Complete Works of Sheridan Le Fanu (Illustrated)

by Joseph Sheridan Le Fanu

  “I see the grey horse still at the door; I know it as well as I know my own hand,” said the Italian; “as sure as I am leeving man, Sir Henry is there still.”

  After an interval so considerable that O’Connor almost despaired of the appearance of Ashwoode, voices were again audible, and steps approaching the doorway at a slow pace; the time between the first approach of those sounds, and the actual appearance of those who caused them, appeared to the overwrought anxiety of O’Connor all but interminable. At length, however, two figures entered from the bowling-green — the one was that of a spare but dignified-looking man, somewhat advanced in years, but carrying in his countenance a singular expression of jollity and good humour — the other was that of Sir Henry Ashwoode.

  “God be thanked,” said O’Hanlon, grasping the hilt of his sword, “here comes the perjured villain Wharton.”

  O’Connor had another object, however, and beheld no one existing thing but only the now hated form of his false friend; both he and O’Hanlon started to their feet as the two figures entered the small and darksome room. O’Connor threw himself directly in their path and said, —

  “Sir Henry Ashwoode, a word with you.”

  The appeal was startling and unexpected, and there was in the voice and attitude of him who uttered it, something of deep, intense, constrained passion and resolution, which made the two companions involuntarily and suddenly check their advance. One moment sufficed for Sir Henry to recognize O’Connor, and another convinced him that his quondam friend had discovered his treachery, and was there to unmask, perhaps to punish him. His presence of mind, however, seldom, if ever, forsook him in such scenes as this — he instantly resolved upon the tone in which to meet his injured antagonist.

  “Pray, sir,” said he, with stern hauteur, “upon what ground do you presume to throw yourself thus menacingly in my way? Move aside and let me pass, or your rashness shall cost you dearly.”

  “Ashwoode — Sir Henry — you well know there is one consideration which would unstring my arm if lifted against your life — you presume upon the forbearance which this respect commands,” said O’Connor. “Promise but this — that you will undeceive your sister, whom you have practised upon as cruelly as you have on me, and I will call you to no further account, and inflict no further humiliation.”

  “Very good, sir, very magnanimous, and exceedingly tragic,” rejoined Ashwoode, scornfully. “Turn aside, sirrah, and leave my path open, or by the —— you shall rue it.”

  “I will not leave the spot on which I stand but with my life, except on the conditions I have named,” replied O’Connor.

  “Once more, before I strike you, leave the way,” cried Ashwoode, whose constitutional pugnacity began to be thoroughly aroused. “Turn aside, sirrah! How dare you confront gentlemen — insolent beggar, how dare you!”

  Yielding to the furious impulse of the moment, Sir Henry Ashwoode drew his sword, and with the naked blade struck his antagonist twice with no sparing hand. The passions which O’Connor had, with all his energy, hitherto striven to master, would now brook restraint no longer; at this last extremity of insult the blood sprang from his heart in fiery currents and tingled through every vein; every feeling but the one deadly sense of outraged pride, of repeated wrong, followed and consummated by one degrading and intolerable outrage, vanished from his mind. With the speed of light his sword was drawn and presented at Ashwoode’s breast. Each threw himself into the cautious attitude of deadly vigilance, and quick as lightning the bright blades crossed and clashed in the mortal rivalry of cunning fence. Each party was possessed of consummate skill in the use of the fatal weapon which he wielded, and several times in the course of the fierce debate, so evenly were they matched, the two, as by voluntary accommodation, paused in the conflict to take breath.

