Cock and Anchor. Vol. 3.

A CHRONICLE OF COCK AND ANCHOR.

Vol. 3

CHAPTER I.

THE MAN IN THE CLOAK - AND HIS BED-CHAMBER.

As O’Connor approached the outer door through which he was to pass to certain and speedy death, it were not easy to describe or analyze his sensations; every object he beheld in the brief glance he cast around him as he passed along the hall, appeared invested with a strangely sharp and vivid intensity of distinctness, and had in its aspect something indefinably spectral and ghastly - like things beheld under the terrific spell of a waking nightmare. His tremendous situation seemed to him some-thing unreal, incredible; he walked in an appalling dream; in vain he strove to fix his [2] thoughts; myriads and myriads of scenes and incidents, never remembered since childhood’s days, now with strange distinctness and wild rapidity whirled through his brain. The hall-door stood half open, and the fellow who led the way had almost reached it, when it was on a sudden thrown wide, and a figure, muffled in a cloak, confronted the funereal procession.

The foremost man raised the ponderous weapon which he carried and held it poised in the air, ready to shiver the head of the intruder should he venture to advance - the two guards who held O’Connor halted at the same time.

“How’s this, Cormack?” said the stranger. “Do you lift your weapon against the life of a friend? - rub your eyes and waken - how is it you cannot know me? - you’ve been drinking, sirrah.”

At the sound of the speaker’s voice, the man at once lowered his hatchet and withdrew a little, sulkily, like a rebuked mastiff.

“What means all this?’” continued he in the [3] cloak, looking searchingly at the party in the rear, “whom have we got here? - where made you this prisoner? So, so - this must be looked to. How were you about to deal with him, fellow?” he added, addressing himself to him whom he had first encountered.

“According to orders, captain,” replied the man doggedly.

“And how may that have been?” interrogated the gentleman in the cloak.

“End him,” replied he sulkily.

“Has he been before the council in the great parlour?” inquired the stranger.

“Yes, captain - long enough too,” replied the fellow.

“And they have ordered this execution?” added the newly arrived.

“Yes sir, who else? Come on, boys - bring him out, will you? - time is running short,” he added, addressing his comrades, and himself approaching the door.

“Re-conduct the prisoner to the council-board,” said the stranger in a tone of command.

[4] Without a moment’s hesitation they obeyed the order; and O’Connor, followed by the muffled figure of the stranger, for the second time entered the apartment where his relentless judges sate.

The new-comer strode up the room to the table, at which the self-styled council were seated.

“God save you, gentlemen,” said he, “and prosper the good work ye have taken in hand;” and thus speaking, he removed and cast upon the table his hat and cloak, thereby revealing the square-built form and harsh features of O’Hanlon.

O’Connor no sooner recognized the traits of his mysterious acquaintance, than he felt a hope which thrilled with a strange agony of his heart - a hope - almost a conviction that he should escape - and unaccountable though it may appear, in this hope he felt more unmanned and agitated, than he had done but a few moments before in the apparent certainty of immediate and inevitable destruction.

The salutation of O’Hanlon was warmly, [5] almost enthusiastically returned, and after this interchange of friendly greeting, and a few brief questions and answers touching comparatively indifferent matters, he glanced toward O’Connor and said

“I’ve so far presumed upon my favour with you, gentlemen, as to stay your orders in respect of that young gentleman whom it would appear you have judged worthy of death. Death is a matter whose Importance I’ve never very much insisted upon - that you know - at least several among you, gentlemen, well know it, for you have seen me deal it somewhat unsparingly when the cause required it; but I profess I do not care in cool blood to take life upon insufficient reason - life is lightly taken, but once gone who can restore it? - therefore, I think it very meet that patient consideration should be had of all cases, when such deliberation is possible and convenient, before proceeding to the last irrevocable extremity. Pray you inform me upon what charges does this youth stand convicted, that his life should be forfeit?”

“It is briefly told,” replied the priest. “On [6] my way hither I encountered him; we rode and conversed together; and conjecturing that he travelled on the same errand as myself, I talked to him more freely than in all discretion I ought to have done. I discovered my mistake, and at Chapelizod I turned and left him, telling him with threats not to follow me; yet scarcely had I been here ten minutes, when this gentleman is found lurking near the house-and about to enter it. He is seized, bound, brought. in here, and witnesses our assembly and proceedings. Under these suspicious circumstances, and with the knowledge of our meeting and its objects, were it wise to let him go? Surely not so - but the veriest madness.”

“Young man,” said O’Hanlon, turning to O’Connor, “what say you to this?”

“No more than what I already told these gentlemen - simply, that taking the upper level to avoid the sloughs by the river side, I became in the darkness entangled in the dense woods which cover these grounds, and at length, after groping my way through the trees as best I might, arrived by the merest chance at this [7] place, and without the slightest knowledge, or even suspicion, either that I was following the course taken by that gentleman, or intruding myself upon any secret councils. I have no more to say: this is the simple truth.”

“Well, gentlemen,” said O’Hanlon, “you hear the prisoner’s defence. What think you?”

“We have decided already, and he has now produced nothing new in his favour. I see no reason why we should alter our decision,” replied the priest.

“You would then put him to death,” inquired he.

“Assuredly,” replied the priest calmly.

“But this shall not be, gentlemen; he shall not die. You shall slay me first,” replied O’Hanlon. “I know this youth; and every word he hath spoken I believe; he is the son of one who risked his life an hundred times, and lost all for the sake of the king and his country - one who, throughout the desperate and fruitless struggles of Irish loyalty, was in the field my [8] constant comrade, and a braver and a better one none ever need desire. The son of such a man shall not perish by our hands; and for the risk of his talking elsewhere of this night’s adventure, I will be his surety, with my life, that he mentions it to no one, and no where.”

A silence of some seconds followed this unexpected declaration.

“Be it so, then,” said the priest, “for my part I offer no resistance.”

“So say I,” added the person who sate with the papers by him at the extremity of the board. “On you, however, Captain O’Hanlon, rest the whole responsibility of this act.”

“On me alone. Were there the possibility of treason in that youth, I would myself perish ere I should move a hand to save him,” replied O’Hanlon. “I gladly take upon myself the whole accountability, and all the consequences of the act.”

“Your life and liberty are yours, sir,” said the priest, addressing O’Connor; “see [9] that you abuse neither to our prejudice; unbind and let the prisoner go.”

“Stay,” said O’Hanlon, “Mr. O’Connor, I have one request to make.”

“It is granted ere it is made. What can I return you in exchange for my life?” replied ‘O’Connor.

“I wish to speak with you to-night,” continued O’Hanlon, “on matters which concern you nearly; you will remain here; you can have a chamber; farewell for the present. Conduct Mr. O’Connor to my apartment,” he added, addressing the attendants who were employed in loosening the strained cords which bound his hands; and with this direction O’Hanlon mingled with the group at the hearth, and began to converse with them in a low voice.

O’Connor followed his guile through a narrow damp-stained corridor, with tiled flooring, and up a broad stair-case, with heavy oaken balustrades, and steps whose planks seemed worn by the tread of centuries; and then along [10] another passage, more cheerless still than the first - several of the narrow windows, by which in the day-time it was lighted, had now lost every vestige of glass, and even of the wooden frame-work in which it had been fixed, and gave free admission to the fitful night-wind, as well as to the straggling boughs of ivy which mantled the old walls and clustered shelteringly about the ruined casements, Screening the candle which he carried behind the flap of his coat, to prevent its being extinguished by the gusts which somewhat rudely swept the narrow passage, the man led O’Connor to a chamber which they both entered, It was not quite so cheerless as the desolate condition of the approach to it might have warranted one in expecting; a wood-fire, which had been recently replenished, blazed and crackled briskly upon the hearth, and shed an uncertain but cheerful glow through the recesses of the chamber. It was a spacious apartment, hung with stamped leather, in many places stained and rotted by the damp, and here and there hanging in rags from the wall and exposing the bare mildewed plaster [11] beneath; the furniture was scanty and in keeping with the place - old, dark and crazy, and a wretched bed with very spare covering was, as it seemed, temporarily strewn upon the floor, near the hearth; the man placed the candle upon a small table, black with age, and patched and crutched up like a battered pensioner, and flinging some more wood upon the fire, turned and left the room in silence.

Alone, his first employment was to review again and again the strange events of that night; his next was to conjecture the nature of O’Hanlon’ s promised communication. Baffled in these latter speculations, he applied himself to examine the old chamber in which he sate, and to endeavour to trace the half obliterated pattern of the tattered hangings; these occupations, along with sundry speculations, just as idle, touching the original of a grim old portrait, faded and torn, which hung over the fireplace, filled up the tedious hours which preceded his expected interview with his preserver.

At length the weary interval elapsed, and [12] the anxiously expected moment arrived; the door opened, and O’Hanlon entered; he approached the young man, who advanced to meet him, and extending his hand, grasped that of O’Connor with a warm and friendly pressure.

[13] CHAPTER II.

THE DOUBLE CONFERENCE - OLD PAPERS.

“WHEN last I saw you,” said O’Hanlon, seating himself before the hearth, and motioning O’Connor to take a chair also, “I told you that you ought to tame your rash young blood, and gave you thereupon an old soldier’s best advice. It seems, however, that you are wayward and headlong still; young soldiers look for danger - old one’s are content to meet it when it comes, knowing well that it will come often enough, uninvited and unsought; nevertheless we will pass by this night’s adventure, and turn to other matters. First, however, it were meet and necessary that you should have somewhat to refresh you; you must needs be weary and exhausted.”

“If you can give me some wine it will be [14] very welcome. I care not for any thing more to-night,” replied O’Connor.

“That can I,” replied he, “and will myself do you reason.” He arose, and after a few minutes’ absence entered with two flasks, whose dust and cobwebs bespoke their antiquity, and filled two large long-stemmed glasses with the generous liquor.

“Young man,” said O’Hanlon, “from the moment I saw you in the inner room yonder, I know not how or wherefore my heart clave to you; and now knowing you for the son of my true friend, I feel for you the stronger love. I will tell you now how matters stand with us. I will hide nothing from you. I am old enough to have learned the last lesson of experience - the folly of too much suspicion; I will not distrust the son of Richard O’Connor. I need hardly tell you that those men whom you saw below stairs are no friends of the ruling powers, but devoted entirely to the service and the for-tunes of the rightful heir of the throne of England and of Ireland, met here together not without great peril.”

[15] “I had conjectured as much from what I myself witnessed,” rejoined O’Connor.

“Well then, I tell you this - the cause is not a hopeless one; the exiled king has warm, jealous, and powerful friends where their existence is least suspected,” continued O’Hanlon.

“In the parliament of England he has a strong and untiring party undetected - some of them, too, must soon wield the enormous powers of government, and have already gotten entire possesion of the ear of the Queen; and so soon as events invite, and the time is ripe for action, a mighty and a sudden constitutional movement will be made in favour of the prince - a movement entirely constitutional and in the parliament. This will, whether successful or not, raise the intolerant party here into fierce resistance - the resistance of the firelock and the sword; all the usurpers, the perjurers, and the plunderers who now possess the wealth and dignities of this spoiled and oppressed country, will arise in terror to defend their booty, and unless met and encountered, and defeated by the party of the young king in this island, will [16] embolden the malignant rebels of the sister country to imitate their example, and so over-awe the parliament, and frustrate their beneficent intentions. To us, therefore, has fallen the humbler but important task of organizing here, in the heart of this country, and in entire secrecy, a power sufficient for the occasion. Fain would I have thee along with us in so great and good a work, but will not urge you now; think upon it, however; it is not so mad a scheme as you may have thought; but such a one as looked on calmly, with the cold eye of reason, seems practicable, ay, sure of success; ponder the matter then; give me no answer now; I will take none; but think well upon it, and after a week, and not sooner, when you have decided, tell me whether you will be one of us or not. Meanwhile I have other matters to tell you of, in which perhaps your young heart will take a nearer interest.”

He paused, and having replenished glasses, and thrown a fresh supply of upon the fire, he continued -

[17] “Are you acquainted with a family named Ashwoode?”

“Yes,” replied O’Connor, quickly, “I have known them long.”

O’Hanlon looked searchingly at the young man, and then continued -

“Yes,” said he, “I see it is even so - your face betrays it - you loved the young lady, Mary Ashwoode - deny it not - I am your friend, and seek not idly or without purpose thus to question you. What thought you of Henry Ashwoode, now Sir Henry Ashwoode?”

“He was latterly much - entirely my friend,” rejoined O’Connor.

“He so professed himself?” asked O’Hanlon.

“Ay,” replied O’Connor, somewhat surprised at the tone in which the question was put, “he did so profess himself, and repeatedly.”

“He is a villain - he has betrayed you,” said the elder man, sternly.

“How - what - a villain! Henry Ashwoode deceive me?” said O’Connor, turning pale as death.

[18] “Yes - unless I’ve been strangely practised on - he has villanously deceived alike you and his own sister-pretending friendship, he has sowed distrust between you.”

“But have you evidence of what you say?” cried O’Connor. “Gracious God - what have I done!”

“I have evidence, and you shall hear and judge of it yourself,” replied O’Hanlon; “you cannot hear it to-night, however, nor I produce it - you need some rest, and so in truth do I - make use of that poor bed - a tired brain and weary body need no luxurious couch - I shall see you in the morning betimes - till then farewell.”

