they were both staunch Tories, both admirable judges of claret, and no less both extraordinary proficients in the delectable pastimes of backgammon and draughts, whereat, when other resources failed, they played with uncommon industry and perseverance, and sometimes indulged in slight ebullitions of acrimonious feeling, scarcely exhibited, however, before they were atoned for by fervent apologies and vehement vows of good behaviour for the future.

  Leaving this little party to the quiet seclusion of Ardgillagh, it becomes now our duty to return for a time to very different scenes and other personages.

  CHAPTER LXVIII.

  THE FRAY.

  It now becomes our duty to return for a short time to Sir Henry Ashwoode and Nicholas Blarden, whom we left in hot pursuit of the trembling fugitives. The night was consumed in vain but restless search, and yet no satisfactory clue to the direction of their flight had been discovered; no evidence, not even a hint, by which to guide their pursuit. Jaded by his fruitless exertions, frantic with rage and disappointment, Nicholas Blarden at peep of light rode up to the hall door of Morley Court.

  “No news since?” cried he, fixing his bloodshot eyes upon the man who took his horse’s bridle, “no news since?”

  “No, sir,” cried the fellow, shaking his head, “not a word.”

  “Is Sir Henry within?” inquired Blarden, throwing himself from the saddle.

  “No, sir,” replied the man.

  “Not returned yet, eh?” asked Nicholas.

  “Yes, sir, he did return, and he left again about ten minutes ago,” responded the groom.

  “And left no message for me, eh?” rejoined Blarden.

  “There’s a note, sir, on a scrap of paper, on the table in the hall, I forgot to mention,” replied the man— “he wrote it in a hurry, with a pencil, sir.”

  Blarden strode into the hall, and easily discovered the document — a hurried scrawl, scarcely legible; it ran as follows: —

  “Nothing yet — no trace — I half suspect they’re lurking in the neighbourhood of the house. I must return to town — there are two places which I forgot to try. Meet me, if you can — say in the old Saint Columbkil; it’s a deserted place, in the morning about ten or eleven o’clock.

  “Henry Ashwoode.”

  Blarden glanced quickly through this effusion.

  “A precious piece of paper, that!” muttered he, tearing it across, “worthy of its author — a cursed greenhorn; consume him for a mouth, but no matter — no matter yet. Here, you rakehelly squad, some of you,” shouted he, addressing himself at random to the servants, one of whom he heard approaching, “here, I say, get me some food and drink, and don’t be long about it either, I can scarce stand.” So saying, and satisfied that his directions would be promptly attended to, he shambled into one of the sitting-rooms, and flung himself at his full length upon a sofa; his disordered and bespattered dress and mud-stained boots contrasted agreeably with the rich crimson damask and gilded backs and arms of the couch on which he lay. As he applied himself voraciously to the solid fare and the wines with which he was speedily supplied, a thousand incoherent schemes, and none of them of the most amiable kind, busily engaged his thoughts. After many wandering speculations, he returned again to a subject which had more than once already presented itself. “And then for the brother, the fellow that laid his blows on me before a whole playhouse full of people, the vile spawn of insolent beggary, that struck me till his arm was fairly tired with striking — I’m no fool to forget such things — the rascally forging ruffian — the mean, swaggering, lying bully — no matter — he must be served out in style, and so he shall. I’ll not hang him though, I may turn him to account yet, some way or other — no, I’ll not hang him, keep the halter in my hand — the best trump for the last card — hold the gallows over him, and make him lead a pleasant sort of life of it, one way or other. I’ll not leave a spark of pride in his body I’ll not thrash out of him. I’ll make him meeker and sleeker and humbler than a spaniel; he shall, before the face of all the world, just bear what I give him, and do what I bid him, like a trained dog — sink me, but he shall.”

  Somewhat comforted by these ruminations, Nicholas Blarden arose from a substantial meal, and a reverie, which had occupied some hours; and without caring to remove from his perso
n the traces of his toilsome exertions of the night past, nor otherwise to render himself one whit a less slovenly and neglected-looking figure than when he had that morning dismounted at the hall door, he called for a fresh horse, threw himself into the saddle, and spurred away for Dublin city.

  He reached the doorway of the old Saint Columbkil, and, under the shadow of its ancient signboard, dismounted. He entered the tavern, but Ashwoode was not there; and, in answer to his inquiries, Mr. Blarden was informed that Sir Henry Ashwoode had gone over to the “Cock and Anchor,” to have his horse cared for, and that he was momentarily expected back.