  With faces pale as death with rage, and a consciousness of the deadly issue in which alone the struggle could end, and with eyes that glared like those of savage beasts at bay, each eyed the other. Thus alternately they paused and renewed the combat, and for long, with doubtful fortune. In the position of the antagonists there was, however, an inequality, and, as it turned out, a decisive one — the door through which Ashwoode and his companion had entered, and to which his back was turned, lay open, and the light which it admitted fell full in O’Connor’s eyes. This, as all who have handled the foil can tell, is a disadvantage quite sufficient to determine even a less nicely balanced contest than that of which we write. After several pauses in the combat, and as many desperate renewals of it, Ashwoode, in one quick lunge, passed his blade through his opponent’s sword-arm. Though the blood flowed plenteously, neither party seemed inclined to abate his deadly efforts. O’Connor’s arm began to grow stiff and weak, and the energy and quickness of his action impaired; the consequences of this were soon exhibited. Ashwoode lunged twice or thrice rapidly, and one of these passes, being imperfectly parried, took effect in his opponent’s breast. O’Connor staggered backward, and his hand and eye faltered for a moment; but he quickly recovered, and again advanced and again with the same result. Faint, dizzy, and half blind, but with resolution and rage, enhanced by defeat, he staggered forward again, wild and powerless, and was received once more upon the point of his adversary’s sword. He reeled back, stood for a moment, his sword dropped upon the ground, and he shook his empty hand in fruitless menace at his triumphant antagonist, and then rolled headlong upon the pavement, insensible, and weltering in gore — the combat was over.

  Ashwoode and O’Connor had hardly crossed their weapons when O’Hanlon sprang forward and sternly accosted Lord Wharton, for it was no other, who accompanied Ashwoode.

  “My lord, you need not interfere,” said he, observing a movement on Lord Wharton’s part as if he would have separated the combatants. “This is a question which all your diplomacy will not arrange — they will fight it to the end. If you give them not fair play while I secure the door, I will send my sword through your excellency’s body.”

  So saying, O’Hanlon drew his weapon, and keeping occasional watch upon Wharton — who, however, did not exhibit any further disposition to interfere — he strode to the outer door, which opened upon the public road, and to prevent interruption from that quarter, drew the bar and secured it effectually.

  “Now, my lord,” said he, returning and resuming his position, “I have secured this fortunate meeting against intrusion. What think you, while our friends are thus engaged, were we, for warmth and exercise sake, likewise to cross our blades? Will your lordship condescend to gratify a simple gentleman so far?”

  “Out upon you, fellow; know you who I am?” said Wharton, with sturdy goodhumour.

  “I know thee well, Lord Wharton — a wily, selfish, double-dealing politician; a profligate in morals; an infidel in religion; and a traitor in politics. I know thee — who doth not?”

  “Landlord,” said Wharton, turning toward that personage, who, with amazement, irresolution, and terror in his face, inspected these violent proceedings, “landlord, I say, call in a lackey or two; I’ll bring this ruffian to reason quickly. Have you gotten a pump in the neighbourhood? Landlord, I say, bestir thyself, or, by —— , I’ll spur thee with my sword-point.”

  “Stir not, if you would keep your life,” said O’Hanlon, in a tone which the half-stupefied host of “The Jolly Bowlers” dared not disobey. “If you would not suffer death upon the spot where you stand, do not attempt to move one step, nor to speak one word. My lord,” he continued, “I am right glad of this rencounter. I would have freely given half what I possess in the world to have secured it. Believe me, I will not leave it unimproved. My lord, in plain terms, for ten thousand reasons I desire your death, and will not leave this place till I have striven to effect it. Draw your sword, if you be a man; draw your sword, unless cowardice has come to crown your vices.”