The young man would fain have detained O’Hanlon, and spoken with him, but in vain.

“We have talked enough for this night,” said the elder man - “I have it not in my power now to satisfy you - I shall, however, in the morning - I have taken measures for the purpose - good night.”

So saying, O’Hanlon left the chamber, and closed the door upon his young friend, now less than ever disposed to slumber.

[18] He threw himself upon the pallet, the victim of a thousand harassing and exciting thoughts -sleep was effectually banished; and at length, tired of the fruitless attitude of repose which he courted in vain, he arose and resumed his seat by the hearth, in anxious and weary expectation of the morning.

At length the red light of the dawn broke over the smoky city, and with a dusky glow the foggy sun emerged from the horizon of chimney tops, and threw his crimson mantle of ruddy light over the hoary thorn-wood and the shattered mansion, beneath whose roof had passed the scenes we have just described. Never did the sick wretch, who in sleepless anguish has tossed and fretted through the tedious watches of the night, welcome the return of day with more cordial greeting than did O’Connor upon this dusky morn. The time which was to satisfy his doubts could not now be far distant, and every sound which smote upon his ear seemed to announce the approach of him who was to dispel them all.

Weary, haggard, and nervous after the fa[20]tigues and agitation of the previous day - unrefreshed by the slumbers he so much required, his irritation and excitement were perhaps even greater than under other circumstances they would have been. The torments of suspense were at length, however, ended - he did hear steps approach the chamber - the steps evidently of more than one person - the door opened, and O’Hanlon, followed by Signor Parrucci, entered the room.

“I believe, young gentleman, you have seen this person before,” said O’Hanlon, addressing O’Connor, while he glanced at the Italian.

O’Connor assented.

“Ah! yees,” said the Neapolitan with a winning smile; “he has see me vary often. Signor O’Connor - he know me vary well. I am so happy to see him again - vary - oh! vary.”

“Let Mr. O’Connor know briefly and distinctly what you have already told me,” said O’Hanlon.

“About the letters?” asked the Italian.

“Yes, be brief,” replied O’Hanlon.

[21] “Ah! did he not guess?” rejoined the Neapolitan; “per crilla! the deception succeed then - vary coning faylow was old Sir Richard - bote not half so coning as his son, Sir Henry. He never suspect - Mr. O’Connor never doubt, bote took all the letters and read them just so as Sir Henry said he would. Malora! what great mees-fortune.”

“Parrucci, speak plainly to the point; I cannot endure this. Say at once what has he done - how have I been deceived?” cried O’Connor.

“You remember when the old gentleman - Mr. Auldey I think he is call - saw Sir Richard - immediately after that some letters passed between you and Mees Mary Ashwoode.”

“I do remember it-proceed,” replied O’Connor.

“Mees Mary’s letters to you were cold and unkind, and make you think she did not love you any more,” added Parrucci.

“Well, well - say on - say on - for God’s sake, man - say on,” cried O’Connor vehemently.

“Those letters you got were not written by her,” continued the Italian coolly; “they were [22] all wat you call forged - written by another person, and planned by Sir Henry and Sir Reechard; and the same way on the other side - the letters you wrote to her were all stopped, and read by the same two gentlemen, and other letters written in stead, and she is breaking her heart, because she thinks you av betrayed her, and given her up - rotta di collo! they av make nice work!”

“Prove this to me, prove it,” said O’Connor wildly, while his eye burned with the kindling fire of fury.

“I weel prove it,” rejoined Parrucci, but with an agitated voice and a troubled face; “bote, corpo di Plato, you weel keel me if I tell - promise - swear - by your honour - you weel not horte me - you weel not toche me - swear signor, and I weel tell.”

“Miserable caitiff - speak, and quickly - you are safe - I swear it,” rejoined he.

“Well, then,” resumed the Italian with restored calmness, “I will prove it so that you cannot doubt any more - it was I that wrote the letters for them - I, myself - and beside here is [23] the bundle with all of them written out for me to copy - most of them by Sir Henry - you know his hand-writing - you weel see the character - corbezzoli! he is a great rogue - and you will find all the real letters from you and Mees Mary that were stopped - I have them here.”

He here disengaged from the deep pocket of his coat, a red leathern case stamped with golden flowers, and opening it presented it to the young man.

With shifting colour and eyes almost blinded with agitation, O’Connor read and re-read these documents.

“Where is Ashwoode?” at length he cried; “bring me to him - gracious God, what a monster I must have appeared - will she - can she ever forgive me?”

Disregarding in entire contempt the mean agent of Ashwoode’s villany, and thinking only of the high-born principle, O’Connor, pale as death, but with perfect deliberateness arose and took the sword which the attendant who conducted him to the room had laid by the wall, and replacing it at his side, said sternly -

[24] “Bring me to Sir Henry Ashwoode - where is he? I must speak with him.”

“I cannot breeng you to him now,” replied Parrucci, in internal ecstasies, “for I cannot say where he is; bote I know vary well where he weel be to-day after dinner time, in the evening, and I weel breeng you; bote I hope vary moche you are not intending any mischiefs; if I thought so, I would be vary sorry - oh! vary.”

“Well be it so, if it may not be sooner,” said O’Connor gloomily, “this evening at all events he shall account with me.”

“Meanwhile,” said O’Hanlon, “you may as well remain here; and when the time arrives which this Italian fellow names, we can start. I will accompany you, for in such cases the arm of a friend can do you no harm and may secure you fair play. Hear me, you Italian scoundrel, remain here until we are ready to depart with you, and that shall be whenever you think it time to seek Sir Henry Ashwoode; you shall have enough to eat and drink meanwhile; depart, and relieve us of your company.”

[25] Signor Parrucci smiled sweetly from ear to ear, shrugged, and bowed, and then glided lightly from the room, exulting in the pleasant conviction that he had commenced operations against his ungrateful patron, by involving him in a scrape which must inevitably result in somewhat unpleasant exposures, and which had beside reduced the question of Sir Henry’s life or death to an even chance.

[26] CHAPTER III.

THE JOLLY BOWLERS - THE DOUBLE FRAY AND THE FLIGHT.

AT the time of which we write, there lay at the southern extremity of the fair city of Dublin, a bowling-green of fashionable resort, and well known as “Cullen’s Green;” for greater privacy, it was enclosed by a brick wall of considerable height, which again was surrounded by stately rows of lofty and ancient elms. A few humble dwellings were clustered about it; and through one of them, a low, tiled public-house, lay the entrance into this place of pastime. Thither-ward were O’Connor and O’Hanlon, having left their horses at the “Cock and Anchor,” led by the wily Italian.

“The players, you say, will not stop till dusk,” said O’Connor; “we can go in, and I shall wait until the party have broken up, to [27] speak to Ashwoode; in the interval we can mix with the spectators, and so escape remark.”

They were now approaching the little tavern embowered in tufted trees, and as they advanced, they perceived a number of hack carriages and led horses congregated upon the road about its entrance.

“Sir Henry is within; that iron gray is his horse; langue dun dua, there is no mistake,” observed the Neapolitan.

The little party entered the humble tavern, but here they were encountered by a new difficulty.

“You can’t get in to-night, gentlemen - sorry to disappint, gentlemen; but the green’s disengaged”, said mine host, with an air of mysterious importance; “a private party, engaged two days since for fear of a disappint.”

“Are they so strictly private, that they would not suffer two gentlemen to be spectators of their play?” inquired O’Hanlon.

“My orders is not to let anyone in, good, bad, or indifferent, while they are playing the match; that’s my orders,” replied the man; [28] “sorry to disappint, but can’t break my word with the gentlemen, you know.”

“Is there any other entrance into the bowling-green?” inquired O’Connor, “except through that door.”

“Divil a one, sir, where would it be? - divil a one, gentlemen,” replied mine host, “no other way in or out.”

“We will rest ourselves here for a time then,” said O’Connor.

Accordingly the party seated themselves in the low-roofed chamber through which the bowlers on quitting the ground must necessarily pass; and calling for some liquor to prevent suspicion, moodily awaited the appearance of the young baronet and his companions. Many a stern, impatient glance of expectation did O’Connor direct to the old door which alone separated him from the traitor and hypocrite who had with such monstrous fraud practised upon his unsuspecting confidence. At length he heard gay laughter and the tread of many feet approaching; the proprietor of “The Jolly Bowlers” opened the door, and several merry [29] groups past them by and took their departure, but O’Connor’s eye in vain sought among them the form of young Ashwoode.

“I see the gray 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.

[30] 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 menancingly in my way? - move aside and let me pass, or your rashness shall cost you dearly.”

[31] 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, or by the ---- you shall rue it.”

“I’ll 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.”

ing to the furious impulse of the moment Sir Henry Ashwoode drew his sword, and with the naked blade struck his antagonist [32] 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 [33] 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 its 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 [34] 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 [35] 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 are friends are thus engaged, were we, for warmth and exercise alike, 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 good humour.

“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, irresolu[36]tion, 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 ----, 1’ll spur thee with my sword-point.”

“Stir not, if you would keep your life,” said O’Hanlon, in a tone which the half-stupified 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 him-self into an attitude of defence, he attacked [37] 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 [38] 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 any thing were heard of it. Fortunately this accident is a trivial one - the blood flows rather fast though. Let’s [39] 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.

[40] CHAPTER IV.

THE STAINED RUFFLES.

WE must now, with our reader’s permission, return for a brief space to Morley Court. The apartment which lay beneath what had been Sir Richard Ashwoode’s bed-chamber, 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 [41] 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 book-case.

[42] “Well, I declare and purtest, I can’t rightly remember,” rejoined the maid, cocking her head on one side reflectively, and tapping her eye-brow to assist her recollection - “I don’t think, my lady, he named any hour percisely; 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 to-night - 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 to-night.”

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 to[43]gether at least for this evening - come, Harry, come”-so saying, she led him passive and gloomy to the fire-side, 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 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 any thing 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.

[44] “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 I-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 [46] 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 to-night.”

“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, bro[46]ther,” answered she sadly; “but if it vexes you, I will ask no more.”

“It does vex me, then,” said Ashwoode, sternly; “it does, and you 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 [47] 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 hoity-toity, 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 ---”

Mary did not wait for further conference; but rising with a proud mien and a burning cheek, she left the room and went quickly to her own chamber, where she threw herself into [48] a chair, covered her eyes with her hands, and burst into an agony of weeping.

“Well, d-n me, but she is a fine wench,” cried Nicholas Blarden, as soon as she had disappeared. “Mat ---- receive my soul, but the tantarums become her better than good humour; she’s a d—n fine piece of goods ;” so saying, he half filled Ashwoode’s glass with wine, and rinsed it into the fireplace; then coolly filled a bumper and quaffed it off, and then another and another.

“Sit down here and listen to me,” said he to Ashwoode, in that insolent domineering tone which he so loved to employ in accosting him, “sit down here, I say, young man, and listen to me while I give you a bit of my mind.”

Ashwoode, who knew too well the consequences of even murmuring under the tyranny of his task-master, in silence did as he was commanded.

“I tell you what it is,” said Blarden, “I don’t like the way this affair is going on; the girl avoids me; I don’t know her, by ---, a curse better to-day than I did the first day I [49] came into the house; this won’t do you know; it will never do; you had better strike out some expeditious plan, or it’s very possible I may tire of the whole concern and cut it black, do you mind; you had better sharpen your wits, my fine fellow.”

“The fault is your own,” said Ashwoode gloomily; “if you desire expedition, you can command it, by yourself speaking to her; you have not as yet even hinted at your intentions, nor by any one act made her acquainted with your designs; let her see that you like her; let her understand you; you have never done so yet.”

“She’s infernally proud,” said Blarden, ” just as proud as yourself; but we know a knack, don’t we, for bringing pride to its senses? Eh? Nothing, I believe, Sir Henry, like fear in such cases; don’t you think so? I’ve known it succeed sometimes to a miracle - fear of one kind or another is the only way we have of working men or women. Mind I tell you she must be frightened, and well frightened too, or she’ll run rusty. I have [50] a knack with me - a kind of gift - of frightening people when I have a fancy; and if you’re in earnest, as I guess you pretty well are, between us we’ll tame her.”

“It were not advisable to proceed at once to extremities,” said Ashwoode, who, spite of his constitutional selfishness, felt some odd sensations, and not of the pleasantest kind, while they thus conversed. “You must begin by showing your wishes in your manner; be attentive to her; and, in short, let her unequivocally see the nature of your intentions; tell her that you want to marry her; and when she refuses, then it is time enough to commence those - those - other operations at which you

“Well, d—n me, but there is some sense in what you say,” observed Blarden, filling his glass again. “Umph! perhaps I’ve been rather backward; I believe I have; she’s coy, shy, and a proud little baggage withal - I like her the better for it - and requires a lot of wooing before she’s won; well, I’ll make myself clear on to-morrow. I’m blessed if [51] she shan’t understand me beyond the possibility of question or doubt; and if she won’t listen to reason, then we’ll see whether there isn’t a way to break her spirit if she was as proud as the Queen.” With these words Blarden arose and drained the flask of wine, then observed authoritatively -

“Get the cards and follow me to the parlour. “I want something to amuse me; be quick, d’ye hear?”

And so saying he took his departure, followed by Sir Henry Ashwoode, whose condition was now more thoroughly abject and degraded than that of a purchased slave.

[52] CHAPTER V.

OLD SONGS - THE UNWELCOME LISTENER - THE BARONET’S PLEDGE.

NEXT day Mary Ashwoode sate alone in the same room in which she had been so unpleasantly intruded upon on the evening before. The unkindness of her brother had caused her many a bitter tear during the past night, and although still entirely in the dark as to Blarden’s designs, there was yet something in his manner during the brief moment of their yesterday evening’s rencontre which alarmed her, and suggested, in the few hurried and fevered dreams which troubled her broken slumbers of the night past, his dreaded image in a hundred wild and fantastic adventures.

She sate, as we have already said, alone in the selfsame room, and as mechanically she pursued her work, her thoughts were far away, and [53] wherever they turned still were they clouded with anxiety and sorrow. Wearied at length with the monotony of an occupation, which availed not even momentarily to draw her attention from the griefs which weighed upon her, she threw her work aside, and taking the guitar which in gayer hours had often yielded its light music to her touch, and trying to forget the consciousness of her changed and lonely existence in the happier recollections which returned in these once familiar sounds, she played and sang the simple melodies which had been her favourites long ago; but while thus her hands strayed over the chords of the instrument, and the low and silvery cadences of her sweet voice recalled many a touching remembrance of the past, she was startled and recalled at once from her momentary forgetfulness of the present, by a voice close behind her which exclaimed -

“Capital - never a better - encore, encore;” and on looking hurriedly round, her glance at once encountered and recognized the form and features of Nicholas Blarden. “Go on, go on, [54] do,” said that gentleman in his most engaging way, and with an amorous grin; “do - go on, can’t you - by ---- I’m half sorry I said a word.”

“I - I would rather not,” stammered she, rising and colouring; ” I have played and sung enough-too much already.”

“No, no, not at all,” continued Blarden, warming as he proceeded; “hang me, no such thing, you were just going on strong when I came in - come, come, I won’t let you stop.”

Her heart swelled with indignation at the coarse, familiar insolence of his manner; but she made no other answer than that conveyed by laying down the instrument, and turning from it and him.

“Well, rot me, but this is too bad,” continued he, playfully; “come, take it up again - come, you must tip us another stave, young lady - do - curse me if I heard half your songs - you’re a perfect nightingale.”

So saying he took up the guitar, and followed her with it towards the fire-place.

[55] “Come, you won’t refuse, eh? - I’m in earnest,” he continued; “upon my soul and oath I want to hear more of it.”

“I have already told you, sir,” said Mary Ahwoode, “that I do not wish to play or sing any more at present. I am sure you are not aware, Mr. Blarden, that this is my private apartment; no one visits me here uninvited, and at present I wish to be alone.”

Thus speaking she resumed her seat and her work, and sate in perfect silence, her heaving breast and glowing cheeks alone betraying the strength of her emotions.

Ho, ho! rot me, but she’s sulky,” cried Blarden, with a horse laugh, while he flung the guitar carelessly upon the table; “sure you wouldn’t turn me out - that would be very hard usage, and no mistake. Eh! Miss Mary?”

Mary continued to ply her silks in silence, and Blarden threw himself into a chair opposite to her.

“I like to rise you - hang me, if I don’t,” said Blarden, exultingly - “you are always a snug-looking bit of goods, but when your [56] blood’s up, you’re a downright beauty - rot me but you are - why the devil don’t you talk to me - eh?” he added, more roughly than he had yet spoken.

Mary Ashwoode began now to feel seriously alarmed at the man’s manner, and as her eyes encountered his gloating gaze, her colour came and went in quick succession.

“Confoundedly pretty, sure enough, and well you know it too,” continued he - “curse me but you are a fine wench - and I’ll tell you what’s more - I’m more than half in love with you at this minute - may the devil have me but I am.”

Thus speaking, he drew his chair nearer hers.

“Mr. Blarden - sir - I insist on your leaving me,” said Mary, now thoroughly frightened.

“And I insist on not leaving you,” replied Blarden, with an insolent chuckle - “so it’s a fair trial of strength between us, eh? - ho, ho, what are you afraid of? - stick up to your fight - do then - I like you all the better for your spirit - confound me but I do.”

[57] He advanced his chair still nearer to that on which she was seated.

“Well but you do look pretty - handsome - b-----y handsome, by Jove,” he exclaimed. “I like you, and I am determined to make you like me - I am - you shall like me.”

He arose and approached her with a half amorous, half menacing air.

Pale as death Mary Ashwoode arose also, moved with hurried trembling steps towards the door. He made a movement as if to intercept her exit, but checked the impulse, and contented himself with observing with a scowl of spite and disappointment, as she passed from the room -

“Pride will have a fall, my fine lady - you’ll be tame enough yet for all your tantarums, by Jove.”

Breathless with haste and agitation, Mary reached the study, where she knew her brother was now generally to be found. He was there engaged in the miserable labour of looking through accounts and letters, in arranging the complicated records of his own ruin.

[58] “Brother,” said she, running to his side with the earnestness of deep agitation, “brother, listen to me.”

He raised his eyes, and at a glance easily divined the cause of her excitement.

“WeIl,” said he, “speak on - I hear.”

“Brother,” she resumed, ” that man - that Mr. Blarden, came uninvited into my study; he was at first very coarse and free in his manner - very disagreeable and impudent - he refused to leave me when I requested him to do so, and every moment became more and more insolent - his manner and language terrified me. Brother, dear brother, you must not expose me to another such scene as that which has just passed.”

Ashwoode paused for a good while, with the pen still in his fingers, and his eyes fixed abstractedly upon his sister’s pale face - at length he said -

“Do you wish me to make this a quarrel with Blarden - was there enough to warrant a - a duel?”

He well knew, however, that he was safe in [59] putting the question - and in anticipating her answer, he calculated rightly the strength of his sister’s affection for him.

“Oh! no, no, brother - no,” she cried with imploring terror, “dear brother, you are every thing to me now - no, no, promise that you will not.”

“Well, well, I do,” said Ashwoode, “but how would you have me act?”

“Do not ask this man to prolong his visit,” replied she, “or if he must, at least let me go elsewhere while he remains here.”

“You have but one female relative in Ireland with a house to receive you,” rejoined Ashwoode, “and that is Lady Stukely, and I have reason to think she would not like to have you as a guest just now.

“Dear Henry, dear brother, think of some place,” said she with earnest entreaty, “I now feel secure no where - that rude man - the very sight of whom afrights me - will not forbear to intrude upon my privacy - alone-in my own little room - any where in this house - I am equally liable to his intrusions and his rudeness [60] - dear brother take pity on me - think of some place.”

“Curse that beast Blarden,” muttered Sir Henry Ashwoode, between his teeth, “will nothing ever teach the ruffian one particle of tact or common sense-what good end could he possibly propose to himself by terrifying the girl; - d---n his brutal stolidity.”

Ashwoode bit his lips and frowned, while he thought the matter over - at length he said -

“I shall speak to Blarden immediately - I begin to think that the man is not fit company for civilized people - I think we must get rid of him at whatever temporary inconvenience, without actual rudeness - without any thing approaching to a quarrel, I can shorten his visit - he shall leave this either to-night or before seven o’clock to-morrow morning.”

“And you promise there shall be no quarrel - no violence,” urged she.

“Yes, Mary, I do promise,” rejoined Ashwoode.

“Dear, dear brother, you have set my heart at rest,” cried she, “yes, you are my own dear [61] brother - my protector,” and with all the warmth and enthusiasm of unsuspecting love, she threw her arms around his neck and kissed her betrayer.

Mary had scarcely left the room in which Sir Henry Ashwoode was seated, when he perceived Blarden sauntering among the trees, by the window, with his usual swagger; the young man put on his hat and walked quickly forth to join him; as soon as he had come up with him, Blarden turned and anticipating him, said -

“Well I have spoken out, and I think she understands me too - at any rate, if she don’t, it’s no fault of mine.

“I wish you had managed it better,” said Ashwoode; “there is a way of doing these things; you have frightened the foolish girl half out of her wits.”

“Have I, though?” exclaimed Blarden with a triumphant grin; “she’s just the girl we want, easily cowed - I’m glad to hear it, we’ll manage her - we’ll bring her into training before a week - hang me but we will:’

[62] “You began a little too soon though,” urged Ashwoode, “you ought to have tried gentle means first.”

“Devil the morsel of good in them,” rejoined Blarden; “I see well enough how the wind sits - she don’t like me; and I hav’n’t time to waste in wooing - once we’re buckled she’ll be fond enough of me; matrimony ‘ill turn out smooth enough - I’ll take devilish good care of that; but the courtship will be the devil’s tough business - we must begin the taming system off-hand; there’s no use in shilly shally.”

“I tell you,” rejoined Ashwoode, “you have been too precipitate - I speak of course merely in relation to the policy and expediency of the thing; I don’t mean to pretend that constraint may not become necessary hereafter; but just now, and before our plans are well considered and our arrangements made - I think it was injudicious to frighten her so - she was talking of leaving the house and going to Lady Stukely’s - or in short any where rather than remain here.”

“Threaten to run away, did she?” cried [63] Blarden with a whistle of surprise which passed off into a chuckle.

“Yes, in plain terms, she said so,” rejoined Ashwoode.

“Then just turn the key upon her at once,” replied Blarden-” lock her up - let her measure her rambles by the four walls of her room - hang me, if I can see the difficulty.”

Ashwoode remained silent, and they walked side by side for a time without exchanging a word.

“Well, I believe I’m right,” cried Blarden at length; “I think our game is plain enough - eh? Don’t let her budge an inch - do you act turnkey, and I’ll pay her a visit once a day for fear she’d forget me - I’ll be her father confessor; eh? - ho, ho! - and between us I think we’ll manage to bring her to before long.”

“We must take care before we proceed to this extremity that all our agents are trustworthy,” said Ashwoode; “there is no immediate danger of her attempting an escape, for I told her that you were leaving this either to-night or to-morrow morning, and she’s now [64] just as sure as if we had her under lock and

key.”

“Well, what do you advise - can’t you speak out - what’s all the delay to lead to?” said Blarden.

“Merely that we shall have time to adjust our schemes,” replied Ashwoode; “there is more to be done than perhaps you think of-we must cut off all possibility of correspondence with friends out of doors - and we must guard against suspicion among the servants - they are all fond of her, and there is no knowing what mischief may be done even by the most contemptible agents; some little preparation before we employ coercion is absolutely indispensable.”

“Well then you’d have me keep out of the way,” said Blarden; “but mind you, I won’t leave this - I like to have my own eye upon my own business.”

“There is no reason why you should leave it,” rejoined Ashwoode; “the weather is now cold and broken, so that Mary will seldom leave the house; and when she remains in it, she is almost always in the little drawing-room with [65] her work, and books, and music; with the slightest precaution you can effectually avoid her for a few days.”

“Well then - agreed - done and done - a fair go on both sides,” replied Blarden, “but it must not be too long; knock out some scheme that will wind matters up within a fortnight at furthest; be lively, or she shall lead apes, and you swing as sure as there’s six sides to a die.”

[66] CHAPTER VI.

THE PRESS IN THE WALL.

LARRY Toole having visited in vain all his master’s usual haunts, returned in the evening of that day on which we last beheld him, to the “Cock and Anchor,” in a state of extreme depression and desolateness.

“By the holy man,” said Larry, in reply to the inquiries of the groom, who encountered him at the yard gate, “he’s gone as clane as a whistle. It’s dacent thratement, so it is - gone, and laves me behind to rummage the town for him - an’ divil a sign of him good or bad. I’m fairly burstin’ with emotions. Why did he make off with himself? Why the divil did he desart me? There’s no apology for sich minewvers - nor no excuse in the wide world, unless, indeed, he happened to be dhrounded or [67] dhrunk. I’m fairly dry with the frettin’. Come in with me, and we’ll have a sorrowful pot iv strong ale together by the kitchen fire; for, be-dad, I want something badly.”

Accordingly the two worthies entered the great old kitchen, and by the genial blaze of its cheering hearth, they discussed at length the probabilities of recovering Larry’s lost master.

“Usedn’t he to take a run out now and again to Morley Court?” inquired the groom; “you told me so.”

“By the hokey,” exclaimed Larry, with sudden alacrity, “there is some sinse in what you say - bedad there is. I don’t know how in the world I didn’t think iv going out there to-day. But no matter, I’ll do it to-morrow.”

And in accordance with this resolution, upon the next day, early in the forenoon, Mr. Toole pursued his route toward the old manor-house. As he approached the domain, however, he slackened his pace, and with extreme hesitation and caution began to loiter toward the mansion, screening his approach as much as possible among the thick brushwood which skirted the [68] rich old timber that clothed the slopes and hollows of the manor in irregular and stately masses. Sheltered in his post of observation, Larry lounged about until he beheld Sir Henry emerge from the hall-door and join Nicholas Blarden in the tête a tête which we have in our last chapter described. Our romantic friend no sooner beheld this occurrence, than he felt all his uneasiness at once dispelled. He marched rapidly to the hall-door, which remained open, and forthwith entered the house. He had hardly reached the interior of the hall, when he was encountered by no less a person than the fair object of his soul’s idolatry, the beauteous Mistress Betsy Carey.