  O’Hanlon drew his sword, and allowing Wharton hardly time sufficient to throw himself into an attitude of defence, he attacked him with deadly resolution. It was
well for the viceroy that he was an expert swordsman, otherwise his career would undoubtedly have been abruptly terminated upon the floor of “The Jolly Bowlers.” As it was, he received a thrust right through the shoulder, and staggering back, stumbled and fell upon the uneven pavement which studded the floor. This occurred almost at the same moment with O’Connor’s fall, and believing that he had mortally hurt his noble antagonist, O’Hanlon, without stopping to look about him hastily lifted his fallen and senseless companion from the pavement and bore him in his arms through the outer door, which the landlord had at length found resolution enough to unbar. Fortunately a hackney coach stood there waiting for a chance job from some of the aristocratic bowlers within, and in this vehicle he hurriedly deposited his inanimate burden, and desiring the coachman to drive for his life into the city, sprang into the conveyance himself. Irishmen are proverbially ready at all times to aid an escape from the fangs of justice, and without pausing to ask a question, the coachman, to whom the sight of blood and of the naked sword, which O’Hanlon still carried, was warrant sufficient, mounted the box with incredible speed, pressed his hat firmly down upon his brows, shook the reins, and lashed his horses till they smoked again; and thus, at a gallop, O’Hanlon and his bleeding companion thundered onward toward the city. Ashwoode did not interfere to stay the fugitives, for he was not sorry to be relieved of the embarrassment which he foresaw in having the body of his victim left, as it were, in his charge. He therefore gladly witnessed its removal, and addressed himself to Lord Wharton, who was rising with some difficulty from his prostrate position.

  “Are you hurt, my lord?” inquired Ashwoode, kneeling by his side and assisting him to rise.

  “Hush! nothing — a mere scratch. Above all things, make no row about it. By —— , I would not for worlds that anything were heard of it. Fortunately, this accident is a trivial one — the blood flows rather fast, though. Let’s get into a coach, if, indeed, the scoundrels have not run away with the last of them.”

  They found one, however, at the door, and getting in with all convenient dispatch, desired the man to drive slowly toward the castle.

  CHAPTER XLVIII.

  THE STAINED RUFFLES.

  We must now return for a brief space to Morley Court. The apartment which lay beneath what had been Sir Richard Ashwoode’s bedchamber, and in which Mary and her gay cousin, Emily Copland, had been wont to sit and work, and read and sing together, had grown to be considered, by long-established usage, the rightful and exclusive property of the ladies of the family, and had been surrendered up to their private occupation and absolute control. Around it stood full many a quaint cabinet of dark old wood, shining like polished jet, little bookcases, and tall old screens, and music stands, and drawing tables. These, along with a spinet and a guitar, and countless other quaint and pretty sundries indicating the habitual presence of feminine refinement and taste, abundantly furnished the chamber. In the window stood some choice and fragrant flowers, and the light fell softly upon the carpet through the clustering bowers of creeping plants which mantled the outer wall, in sombre rivalry of the full damask curtains, whose draperies hung around the deep receding casements.

  Here sat Mary Ashwoode, as the evening, whose tragic events we have in our last chapter described, began to close over the old manor of Morley Court. Her embroidery had been thrown aside, and lay upon the table, and a book, which she had been reading, was open before her; but her eyes now looked pensively through the window upon the fair, sad landscape, clothed in the warm and melancholy tints of evening. Her graceful arm leaned upon the table, and her small, white hand supported her head and mingled in the waving tresses of her dark hair.

  “At what hour did my brother promise to return?” said she, addressing herself to her maid, who was listlessly arranging some books in the little bookcase.

  “Well, I declare and purtest, I can’t rightly remember,” rejoined the maid, cocking her head on one side reflectively, and tapping her eyebrow to assist her recollection. “I don’t think, my lady, he named any hour precisely; but at any rate, you may be sure he’ll not be long away now.”

  “I thought he said seven o’clock,” continued Mary; “would he were come! I feel very solitary to-day; and this evening we might pass happily together, for that strange man will not return tonight — he said so — my brother told me so.”

  “I believe Mr. Blarden changed his mind, my lady,” said the maid; “for I know he gave orders before he went for a fire in his room tonight.”

  Even as she spoke she heard Sir Henry’s step upon the stairs, and her brother entered the room.

  “Harry, Harry, I am so glad to see you,” said she, running lightly to him and throwing her arms around his neck. “Come, come, sit you down beside me; we shall be happy together at least for this evening. Come, Harry, come.”

  So saying she led him, passive and gloomy, to the fireside, and drew a chair beside that into which he had thrown himself.

  “Dear brother, the time seemed so very tedious to-day while you were away,” said she. “I thought it would never pass. Why are you so silent and thoughtful, brother? has anything happened to vex you?”