“La, Mr. Laurence,” cried she, with an affected start, “you’re always turning up like a ghost, when you’re least expected.”

“By the powers of Moll Kelly,” rejoined Larry with fervour, “it’s more and more beautiful, the Lord be merciful to us, you’re growin’ every day you live. What the divil will you come to at last?”

“Well, Mr. Toole,” rejoined she, relaxing [69] into to a gracious smile, “but you do talk more nonsense than any ten beside. I wonder at you, so I do, Mr. Toole. Why don’t you have a discreeterer way of conversation and discourse?”

“Och! murdher - heigho, beautiful Betsy,” sighed Larry rapturously.

“Did you walk, Mr. Toole?” inquired the maiden.

“I did so,” rejoined Larry.

“Young master’s just gone out,” continued the maid.

“So I seen, jewel,” replied Mr. Toole.

“An’ you may as well come into the parlour, an’ have some drink and victuals,” added she with an encouraging smile.

“Is there no fear of his coming in on me?” inquired Larry cautiously.

“Tilly vally, man, who are you afraid of?” exclaimed the handmaiden cheerily. “Come, Mr. Toole, you used not to be so easily frightened.”

“I’ll never be afraid to folly your lead, most beautiful and bewildhering iv famales,” ejacu[70]lated Mr. Toole gallantly. “So here goes; folly on, and I’ll attind you behind.”

Accordingly, they both entered the great parlour, where the table bore abundant relics of a plenteous meal, and Mistress Betsy Carey, with her own fair hands, placed a chair for him at the table, and heaping a plate with cold beef and bread, laid it before her grateful swain, along with a foaming tankard of humming ale. The maid was gracious, and the beef delicious - his ears drank in her accents, and his throat her ale - and his heart and his mouth were equally full. Thus, in a condition as nearly as human happiness can approach to unalloyed felicity, realizing the substantial bliss of Mahomet’s paradise, Mr. Toole ogled and eat, and glanced and guzzled in soft rapture, until the force of nature could no further go, and laying down his knife and fork, he took one long last draught of ale, measuring, it is supposed, about three half-pints, and then, with an easy negligence, wiping the froth from his mouth with the cuff of his coat, he addressed himself to the fair dame once more -

[71] “They may say what they like, by the hokey, all the world over; but divil bellows me, if ever I seen sich another beautiful, fascinating, flusthrating famale, since I was the size iv that musthard pot - may the divil bile me, if I did,” ejaculated Mr. Toole, rapturously throwing himself into the chair with something between a sigh and a grunt, and ready to burst with love and repletion.

The fair maiden endeavoured to look comtemptuous; but she smiled in spite of herself.

“Well, well, Mr. Toole,” she exclaimed, ” I see there is no use in talking; a fool’s a fool to the end of his days, and some people’s past cure. But tell me, how’s Mr. O’Connor?”

“Bedad it’s time for me to think iv it,” exclaimed Larry briskly. “Do you know what brought me here?”

“How should I know?” responded she with a careless toss of her head, and a, very conscious look.

“Well,” replied Mr. Toole, “I’ll tell you at once. I lost the masther as clane as a new shilling, an’ I’m fairly braking my heart lookin’ [72] for him, an’ here I come, tryin’ would I get the chance iv hearing some soart iv a sketch iv him.

“Is that all?” inquired the damsel drily.

“All!” ejaculated Larry; “begorra I think it’s enough, an’ something to spare. All! why I tell you the masther’s lost, an’ anless I get some news of him here, it’s twenty to one the two of us ‘ill never meet in this disappinting world again. All! I think that’s something.”

“An’ pray, what should I know about Mr. O’Connor?” inquired the girl tartly.

“Did you see him, or hear of him, or was he out here at all?” asked he.

“No, he wasn’t. What would bring him?” replied she.

“Then he is gone in aimest,” exclaimed Larry passionately. “He’s gone entirely. I half guessed it from the first minute. By jabers, my bitther curse attind that bloody little public. He’s lost, an’ tin to one he’s in glory; for he was always unfortunate. Och! divil fly away with the liquor.”

“Well, to be sure,” ejaculated the lady’s [73] maid, with contemptuous severity, “but it is surprising what fools some people is. Don’t you think your master can go any where for a day or two, but he must bring you along with him, or ask your leave and licence to go where he pleases forsooth? Marry, come up, it’s enough to make a pig laugh only to listen to you.”

Just at this moment, and when Larry was meditating his reply, steps were heard in the hall, and voices in debate. They were those of Nicholas Blarden and of Sir Henry Ashwoode. Larry instantly recognized the latter, and his companion both of them.

“They’re coming this way,” gasped Larry with agonized alarm. “Tare an’ ouns, evangelical girl, we’re done for. Put me somewhere quick, or begorra it’s all over with us.”

“What’s to be done, merciful Moses. Where can you go?” ejaculated the terrified girl, surveying the room with frantic haste. “The press. Oh! thank God, the press. Come along, quick, quick, Mr. Toole, for gracious goodness sake.”

So saying, she rushed headlong at a kind of [74] cupboard or press, whose doors opened in the panelling of the wall, and fumbling with frightful agitation among her keys, she succeeded at length in unlocking it, and throwing open its door, exhibited a small orifice of about four feet and a half by three in the wall.

“Now, Mr. Toole, into it, as you vally your precious life - quick, quick, for the love of heaven,” ejaculated the maiden.

Larry was firmly persuaded that the feat was a downright physical impossibility, yet with a devotion and desperation, which love and terror combined alone could inspire, he mounted a chair, and, supported by all the muscular strength of his soul’s idol, scrambled into the aperture. A projecting shelf about half way up threw his figure so much out of equilibrium, that the task of keeping him in his place was no light one. By main strength, however, the girl succeeded in closing the door and locking her visitor fairly in, and before her master entered the chamber, Mr. Toole became a close prisoner, and the key which confined him was safely deposited in the charming Betsy’s pocket.

[75] Blarden roared lustily to the servants, and with sundry impressive imprecations, commanded them to remove every vestige of the breakfast of which the prisoner had just clandestinely partaken. Meanwhile he continued to walk up and down the room, whistling a lively ditty, and here and there, at particularly sprightly parts, drumming with his foot. in timc upon the floor.

“Well, that job’s done at last,” said he. “The room’s clean and quiet, and we can’t do better than take a twist at the cards. So let’s have a pack, and play your best, d’ye mind.”

This was addressed to Ashwoode, who, of course, acquiesced.

“Oh, bloody wars, I’m in for it,” murmured Larry, “they’ll be playin’ here to no end, and I smothering fast, as it is; I’ll never come out iv this pisition with my life.”

Few situations could indeed be conceived physically more uncomfortable. A shelf projecting about midway pressed him forward, exerting any thing but a soothing influence upon the backbone, so that his whole weight rested against [76] the door of his narrow prison, and was chiefly sustained by his breastbone and chin. In this very constrained attitude, and afraid to relieve his fatigue by moving even in the very slightest degree, lest some accidental noise should excite suspicion and betray his presence, the ill-starred squire remained; his discomforts still further enhanced by the pouring of some pickles, which had been overturned upon an upper shelf, in cool streams of vinegar down his back.

“I could not have betther luck,” - murmured he. “I never discoorsed a famale yet, but I paid through the nose for it. Didn’t I get enough iv romance, bad luck to it, an’ isn’t it a plisint pisition I’m in at last - locked up in an ould cupboard in the wall, an’ fairly swimming in vinegar. Oh, the women, the women. I’d rather than every stitch of cloth on my back, I walked out clever an’ clane to meet the young masther, and not let myself be boxed up this way, almost dying with the cramps and the snuffication. Oh, them women, them women!”

Thus mourned our helpless friend in inarticulate murmurings. Meanwhile young Ashwoode [77] opened two or three drawers in search of a pack of cards.

“There are several, I know, in that locker,” said Ashwoode. “I laid some of them there myself.”

“This one?” inquired Blarden, marking the interrogatory by a sharp application of the head of his cane to the very pannel against which Larry’s chin was resting. The shock, the pain, and the exaggerated loudness of the application caused the inmate of the press, in spite of himself, to ejaculate-

“Oh, holy Pether!”

“Did you hear any thing queer?” inquired Blarden with some consternation. “Anyone calling out?”

“No,” said Ashwoode.

“Well, see what the nerves is,” cried Blarden, “by ---- I’d have bet ten to one I heard a voice in the wall the minute I hit that locker door - this ---- weather don’t agree with me.”

This sentence he wound up by administering a second knock where he had given the first; and Larry, with set teeth and a grin, which in [78] a horse-collar would have won whole pyramids of gingerbread, nevertheless bore it this time with the silent stoicism of a tortured Indian.

“The nerves is a ---- quare piece of business,” observed Mr. Blarden - a philosophical remark in which Larry heartily concurred - “but get the cards, will you - what the ---- is all the delay about?”

In obedience to Ashwoode’s summons, Mistress Betsy Carey entered the room.

“Carey,” said he, “open that press and take out two or three packs of cards.”

“I can’t open the locker,” replied she, readily, “for the young mistress put the key astray, sir - I’ll run and look for it, if you please, sir.”

“God bless you,” murmured Larry, with fervent gratitude.

“Hand me that buch of keys from under your apron,” said Blarrlen, “ten to one we’ll find some one among them that ‘ill open it.”

“There’s no use in trying, sir,” replied the girl, very much alarmed, “it’s a pitiklar soart of a lock, and has a pitiklar key - you’ll ruinate it, sir, if you go for to think to open it [79] with a key that don’t fit it, so you will - I’ll run and look for it, if you please sir.”

“Give me that bunch of keys, young woman; - d---n your bloody obstinacy - give them I tell you,” exclaimed Blarden.

Thus constrained, she reluctantly gave the keys, and among them the identical one to whose kind offices Mr. O’Toole owed his present dignified privacy.

“Now run away, and be d----d to you, and find the right one,” said Mr. Blarden. “Come in here, Chancey,” he continued, addressing that gentleman, who happened at that moment to be crossing the hall - “take these keys here and try if any of them will pick that lock.”

Chancey accordingly took the keys, and mounting languidly upon a chair, began his operations.

It were not easy to describe Mr. Toole’s emotions as these proceedings were going forward - some of the keys would not go in at all - others went in with great difficulty, and came out with as much - some entered easily, but refused to [80] turn, and during the whole of these various attempts upon his “dungeon keep,” his mental agonies grew momentarily more and more intense, so much so that he was repeatedly prompted to precipitate the denouement, by shouting his confession from within. His heart failed him, however, and his resolution grew momentarily feebler and more feeble - he would have given worlds at that moment that he could have shrunk into the pickle-pot, whose contents were then streaming down his back - gladly would he have compounded for escape at the price of being metamorphosed for ever into a gerkin. His prayers were, however, unanswered, and he felt his inevitable fate momentarily approaching.

“This one will do it - I declare to God I have it at last,” drawled Chancey, looking lazily at a key which he held in his hand, and then applying it, it found its way freely into the keyhole.

“Bravo, Gordy, by ----,” cried Blarden, “I never knew you fail yet - you’re as cute as a pet fox, you are.”

[81] Mr. Blarden had hardly finished this flattering eulogium, when Chancey turned the key in the lock. With astonishing violence the doors burst open, and Larry Toole, Mr. Chancey, and the chair on which he was mounted, descended with the force of a thunderbolt on the floor. In sheer terror, Chancey clutched the interesting stranger by the throat, and Larry, in self-defence, bit the lawyer’s thumb, which had, by a trifling inaccuracy, entered his mouth, and at the same time, with both his hands, dragged his nose in a lateral direction until it had attained an extraordinary length and breadth. In equal terror and torment the two combatants rolled breathless along the floor; the charming Betsey Carey screamed murder, robbery, and fire - while Ashwoode and Blarden both started to their feet in the extremest amazement.

“How the devil did you get into that press?” exclaimed Ashwoode, as soon as the rival athletes had been separated and placed upon’ their feet, addressing Larry Toole.

“Oh! the robbing villian,” ejaculated Mistress Betsy Carey - “don’t suffer nor allow him to speak - bring him to the pump, gentlemen - oh! the lying villian - kick him out, Mr. Chancey - thump him, Sir Henry - don’t spare him, Mr. Blarden - turn him out, gentlemen all - he’s quite aperiently a robber - oh! blessed hour, but it’s I that ought to be thankful - what in the world wide would I do if he came powdering down on me, the overbearing savage.”

“Och! murder - the cruelty iv women!” ejaculated Larry, reproachfully - “oh! murdher, beautiful Betsy.”

“Don’t be talking to me, you sneaking, skluking villian,” cried Mistress Carey, vehemently, “you must have stole the key, so you must, and locked yourself up, you frightful baste. For goodness gracious sake, gentlemen, don’t keep him talking here-he’s dangerous - the Turk.”

“Oh! the vilany iv women!” repeated Larry, with deep pathos.

A brief cross-examination of Mistress Carey and of Larry Toole, sufficed to convict the fair maiden of her share in concealing the prisoner.