  “Nothing,” said he, glancing at her with a strange expression— “nothing to vex me — no, nothing — perhaps the contrary.”

  “Dear brother, have you heard good news? Come and tell me,” said she; “though I fear from the sadness of your face you do but flatter me. Have you, Harry — have you heard or seen anything that gave you comfort?”

  “No, not comfort; I know not what I say. Have you any wine here?” said Ashwoode, hurriedly; “I am tired and thirsty.”

  “No, not here,” answered she, somewhat surprised at the oddity of the question, as well as by the abruptness and abstraction of his manner.

  “Carey,” said he, “run down — bring wine quickly; I’m exhausted — quite wearied. I have played more at bowls this afternoon than I’ve done for years,” he added, addressing his sister as the maid departed on her errand.

  “You do look very pale, brother,” said she, “and your dress is all disordered; and, gracious God! — see all the ruffles of this hand are steeped in blood — brother, brother, for God’s sake — are you hurt?”

  “Hurt — I — ?” said he hastily, and endeavouring to smile! “no, indeed — I hurt! far be it from me — this blood is none of mine; one of our party scratched his hand, and I bound his handkerchief round the wound, and in so doing contracted these tragic spots that startle you so. No, no, believe me, when I am hurt I will make no secret of it. Carey, pour some wine into that glass — fill it — fill it, child — there,” and he drank it off— “fill it again — so two or three more, and I shall be quite myself again. How snug this room of yours is, Mary.”

  “Yes, brother, I am very fond of it; it is a pleasant old room, and one that has often seen me happier than I shall be again,” said she, with a sigh; “but do you feel better? has the wine refreshed you? You still look pale,” she added, with fears not yet half quieted.

  “Yes, Mary, I am refreshed,” he said, with a sudden and reckless burst of strange merriment that shocked her; “I could play the match through again — I could leap, and laugh and sing;” and then he added quickly in an altered voice— “has Blarden returned?”

  “No,” said she; “I thought you said he would remain in town tonight.”

  “I said wrong if I said so at all,” replied Ashwoode; “and if he did intend to stay in town he has changed his plans — he will be here this evening; I thought I should have found him here on my return; I expect him every moment.”

  “When, dear brother, is this visit of his to end?” asked the girl imploringly.

  “Not for weeks — for months, I hope,” replied Ashwoode drily and quickly; “why do you inquire, pray?”

  “Simply because I wish it were ended, brother,” answered she sadly; “but if it vexes you I will ask no more.”

  “It does vex me, then,” said Ashwoode, sternly; “it does, and yo
u know it” — he accompanied these words with a look even more savage than the tone in which he had uttered them, and a silence of some minutes followed.

  Ashwoode desired nothing so much as to speak with his sister intelligibly upon the subject of Blarden’s designs, and of his own entire approval of them; but, somehow, often as he had resolved upon it, he had never yet approached the topic, even in imagination, in his sister’s presence, without feeling himself unnerved and abashed. He now strove to fret himself into a rage, in the instinctive hope that under the influence of this stimulus he might find nerve to broach the subject in plain terms; he strode quickly to and fro across the floor, casting from time to time many an angry glance at the poor girl, and seeking by every mechanical agency to work himself into a passion.

  “And so it is come to this at last,” said he, vehemently, “that I may not invite my friends to my own house; or that if I dare to do so, they shall necessarily be exposed to the constant contempt and rudeness of those who ought to be their entertainers; all their advances towards acquaintance met with a hoitytoity, repulsive impertinence, and themselves treated with a marked and insulting avoidance, shunned as though they had the plague. I tell you now plainly, once for all, I will be master in my own house; you shall treat my guests with attention and respect; you must do so; I command you; you shall find that I am master here.”

  “No doubt of it, by —— ,” ejaculated Nicholas Blarden, himself entering the room at the termination of Ashwoode’s stormy harangue; “but where the devil is the good of roaring that way? your sister is not deaf, I suppose? Mistress Mary, your most obedient — — “