[83] “Now, Mr. Toole,” said Ashwoode, addressing that personage, “you have been once before turned out of this house for misconduct - I tell you, that if you do not make good use of your time, and run as fast as your best exertions will enable you, you shall have abundant reason to repent it, for in five minutes more I will set the dogs after you; and if ever I find you here again, I will have you ducked in the horse-pond for a full hour - depart, sirrah - away - run.”

Larry did not require any more urgent remon-strances to induce him to expedite bis retreat - he made a contrite bow to Sir Henry - cast a look of melancholy reproach at the beautiful Betsy, who, with a heightened colour, was withdrawing from the scene, and then with sudden nimbleness effected his retreat.

“The fellow,” said Ashwoode, “is a servant of that O’Connor, whom I mentioned to you. I do not think we shall ever have the pleasure of his company again. I am glad the thing has happened, for it proves that we cannot trust Carey.”

[84] “That it does,” echoed Blarden with an oath.

“Well, then, she shall take her departure hence before a week,” rejoined Ashwoode. “We shall see about her successor without loss of time. So much for Mistress Carey.”

[85] CHAPTER VII.

FLORA GUY.

“WHY d--- me, I thought you had done for that fellow, that O’Connor,” exclaimed Blarden after he had carefully closed the door. “I thought you had pinked him through and through like a riddle - isn’t he dead-didn’t you settle him?”

“So I thought myself, but some troublesome people have the art of living through what might have killed a hundred,” rejoined Ashwoode; “and I do not at all like this servant of his privately coming here, to hold conference with my sister’s maid - it looks suspicious; if it be, however, as I suspect, I have effectually countermined them.”

“Well then,” replied Blarden with an oath, “at all events we must set to work now in earnest.

[86] The first thing to be done, is to find a substitute for the girl whom I am about to dismiss,” said Ashwoode, “we must select care-fully, one whom we can rely upon - do you choose her.”

“Why I’m no great judge of such cattle,” rejoined Blarden; “I know the points of a fine woman as well as any man, but d--- me if ever I could make head or tail of what they’d be at; I could never see much difference between one girl and another - the devil’s in them all, for a cross-grained cranky set of ----. But here’s Chancey that understands them. I stake this ring to a sixpence he has one in his eye this very minute that’ll fit our purpose to a hair - what do you say, Gordy, boy - can you hit on the kind of wench we want - eh, you - old sly boots?”

Chancey sate sleepily before the fire, and a languid, lazy smile expanded his sallow sensual face as he gazed at the bars of the grate.

“Are you tongue-tied or what?” exclaimed Blaruen; “speak out - can you find us such a one as we want? she must be a regular knowing [87] devil and no mistake - as sly as yourself - a dead hand at a scheming game like this - a deep one.”

“Well, maybe I do,” drawled Chancey, “I think I know a girl that would do, but maybe you’d think her too bad.”

“She can’t be too bad for the work we want her for - what the devil do you mean by bad?” exclaimed Blarden.

“Well,” continued Chancey, disregarding the last interrogatory, “she’s Flora Guy, she attends in the old Saint Columbkil, a very arch little girl - I think she’ll do to a nicety.”

“Use your own judgment, I leave it all to you,” said Blarden, “only get one at once, do you mind, you know the sort we want.”

“I suppose she can’t come any sooner than to-morrow, she must have notice,” said Chancey, “but I’ll go in there to-day if you like, and talk to her about it; I’ll have her out with you here to-morrow to a certainty, an’ I declare to G— she’s a very smart little girl.”

“Do so,” said Ashwoode, “and the sooner the better.”

Chancey arose, stuffed his hands into his [88] breeches pockets according to his wont, and with a long yawn lounged out of the room.

“Do you keep out of the way after this evening,” continued Sir Henry addressing himself to Blarden; “I will tell her that you are to leave us this night, and that your visit ends; this will keep her quiet until all is ready, and then she must be tractable.”

“Do you run and find her then,” said Blarden, “and tell her that I’m off for town this evening - tell her at once-and mind bring me word what she says; by the father that got me, its the d---dest comical piece of play-acting I ever had a finger in yet - off with you, doctor - ho, ho, ho!-mind bring me word what she says - do you hear?”

With this pleasant charge ringing in his ears, Sir Henry Ashwoode departed upon his honourable mission.

Chancey strolled listlessly into town, and after an easy ramble at length found himself safe and sound once more beneath the roof of the old Saint Columbkil. He walked through the dingy deserted benches and tables of the old tavern, [89] and seating himself near the hearth, called a greasy waiter who was dozing in a corner.

“Tim, I’m rayther dry to-day, Timothy,” said Mr. Chancey, addressing the functionary, who shambled up to him more than half asleep; “what will you recommend, Timothy - what do you think of a pot of light ale?”

“Pint or quart?” inquired Tim shortly.

“Well, we’ll say a pint to begin with, Timothy,” said Chancey, meekly; “and do you see, Timothy, if Miss Flora Guy is on the tap; I wish she would bring it to me herself-do you mind, Timothy?”

Tim nodded and departed, and in a few minutes a brisk step was heard, and a neat, good-humoured looking wench approached Mr. Chancey, and planted a pint pot of ale before him.

“Well, my little girl,” said Chancey, with the quiet dignity of a patron, “would you like to get a fine situation in a baronet’s family, my dear; to be own maid to a baronet’s sister, where they eat off of silver every day in the week, and have more money than you or I could count in a twelvemonth?”

[90] “Where’s the good of liking it, Mr. Chancey,” replied the girl, laughing; “it’s time enough to be thinking of it when I get the offer.”

“Well, you have the offer this minute, my little girl,” rejoined Chancey; “I have an elegant place for you - upon my conscience I have - up at Morley Court, with Sir Henry Ashwoode; he’s a baronet, dear, and you’re to be own maid to Miss Mary Ashwoode.”

“It can’t be the truth you’re telling me,” said the girl, in unfeigned amazement.

“I declare to G-d, and upon my soul, it is the plain truth,” drawled Chancey; “Sir Henry Ashwoode, the baronet, asked me to recommend a tidy, sprightly little girl, to be own maid to his elegant, fine sister, and I recommended you - I declare to G-d but I did, and I come in to-day from the baronet’s house to hire you, so I did.”

“Well, an’ is it in airnest you are?” said the girl.

“What I’m telling you is the rale truth,” rejoined Chancey: “I declare to G-d, and upon my soul and conscience, and I wouldn’t sware [91] that in a lie, if you like to take the place you can get It.

“Well, well, after that - why my fortune’s made,” cried the girl, in ecstacies.

“It is so, indeed, my little girl,” rejoined Chancey; “your fortune’s made sure enough.”

“An’ my dream’s out, too; for I was dreaming of nothiug but washing, and that’s a sure sign of a change, all the live long night,” cried she, “washing linen, and such lots of it, all heaped up; well, but I’m a sharp dreamer - . ain’t I though?”

“You will take it then?” inquired Chancey.

“Will I - maybe I won’t,” rejoined she.

“Well, come out to-morrow,” said Chancey.

“I can’t to-morrow,” replied she; “for all the table-cloths is to be done, an’ I would not like to disappoint the master after being with him so long.”

“Well, can you next day?”

“I can,” replied she; “tell me where it is.”

“Do you know Tony Bligh’s public - the old Bleeding Horse?” inquired he.

“I do - right well,” she rejoined with alacrity.

[92] “They’ll direct you there,” said Chancey; “ask for the manor of Morley Court; it’s a great old brick house, you can see it a mile away, and whole acres of wood round it-it’s a wonderful fine place, so it is; remember it’s Sir Henry himself you’re to see when you go there; an’ do you mind what I’m saying to you, if I hear that you were talking and prating about the place here to the chaps that’s idling about, or to old Pottles, or the sluts of maids, or, in short, to anyone at all, good or bad, you’ll be sure to lose the situation; so mind my advice, like a good little girl, and don’t be talking to any of them about where you’re going; for it wouldn’t look respectable for a baronet to be hiring his servants out of a tavern - do you mind. me, dear.”

“Oh, never fear me, Mr. Chancey,” she rejoined; ” I’ll not say a word to a living soul; but I hope there’s no fear the place will be taken before me, by not going to-morrow.”

“Oh! dear me! no fear at all, I’ll keep it open for you; now be a good girl, and remember don’t disappoint.”

[93] So saying he drained his pot of ale to the last drop, and took his departure in the pleasing conviction that he had secured the services of a fitting instrument to carry out the infernal schemes of his employers.

[94] CHAPTER VIII.

OF MARY ASHWOODE’S WALK TO THE LONESOME WELL - AND OF WHAT SHE SAW THERE - AND SHOWING HOW SCHEMES OF PERIL BEGAN TO CLOSE AROUND HER.

ON the evening following these events, Mary Ashwoode. in the happy conviction that Nicholas Blarden was far away, and for ever removed from her neighbourhood, walked forth at the fall of the evening unattended, to ramble among the sequestered but now almost leafless woods which richly ornamented the old place. Through sloping woodlands, among the stately trees and wild straggling brushwood, now densely crowded together, and again opening in broad vistas and showing the level sward, and then again enclosing her amid the gnarled and hoary trunks and fantastic boughs, all touched with the mellow golden hue of the rich lingering light of evening, she wandered on, now treading [95] the smooth sod among the branching roots, now stepping from mossy stone to stone across the wayward brook - now pausing on a gentle eminence to admire the glowing sky and the thin haze of evening, mellowing all the distant shadowy outlines of the landscape; and by all she saw at every step beguiled into forgetfulness of the distance to which she had wandered.

She now approached what had been once a favourite spot with her. In a gentle slope, and almost enclosed by wooded banks, was a small clear well, an ancient lichen-covered arch enclosed it; and all around in untended wildness grew the rugged thorn and dwarf oak, crowding around it with a friendly pressure, and embowering its dark clear waters with their ivy-clothed limbs; close by it stood a tall and graceful ash, and among its roots was placed a little rustic bench where, in happier times, Mary had often sate and read through the pleasant summer hours; and now, alas! there was the little seat, and there the gnarled roots and the hoary stems of the wild trees, and the graceful ivy clusters, and the time-worn mossy arch that vaulted the [96] clear waters bubbling so joyously beneath; how could she look on these old familiar friends, and not feel what all who with changed hearts and altered fortunes revisit the scenes of happier times are doomed to feel?

For a moment she paused and stood lost in vain and bitter regrets by the old well-side. Her reverie was, however, soon and suddenly interrupted by the sound of something moving among the brittle brushwood close by; she looked quickly in the direction of the noise, and though the light had now almost entirely failed, she yet discerned, too clearly to be mistaken, the head and shoulders of Nicholas Blarden, as he pushed his way among the bushes toward the very spot where she stood. With an involuntary cry of terror she turned, and running at her utmost speed, retraced her steps toward the old mansion; not daring even to look behind her, she pursued her way among the deepening shadows of the old trees with the swiftness of terror; and, as she ran, her fears were momentarily enhanced by the sound of heavy foot-falls in pursuit, accompanied by the [97] loud short breathing of one exerting his utmost speed. On - on she flew with dizzy haste; the distance seemed interminable, and her exhaustion was such that she felt momentarily tempted to forego the hopeless effort, and surrender herself to the mercy of her pursuer. At length she approached the old house-the sounds behind her abated; she thought she heard hoarse volleys of muttered imprecations, but not hazarding even a look behind, she still held on her way, and at length, almost wild with fear, entered the hall and threw herself sobbing into her brother’s arms.

“Oh God! brother; he’s here; am I safe?” and she burst into hysterical sobs.

As soon as she was a little calmed, he asked her -

“What has alarmed you, Mary; what have you seen to agitate you so?”

“Oh! brother; have you deceived me; is that fearful man still an inmate of the house?” she said.

“No; I tell you no,” replied Ashwoode, he’s gone; his visit ended with yesterday [98] evening; he’s fifty miles away by this time; tut - tut - folly, child; you must not be so fanciful.”

“Well, brother; he has deceived you,” she rejoined, with the earnestness of tenor; “he is not gone; he is about this place; so surely as you stand there I saw him ; and, 0 God! he pursued me, and had my strength faultered for a moment, or my foot slipped, I should have been in his power,” she leaned down her head and clasped her hands across her eyes, as if to exclude some image of horror.

“This is mere raving, child,” said Ashwoode, “the veriest folly; I tell you the man is gone; you heard, if any thing at all, a dog or a hare springing through the leaves, and your imagination supplied the rest. I tell you. once for all, that Blarden is threescore good miles away.”

“Brother, as surely as I see you, I saw him this night,” she replied. ” I could not be mistaken; I saw him, and for several seconds before I could move, such was the palsy of terror that struck me. I saw him, and watched [99] him advancing towards me - gracious heaven! for while I could reckon ten; and then, as I fled, he still pursued; he was so near that I actually heard his panting as well as the tread of his feet; - brother - brother - there was no mistake; there could be none in this.”

“Well, be it so, since you will have it,” replied Ashwoode, trying to laugh it off; .“you have seen his fetch - I think they call it so. I’ll not dispute the matter with you; but this I will aver, that his corporeal presence is removed some fifty miles from hence at this moment; take some tea, and get you to bed, child; you have got a fit of the vapours; you’ll laugh at your own foolish fancies to-morrow morning.”

That night Sir Henry Ashwoode, Nicholas Blarden, and their worthy confederate, Gordon Chancey, were closetted together in earnest and secret consultation in the parlour.

“Why did you act so rashly - what could have possessed you to follow the girl?” asked Ashwoode.

“D—n me, I don’t know,” rejoined Blar[100]den; “but when I saw her by that old well, she looked so pretty, egad, that I took a fancy for a holy kiss; you wouldn’t suspect me of any more mischief - ho! ho! - well but you’re a mighty suspicious chap - you are.”

For a moment Ashwoode felt upon the very point of rushing on the scoundrel, and trampling him under his feet. The momentary tumult of outraged pride, however, speedily subsided under the chilling consciousness that his life, character, and all were in the power of the ruffian whom, from his very soul, he loathed and despised, and he silently turned away.

“Oh! dear me, dear me! but you’re a terrible fellow,” said Chancey, with a gentle laugh of intense quiet enjoyment.

“I like to bring matters to a crisis - ho, ho! - in a hurry - d’ye mind; and I tell you what it is, Sir Henry,” he continued, addressing the baronet, “If I had come up with the chase, I’d have told her a bit of my mind I I’d have put matters in a new point of view- eh? - ho, ho! - and never believe Nicky Blarden, or she’d have been in bit of a [101] hurry to be married to me off hand after it - ho, ho! - eh? - she’d have an interest in being expeditious - up to time, as we say in the ring - eh? ho, ho, ho!”

Still Ashwoode, now thoroughly broken to the degrading yoke, endured the ruffian’s coarse and atrocious brutality in silence.

“I say, Ashwoode, my tight chap, you mustn’t look glum when I’m in good humour -it’s rayther uncivil in your own house. Do you mind me,” said Blarden, in that pleasant vein which is popularly termed “half joke and whole earnest,” “I want no sour looks, d’ye see and if you will wear them, I’ll make them an awkward livery for you, I tell you: come, look bright.”

“The plain fact is this,” said Ashwoode, “you have managed one way or another so thoroughly to frighten the girl, to make her so fear and avoid you, that I entirely despair, by fair means, of ever inducing her to listen to your proposals.”

“Well, that does not take me altogether by surprise,” said Blarden, “for I have been [102] suspecting so much this many a day; we must then go to work in right earnest at once.”

“What measures shall we take?” said Ashwoode.

“What measures!” echoed Blarden; “well, confound me if I know what to begin with, there’s such a lot of them, and all good - what do you say, Gordy?”

“You ought to ask her to marry you off hand,” said Chancey, demurely, but promptly; “and if she refuses, let her be locked up, and treat her as if she was mad - do you mind; and I’ll go to Patrick’s-close, and bring out old Shycock, the clergyman; and the minute she strikes, you can be coupled; she’ll give in very soon you’ll find; little Ebenezer will do whatever we bid him, and swear whatever we like; we’ll all swear that you and she are man and wife already; and when she denies it, threaten her with the mad-house; and then we’ll see if she won’t come round; and you must first send away the old servants - every mother’s skin of them; and get new ones instead; and that’s my advice.”

[103] “It’s not bad, either,” said Blarden, knitting his brows twice or thrice. and setting his teeth. “I like that notion of threatening her with bedlam; it’s a devilish good idea; and I’ll give long odds it will work wonders; what do you say, Ashwoode?”

“Choose your own measures,” replied the baronet. “I’m incapable of advising you.”

“Well, then, Gordy, that’s the go,” said Blarden; “bring out his reverence whenever I tip you the signal; and he shall have board and lodging until the job’s done; he’ll make a tip-top domestic chaplain; I suppose we’ll have family prayers while he stays - eh? - ho, ho! - devilish good idea, that: and Chancey ‘ill act clerk - eh? won’t you, Gordy?” and, tickled beyond measure at the facetious suggestion, Mr. Blarden laughed long and lustily.

“I suppose I may as well keep close until our private chaplain arrives, and the new waiting-maid,” said Blarden; “and as soon as all is ready, I’ll blaze out in style, and I’ll tell you what, Ashwoode, a precious good thought strikes me; turn about you know is fair play; and as [104] I’m fifty miles away to-day, it occurs to me it would be a deuced good plan to have you fifty miles away to-morrow - eh? - we could manage matters better if you were supposed out of the way, and that she knew I had the whole command of the house, and every thing in it; she’d be a cursed deal more frightened; what do you think?”

“Yes, I entirely agree with you,” said Ashwoode, eagerly catching at a scheme which would relieve him of all prominent participation in the infamous proceedings - an exemption which spite of his utter selfishness, he gladly snatched at. “I will do so. I will leave the house in reality.”

“No - no; my tight chap, not so fast,” rejoined Blarden, with a savage chuckle. “I’d rather have my eye on you, if you please; just write her a letter, dated from Dublin, and say you’re obliged to go any where you please for a month or so; she’ll not find you out, for we’ll not let her out of her room; and now I think every thing is settled to a turn, and we may as well get under the blankets at once, and be stirrillg betimes in the morning.”

[105] CHAPTER IX.

THE DOUBLE FAREWELL.

ON the day following, Mistress Betsy Carey bustled into her young mistress’s chamber looking very red and excited.

“‘Well ma’am,” said she, dropping a short indignant courtesy, “I’m come to bid you good-bye, ma’am.”

“How - what can you mean Carey?” said Mary Ashwoode.

“I hope them as comes after me,” continued the handmaiden vehemently, “will strive to please you in all pints and manners as well as them that’s going.”

“Going!” eohoed Mary; why this can’t be- there must be some great mistake here.”

“No mistake at all, ma’am, of any sort or description; the master has just paid up my [106] wages, and gave me my discharge,” rejoined the maid. “Oh, the ingratitude of some people to their servants is past bearing, so it is.”

And so saying, Mistress Carey burst into a passion of tears.

“There is some mistake in all this, my poor Carey,” said the young lady; “I will speak to my brother about it immediately, don’t cry so.”

“Oh! my lady, it ain’t for myself I’m crying; the blessed saints in heaven knows it ain’t,” cried the beautiful Betsy, glancing devotionally upward through her tears; “not at all and by no means, ma’am, it’s all for other people, so it is, my lady; oh! ma’am, you don’t know the badness and the villiany of people, my lady.”

“Don’t cry so, Carey,” replied Mary Ash-woode, ” but tell me frankly what fault you have committed? - let me know why my brother has discharged you?”

“Just because he thinks I’m too fond of you, my lady, and too honest for what’s going on,” cried she; drying her eyes in her apron with angry vehemence, and speaking with extraordinary sharpness and volubility; “because I saw [107] Mr. O’Connor’s man yesterday - and found out that the young gentleman’s letters used to be stopped by the old master, God rest him, and Sir Henry, and all kinds of false letters written to him and to you by themselves, to breed mischief between you. I never knew the reason before, why in the world it was the master used to make me leave every letter that went between you, for a day or more in his keeping. Heaven be his bed; I was too innocent for them, my lady; we were both of us too simple: oh dear! oh dear! it’s a quare world, my lady. And that wasn’t all - but who do you think I meets to-day skulking about the house in company with the young master, but Mr. Blarden, that we all thought, glory be to God, was, I don’t know how far off out of the place; and so, my lady, because them things has come to my knowledge, and because they knowed in their hearts, so they did, that I’d rayther be crucified than hide as much as the black of my nail from you, my lady, they put me away, thinking to keep you in the dark. Oh! but it’s a dangerous, bad world, so it is - to put me out of the way of [108] tellin’ you whatever I knowed; and all I’m hoping for is, that them that’s coming in my room won’t help the mischief, and try to blind you to what’s going on;” hereupon she again burst into a flood of tears.

“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 [109] 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 bed-chamber, 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.

[110] “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, good-humoured 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.

[111] “Flora Guy, may it please your ladyship,” replied the new comer, 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 miodesty, 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 asto[112]nished. “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 up stairs, 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 red-faced gentleman very weIl, for he was turning round over his shoulder, and putting out his tongue, making [113] 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 horse-flesh 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 [114] 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 way 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 gray [115] 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.

[116] “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 [117] 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 red-faced man you spoke of, that talked so loud and swore so much, than man I fear - fear him more than ever yet I dreaded any living thing - more than I thought I could fear any thing 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 [118] 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 every thing 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 I” 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.

[119] “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 red-faced 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 council - advise me, for God’s sake, in this terrible hour. What shall 1 do?”

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

[120] “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 sate 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 ene[121]mies; 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 to-night; 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.”

[122]CHAPTER X.

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 the town lass about her; she’s too like a milk-maid, 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 any thing honest come out of the old Saint Columbkil? there wasn’t a sharper little wench in the place than herself, and I 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 any way,” said Blarden; “the three others are as [123] 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 betokened 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 shoe-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.”

[124] “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 sate 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 bed-chamber 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 [125] 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 [126] her very heart sank within her. 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 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.

A night, sleepless, except for a few brief and fevered slumbers crowded with terrors, passed heavily away, and the morning found Mary Ashwoode, pale, nervous, and feverish. She resolved at whatever hazard, to endeavour to induce one of the new servants to convey her letter to Major O’Leary. The detection of this attempt [127] could at worst result in nothing worse than to precipitate whatever mischief Blarden and his confederates had plotted, and which would if not so speedily, at all events as surely overtake her, were no such attempt made.

“Flora,” said she, “I am resolved to try this chance, I fear me it is but a poor one; you, however, my poor girl, must not be compromised should it fail; you must not be exposed by your faithfulness to the vengeance of these villains; do you go into the next room, and I will try what may may be done.”

So saying, she rang the bell, and in a few minutes it was answered by the same man who had obeyed her summons on the day before. The man, although arrayed in livery, had by no means the dapper air of a professed footman, and possessed rather a villainous countenance than otherwise; he stood at the door with one hand fumbling at the handle, while he asked with an air half gruff and half awkward what she wanted. She sate in silence for a minute like the enchanter whose spells have been for the first time answered by the appearance of the familiar; too much agi[128]tated and affrighted to utter her mandate; with a violent effort she mastered her trepidation, and with an appearance of self-possession and carelessness which she was far from feeling, she said -

“Can you, my good man, find a trusty messenger to carry a letter for me to a friend in Dublin?”

The man remained silent for some seconds, twisted his mouth into several strange contortions, and looked very hard indeed at her. At length he said, closing the door at the same time and speaking in a low key -

“Well, I don’t say but I might find one, but there’s a great many things would make it very costly; maybe you could not afford to pay him?”

“I could - I would - see here,” and she took a diamond ring from her finger; “this is a diamond; it is of value - convey but this letter safely and it is yours.”

The man took the ring from the table where she laid it, and examined it curiously.

“It’s a pretty ring - it is,” said he, removing it a little from his eye, and turning it in different [129] directions so as to make it flash and sparkle in the light, “it is a pretty ring, rayther small for my fingers though - it’s a real diamond?”

“It is indeed, valuable - worth forty pounds at least,” she replied.

“Well then here goes, it’s worth a bit of a risk,” and so saying he deposited it carefully in a corner of his waistcoat pocket, “give me the letter now ma’am.”

She handed him the letter and he thrust it into the deepest abyss of his breeches pocket.

“Deliver that letter but safely,” said she, “and what I have given you shall be but the earnest of what’s to come, it is important - urgent - execute but the mission truly, and I will not spare rewards.”

The man gave two short nods of huge significance accompanied with a slight grunt.

“I say again let me but have assurance that the message has been done,” repeated she, “and you shall have abundant reason to rejoice, above all things despatch - and - and - secrecy.”

“The man winked very hard with one eye, and at the same time with his crook’d finger drew [130] his nose so much on one side, that he seemed intent on removing that feature into exile some-where about the region of his ear; and having performed this elegant and expressive pantomine for several seconds, he stooped forward, and in an emphatic whisper said -

“Never fear.”

He then opened the door and abruptly made his exit, leaving poor Mary Ashwoode full of agitating hopes.

[131] CHAPTER XI.

THE FEARFUL VISITANT.

Two or three days had passed, during which Mary had ascertained the fact, that every door affording egress from the house, was kept constantly locked, and that the new servants, as well as Blarden and his companions, were perpetually on the alert, and traversing the lower apartments, so that even had the door of the mansion lain open, it would have been impossible to attempt an escape without encountering some one of those whose chief object was to keep her in close confinement, perhaps the very man from whose presence her inmost soul shrank in terror - she felt, therefore, that she was as effectually and as helplessly a prisoner as if she lay in the dungeons of a gaol.

Often again had she endeavoured to see the [132] man to whom she had confided her letter to Major O’Leary, but in vain; her summons was invariably answered by the others, and fearing to excite suspicion, she, of course, did not inquire for him, and so, after a time, desisted from her endeavours.

Her window commanded a partial view of the old shaded avenue, and hour after hour would she sit at her casement, watching in vain for the longed-for appearance of her uncle, and listening, as fruitlessly, for the clang of his horse’s hoofs upon the stony court.

“Oh! Flora, will he ever come,” she would exclaim, with a voice of anguish, “will he ever - ever come to deliver me from this horrible thraldom? I watch in vain, from the light of early dawn till darkness comes - I watch in vain for the welcome sight of my friend - in vain - in vain I listen for the sound of his approach - heaven pity me, where shall I turn for hope - all - all have forsaken me - all that. ever I loved have fallen from me, and left me desolate in this extremity - has he, too, my last friend, forsaken me-will they leave me here to misery - oh, that [133] I might lay me down where head and heart are troubled no more, and be at rest in the cold grave. He’ll never come - no - no - no - never.

Then she would wring her hands, still gazing from the casement, and hopelessly sob and weep.

---

She knew not why it was that Nicholas Blarden had suffered her, for a day or two, to be exempt from the dreaded intrusions of his hated presence. But this afforded her little comfort; she knew not how soon - at what moment - the monster might choose to present himself before her under circumstances of horror so dreadful as those of her present friendless and forsaken abandonment to his mercy-and when these imminent fears were for an instant hushed, a thousand agonizing thoughts, arising from the partial revelations of her late servant, Carey, occupied her mind. That the correspondence between her and O’Connor had been falsified - she dreaded, yet she hoped it might be true - she feared, yet prayed it might be so - and while the thought that others had wrought their estrange[134]ment, and that the coolness of indifference had not touched the heart of him she so fondly loved visited her mind - a thousand bright, but momentary hopes, fluttered her poor heart, and, for an instant, her dangers and her fears were all forgotten.

The day had passed and its broad clear light had given place to the red dusky glow of sun-set, when Mary Ashwoode heard the measured tread of several persons approaching her room. With an instinctive consciousness of her peril, the started to her feet, while every tinge of colour fled entirely from her cheeks.

“Flora - stay by me - oh, God, they are coming!” she said, and the words had hardly escaped her lips, wheu the door of the boudoir, in which she stood, was pushed open, and Nicholas Blarden, followed by Gordon Chancey, entered the room. There was in the countenance of Blarden none of his usual affectation of good humour; on the contrary, it wore a scowl of undisguised and formidable menace, the effect of which was enhanced by the baleful significance of the malignant glance which he fixed [135] upon her-and as he stood there biting his lips in ominous silence, and gazing with savage gloating eyes upon the affrighted girl, it were not easy to imagine an apparition more intimidating and hideous. Even Chancey seemed a little uneasy in the anticipation of what was coming, and the sallow face of the barrister looked more than usually sallow, and his glittering eyes more glossy than ever.

“Go out of the room you - do you mind,” said Blartien grimly, addressing Flora Guy, who had placed herself a little in advance of her young mistress, and who stood mute anti thunderstruck, looking upon the two intruders - “are you palsied, or what - quit the room when I command you, you brimstone fool;” and he clutched her by the shoulder, and thrust her headlong out of the chamber, flinging the door to, with a crash that made the walls ring again.

“Listen to me and mind me, and weigh my words, or you’ll rue it,” said he, with a tremendous oath, addressing himself to the speechless and terrified lady. “I have a bit of information to give you, and then a bit of advice after it; [136] you must know it’s my intention we shall be married; mind me, married to-morrow evening, I know you don’t like it; but I do, and that’s enough for my purpose; and whenever I make my mind up to a thing, there is not that power in earth, or heaven, or hell, to turn me from it. I was always considered a tough sort of a chap when I was in earnest about any thing; and I can tell you I’m mighty well in earnest here; and now you may as well know how completely I have you under my thumb; there is not a servant in the house that does not belong to me; there is not a door in the house but the key of it is in my keeping; there is not a word spoken in the house but I hear it, nor a thing done that I don’t know of it, and here’s your letter for you,” he shouted, and flung her letter to Major O’Leary open before her on the table. “How dare you tamper with my servant’s honesty? how dare you?” thundered he with a stamp upon the floor which made the ornaments on the cabinet dance and jingle; “but mind how you try it again - beware; mind how you offer to [137] bribe them again; I give you fair warning; you’re my property now - to do what I like with, just as much as my horse or my dog; and if you won’t obey me, why I’ll find a way to make you; to-morrow evening I’ll have a parson here, and we’ll be buckled; make no rout about it, and it will be better for you, for whatever you do or say, if I had to get you into a strait-waistcoat and clap a plaster over your mouth to keep you quiet, married we shall be: husband and wife, and plenty of witnesses to vouch for it; do you understand me, and no mistake; and if you’re foolish enough to make a row about it, I’ll tell you what I’ll do in such a case,” and he fixed his eyes with a still more horrible expression upon her. “I have a particular friend, do you mind - a very obliging particular old friend that’s a mad doctor; do you hear me; not a very lucky one to be sure, for he has made devilish few cures; a mad doctor, do you mind? - and I’ll have him to reside here and superintend your treatment; do you hear me? don’t stand gaping there like an idiot; do you hear me?”

[138] Blarden during this address had advanced into the room and stood by the little table, leaning his knuckles upon it, and stooping forward and advancing his menacing and hideous face, so as to diminish still further the intervening distance, when, all on a sudden, like a startled bird, she darted across the room, and ere they had time to interpose, had opened the door and was half-way across the lobby; she passed Flora Guy, who was sobbing at the door with her apron to her eyes, and at the head of the stairs beheld Sir Henry Ashwoode, no less confounded at the rencounter than was she herself.

“My brother! my brother!” she shrieked, and threw herself fainting into his arms.

Spite of all that was base in his character, the young man was so shocked and confounded that he turned pale as death, and speech and recollection for a moment forsook him.

Almost at the same instant Chancey and Blarden were at his side.

“What the devil ails you?” said Blarden, furiously, addressing Ashwoode, “what do you [139] stand there hugging her for, you white-faced idiot?”

Ashwoode’s lips moved; but he could not speak, and the senseless burden still lay in his arms.

“Let her go, will you, you d----d oaf? take hold of the girl Chancey, and you, you idiot, come here and lend a hand; carry her into her room, and mind, sweet lips, keep the key in your pocket; and if you want help, tatter the bells; get down, will you, you moon-struck fool?” he continued, addressing Ashwoode; “what do you stand there for, with your white-washed face?”

Ashwoode, scarcely knowing what he did, staggered down the stairs and made his way to the parlour, where he sate gasping, with his face buried in his hands. Meanwhile, with

many a meek expression of pity the lawyer assisted Flora Guy in bearing the inanimate body of her mistress into the chamber, where, in happy unconsciousness, she lay under the tender care of her humble friend and servant.

[140] Blarden and Chancey having accomplished the object of their mission, departed to the lower regions to enjoy whatever good cheer Morley-court afforded.

[141] CHAPTER XII.

EBENEZER SHYCOCK.

IN pursuance of the arrangements which Mr. Blarden had, on the evening before, announced to his intended victim, Gordon Chancey was despatched early upon the next morning to engage the services of a clergyman for the occasion. He knew pretty well how to choose his man, and for the most part when a plot was to be executed, in theatric phrase cast the parts well. He proceeded leisurely to the city, and sauntering through the streets found himself at length in Saint Patrick’s Close; beneath the shadow of the old Cathedral, he turned down a narrow and deserted lane and stopped before a dingy, miserable little shop, over whose doorway hung a pannel with the dusky and faded similitude of two great keys crossed, now scarcely discernable [142] through the ancient dust and soot; the shop itself was a chaotic depository of old locks, hold-fasts, chisels, crow-bars, and in short of rusty iron in almost every conceivable shape. Chancey entered this dusky shop and accosting a very grimed and rusty looking little boy who was, with a file, industriously employed in converting a kitchen candle-stick into a cannon, enquired-

“I say, my good boy, does the Reverend Doctor Ebenezer Shycock stop here yet?”

“Aye does he,” said the youth, inspecting the visitor with a broad and leisurely stare, while he wiped his forehead with his shirt sleeve.

“Up the stairs, is it?” demanded Chancey.

“Aye, the garrets,” replied the boy, “and mind the hole in the top lobby,” he shouted after him as he passed through the little door in the back of the shop and began to ascend the narrow stairs, he did “mind the hole in the top lobby;” a very necessary caution by the way, as he might otherwise have been easily engulphed therein and broken either his neck or his leg, after descending, through the lath and [143] plaster, upon the floor of the landing place underneath, and having thus safely reached the garret door, he knocked thereupon with his knuckles.

“Come in,” answered a female voice not of the most musical quality, and Chancey accordingly entered: a dirty sluttish woman was sitting by the window, knitting, and as it seemed she was the only inmate of the room.

“Is the Reverend Ebenezer at home, my dear?” inquired the barrister.

“He is, and he isn’t,” rejoined the female oracularly.

“How’s that my good girl?” inquired Chancey.

“He’s in the house, but he’s not good for much,” answered she.

“Has he been throwing up the little finger, my dear?” said Chancey, “he used to be rayther partial to brandy.”

“Brandy-brandy - who says brandy?” exclaimed a voice briskly from behind a sheet which hung upon a string so as to screen off one corner of the chamber.

[144] “Ay, ay, that’s the word that’ll waken you,” said the woman, here’s a gentleman wants to speak with you.”

“The devil, there is!” exclaimed the clerical worthy abruptly, while, with a sudden chuck, he dislodged the sheet which had veiled his presence, and disclosed, by so doing, the form of a stout, short, bull-necked man, with a mulberry coloured face, and twinkling grey eyes - one of them in deep mourning; he wore a greasy red night-cap and a very tattered and sad-coloured shirt, and was sitting upright in a miserable bed, the covering of which appeared to be a piece of ancient carpet; with one hand he scratched his head, while in the other he held the sheet which he had just pulled down.

“How are you, parson Shycock?” said Chancey, “how do you find yourself this morning, doctor?”

“Tolerable well; but what is it you want with me? out with it, spooney; any job in my line, eh?” enquired the clergyman.

“Yes, indeed, Doctor,” replied Chancey, “and a very good job; you’re wanted to [145] marry a gentleman and lady privately, not a mile and a-half out of town, this evening; you’ll get five guineas for the job, and I think that’s no trifle.”

The parson mused and scratched his head again.

“Well,” said he, “you must do a little job for me first. You can’t be ignorant that we, members of the church militant, are often hard up; and whenever I’m in a fix, I pop wig, breeches, and gown, and take to my bed; you’ll find the three articles in this lane, corner house - sign, three golden balls; present this docket - where the devil is it? ay, here; all right; present this along with two guineas paid in advance, on account of job; bring me the articles, and I’ll get up and go along with you in a brace of shakes; and stay, didn’t I hear some one talking of brandy? or - or was I dreaming? you may as well get in a half-pint, for I’m never the thing till I have some little moderate refreshment; so, dearly beloved, mizzle at once.”

[146] “Dear me, dear me, doctor,” said Chancey, “how can you think I’d go for to bring two guineas along with me?”

“If you hav’n’t the rhino this is no place for you, my fellow-sinner,” rejoined the couple-beggar; “and if you have, off with you and deliver the togs out of pop; you wouldn’t have a clergyman walk the streets without breeches? Eh, dearly beloved cove?’.”Well, well, but you’re a wonderful man,” rejoined Chancey, with a faint smile. “I suppose then I must do it; so give me the docket, and I’ll be here again as soon as I can.”

“And do you mind me - you stray sheep you - don’t forget the lush,” added the pastor, “I’m very desirous to wet my whistle; my mums, by the hokey, is as dry as a Dutch brick; good bye to you, and do you mind, be back here in the twinkling of a brace of bedposts.”

With this injunction, and bearing the crumpled document which the reverend divine had given him, as his credentials with the [147] pawn-broker, Mr. Chancey cautiously lounged down the crazy stairs.

“I say, my nutty Nancy,” observed the parson, after a long yawn and a stretch, addressing the female who sate in the window, “that chap’s made of money; I had a pint with him once in Clarke’s public-round the comer there; his name’s Chancey, and he does half the bills in town; - a regular Jew chap.” So saying, the Reverend Ebenezer Shycock, LL.D., unceremoniously rolled himself out of bed, and hobbled to a crazy deal box, in which were deposited such articles of attire as had not been transmitted to the obliging proprietor of the neighbouring three golden balls.

While the reverend divine was kneeling before this box, and, with a tenderness suited to their frail condition, removing the few articles of his scanty wardrobe, and laying them reverently upon a crazy stool beside him, Mr. Chancey returned, bearing the liberated decorations of the doctor’s person, as also a small black bottle.

“Oh! dear me, doctor,” said Chancey, “but [148] “I’m glad to see you’re stirring. Here’s the things.”

“And the - the lush, eh?” inquired the clergyman, peering inquisitively round Chancey’s side to have a peep at the bottle.

“Yes, and the lush too,” said the barrister.

“Well, give me the breeches,” said the doctor, with alacrity, clutching those essential articles and proceeding to invest his limbs therein. “And, Nancy, a sup of water and a brace of cups.”

A cracked mug and a battered pewter goblet made their appearance, and along with the ruin of a teapot which contained the pure element, were deposited on a chair:- for tables were singularly scarce in the reverend doctor’s establishment.

“Now, my beloved fellow - sinner, mix like a Trojan!” exclaimed the divine, “and take care, take care, pogey aqua, don’t drown it with water; chise it, chise it, man, that’ll do.”

With these words he grasped the vessel, nodded to Chancey, and directing his two grey [149] eyes with a greedy squint upon the liquor, as it approached his lips, he quaffed it at a single draught.

Without waiting for an invitation, which Chancey thought his clerical acquaintance might possibly forget, the barrister mingled some of the same beverage for his own private use, and quietly gulped it down, seeing which, and dreading Mr. Chancey’s powers, which he remembered to have already seen tested at “Clarke’s public,” the learned divine abstractedly inverted the brandy bottle into his pewter goblet, and shedding upon it an almost imperceptible dew from the dilapidated teapot, he terminated the symposium, and proceeded to finish his toilet.

This was quickly done, and Mr. Gordon Chancey and the Reverend Ebenezer Shycock, - two illustrious and singularly well-matched ornaments of their respective professions - proceeded, arm in arm, both redolent of grog, to the nearest coach-stand, where they forthwith supplied themselves with a vehicle; and while Mr. Chancey pretty fully instructed his [150] reverend companion in the precise nature of the service required of him, and, as far as was necessary, communicated the circumstances of the whole case, they traversed the interval which separated Dublin city from the manor of Morley-court.

[151] CHAPTER XIII.

THE CHAPLAIN’S ARRIVAL AT MORLEY-COURT - THE KEY - AND THE BOOSE 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 honey-moon - keep the gates well, old boy, and never let the keys out of your pocket unless 1 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 - [152] 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 clergy man 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 not keep till 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 [153] 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, griping the barrister’s shoulder in his band, with an energizing pressure, and speaking into his ear to secure attention - “you know that little room up stairs 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 [154] come home. Do you hear me, old scare-crow,” he continued, poking the reverend doctor some-where 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 hands and faith you’ll find me as ready to do as 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 - possibly might - 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.

[155] 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, sate 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 licence, and whose words were such as even the old St. Columbkil 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 [156] 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 stupified. Flora Guy sate 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 - can it 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! he is a parson.”

Mary Ashwoode did not speak, but the mo[157]mentary 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 of her security, ran down stairs 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; [158] 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 ever surveillance more jealous and complete?

During these excursions she picked up what-ever 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 Ash[159]woode 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 lay 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 [160] 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 every thing - 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 sate by the young lady’s side, with a heart full of dark [161] 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 Shy cock, were determined to make themselves comfortable in their new quarters. [162] 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, sate 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 good will 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; [163] 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 influences 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 in ten, I’d have been a bishop by this time; but dis 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 ener[164]gies, 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 you are right; I’ll bring myself to. I am a 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 arise, 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 condi[165]tion of the couple-beggar; he’ll never be fit for his work to-night.”

“Fifteen minutes, neither more nor less,” rather snuffy, 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 nearer to [164] 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.”

[167] CHAPTER XIV.

THE SIGNAL.

FLORA GUY peeped eagerly through the key. hole of her lady’s chamber into the little apartment in which the two boon companions were seated. After reconnoitering for a very long time, she moved lightly to her mistress’s side, and said in low but distinct tones -

“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.”

[168] 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 eyeing 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 [169] 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 is it 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 [170] 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 which ever 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.

[171] “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 [172] 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 rayther 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 sauce[173]pan - 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 stupified drunkard who sate bolt upright before him; “no, no; we don’t know the minute he may be wanted; he’ll have to perform the [174] 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, over-turned 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 clapped 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 [175] poker, which he had grasped at the first alarm; the damsel, without daring to look directly where every feeling would have rivetted 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 quickwitted 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 [176] 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?’.

“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 [177] of carved oak, not daring to stir, and with a heart throbbing as though it would burst.

“My lady are you here?” 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 stept 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 [178] 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 every thing’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, you must,” he continued, playfully struggling with the affrighted girl.

“Well, do the message first, at any rate,” said [179] 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 [180] 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 [181] 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 around 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. [182]

“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.

[183]CHAPTER XV.

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 ecstacies, 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 [184] herself again to her feet, and before her sate 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, often 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 disk, 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 [185] 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 - “havn’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 courtesy, 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 [187] courtesy, 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 any thing? is there a stone there? - is there?”

“No, sir,” said she again, with a courtesy.

“No, sir,” echoed he - “but I say yes, sir, and I’d 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 waiting 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.

[188] 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 sooth 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.

[189] “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, [190] save the ringing of their own horse’s 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 [191] 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.

[192] CHAPTER XVI.

THE UNTREASURED CHAMBER.

THEIR obstreporous 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 or 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.

[193] “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 all is right,” 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 down stairs 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 [194]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?”

“It is the cellar key,” said Ashwoode, in a faltering voice, and turning very pale.

“Try your pockets for another, and find it, [193] or ----,” the aposeopesis 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 hand-kerchief, 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.”

[196] 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 sate 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 hearth-stone; there, breathless, powerless, and to all outward seeming, a livid corpse, lay the devil’s cast-off servant, the red [197] 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 stupified 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 [198] 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.

[199] CHAPTER XVII.

THE CART AND THE STRAW.

WHILE this was passing, the two girls continued their flight toward Dublin city. They had not long passed Ashwoode and Nicholas Blarden, when Mary’s strength entirely failed, and she was forced first to moderate her pace to a walk, and finally to stop altogether and seat herself upon the bank which sloped abruptly down to the road.

“Flora,” said she, faintly, “I am quite exhausted - my strength is entirely gone; I must perforce rest myself and take breath here for a few minutes, and then, with God’s help, I shall again have power to proceed.”

“Do so, my lady,” said Flora, taking her stand beside her mistress, “and I’ll watch and listen here by you. Hish! don’t I hear the sound of a car on the road before us?”

[200] So, indeed, it seemed, and at no great distance too. The road, however, just where they had placed themselves, made a sweep which concealed the vehicle, whatever it might be, effectually from their sight. The girl clambered to the top of the bank, and thence commanding a view of that part of the highway which beneath was hidden from sight, she beheld, two or three hundred yards in advance of them, a horse and cart, the driver of which was seated upon the shaft, slowly wending along in the direction of the city.

“My lady,” said she, descending from her post of observation, “if you have strength to run on for only a few perches more of the road, we’ll be up with a car, and get a lift into town without any more trouble; try it, my lady.”

Accordingly they again set forth, and after a few minutes further exertion, they came up with the vehicle and accosted the driver, a country-man, with a short pipe in his mouth, who, with folded arms, sat listlessly upon the shaft..

“Honest man, God bless you, and give us a bit of a lift,” said Flora Guy; “we’ve come [201] long way and very fast, and we are fairly tired to death.”

The countryman drew the halter which he held, and uttering an unspellable sound, addressed to his horse, succeeded in bringing him and the vehicle to a stand still.

“Never say it twiste,” said he; “get up, and welcome. Wait a bit, till I give the straw a turn for yees; now for it; step on the wheel; don’t be in dread, he wont move.”

So saying, he assisted Mary Ashwoode into the rude vehicle, and not without wondering “curiosity, for the hand which she extended to him was white and slender, and glittered in the moonlight with jewelled rings. Flora Guy followed; but before the cart was again in motion, they distinctly heard the far-off clatter of galloping hoofs upon the road. Their fears too truly accounted for these sounds.

“Merciful God! we are pursued,” said Mary Ashwoode; and then turning to the driver, she continued, with an agony of imploring terror - ”as you look for pity at the dreadful hour when all shall need it, do not betray us. If it be as [202] I suspect, we are pursued - pursued with an evil - a dreadful purpose. I had rather die a thousand deaths than fall into the hands of those who are approaching.”

“Never fear,” interrupted the man; “lie down flat both of you in the cart and I’ll hide you - never fear.”

They obeyed his directions, and he spread over their prostrate bodies a covering of straw; not quite so thick, however, as their fears would have desired; and thus screened, they awaited the approach of those, whom they rightly conjectured to be in hot pursuit of them. The man resumed his seat upon the shaft, and once more the cart was in motion.

Meanwhile, the sharp and rapid clang of the hoofs approached, and before the horsemen had reached them, the voice of Nicholas Blarden was shouting -

“Holloa - holloa, honest fellow - saw you two young women on the road?”

There was scarcely time allowed for an answer, when the thundering clang of the iron hoofs resounded beside the conveyance in which [203] the fugitives were lying, and the horsemen both, with a sudden and violent exertion, brought their beasts to a halt, and so abruptly, that although thrown back upon their haunches, the horses slid on for several yards upon the hard road, by the mere impetus of their former speed, knocking showers of fire flakes from the stones.

“I say,” repeated Blarden, “did two girls pass you on the road-did you see them?”

“Divil a sign of a girl I seen,” replied the man, carelessly; and to their infinite relief, the two fugitives heard their pursuer, with a muttered curse, plunge forward upon his way. This relief, however, was but; momentary, for checking his horse again, Blarden returned.

“I say, my good chap, I passed you before to-night, not ten minutes since, on my way out of town, not half a mile from this spot - the girl’s were running this way, and if they’re between this and the gate - they must have passed you.”

“Devil a girl I seen this - Oh, begorra! you’re right, sure enough,” said the driver - “what the devil was I thinkin’ about - two girls [204] - one of them tall and slim, with rings on her fingers - and the other a short, active bit of a colleen?”

“Ay - ay - ay,” cried Blarden.

“Sure enough they did overtake me,” said the man, “shortly after I passed two gentlemen - I suppose you are one of them-and the little one axed me the direction of Harold’s-cross - and when I showed it to them, bedad they both made no more bones about it, but across the ditch with them, an’ away over the fields - they’re half-way there by this time - it was jist down there by the broken bridge - they were quare-looking girls.”

“It would be d----d odd if they were not - they’re both mad,” replied Blarden; “thank you for your hint.”

And so saying, as he turned his horse’s head in the direction indicated, he chucked a crown piece into the cart. As the conveyance proceeded, they heard the driver soliloquizing with evident satisfaction -

“Bedad, they’ll have a plisint serenade through the fields, the two of them,” observed [205] he, standing upon the shafts, and watching the progress of the two horsemen - “there they go, begorra - over the ditch with them. Oh, by the hokey, the sarvint boy’s down - the heart’s blood iv a toss - an’ oh, bloody wars I see the skelp iv the whip the big chap gives him - there they go again down the slope - now for it - over the gripe with them - well done, bedad, and into the green lane - devil take the bushes,

I can’t see another sight iv them. Young women,” he continued, again assuming his sitting position, and replacing his pipe in the corner of his mouth - “all’s safe now - they’re clean out of sight - you may get up, miss.”

Accordingly, Mary Ashwoode and Flora Guy raised themselves.

“Here,” said the latter, extending her hand toward the driver, “here s the silver he threw to you.”

“I wisht I could airn as much every day as aisily,” said the man, securing his prize; “that chap has raal villiany in his face; he looks so like ould Nick, I’m half afeard to take his [206] money; the crass of Christ about us, I never seen such a face.”

“You’re an honest boy at any rate,” said Flora Guy, “you brought us safe through the danger.”

“An’ why wouldn’t I - what else ‘id I do?” rejoined the country man; “it wasn’t for to sell you I was goin’.”

“You have earned my gratitude for ever,” said Mary Ashwoode; “my thanks, my prayers; you have saved me; your generosity and humanity, and pity, have delivered me from the deadliest peril that ever yet overtook living creature. God bless you for it.”

She removed a ring from her finger, and added - “take this; nay, do not refuse so poor an acknowledgement for services inestimable.”

“No, miss, no,” rejoined the countryman, warmly. “I’ll not take it; I’ll not have it; do you think I could do any thing else but what I did, and you putting yourself into my hands the way you did, and trusting to me, and laving yourselves in my power intirely? I’m not a Turk, nor an unnatural Jew; may [207] the divil have me, body and soul, the hour I take money, or money’s worth for doin’ the lik.”

Seeing the man thus resolved, she forbore to irritate him by further pressing the jewel on his acceptance, and he, probably to put an end to the controversy, began to shake and chuck the rope halter with extraordinary vehemence, and at the same time with the heel of his brogue, to stimulate the lagging jade, accompanying the application with a sustained hissing; the combined effect of all which, was to cause the animal to break into a kind of hobbling canter; and so they rumbled and clattered over the stoney road, until at length their charioteer checked the progress of his vehicle before the hospitable door-way of “The Bleeding Horse” - the little inn to which, in the commencement of these records, we have already introduced the reader.

“Hould that, if you plase,” said he, placing the end of the halter in Flora Guy’s hand, “an’ don’t let him loose, or he’ll be makin’ for the grass and have you upset in the ditch. I’ll not [208] be a minute in here; and maybe the young lady and yourself ‘id take a drop of something; the evenin’s mighty chill entirely.”

They both, of course, declined the hospitable proposal, and their conductor, leaving them on the cart, entered the little hostelry; outside the door were two or three cars and horses, whose owners were boosing within; and feeling some return of confidence in the consciousness that they were in the neighbourhood of persons who could and probably would, protect them, should occasion arise. Mary Ashwoode, with her light mantle drawn around her, and the hood over her head, sate along with her faithful companion, awaiting his return, under the embowering shadow of the old treeR.

“Flora, I am sorely perplexed; I know not whither to go when we have reached the city,” said Mary, addressing her companion in a low tone. “I have but one female relative residing in Dublin, and she would believe, and think, and do, just as my brother might wish to make her. Oh, woeful hour! that it should ever come to this - that I should fear to trust [209] another because she is my own brother’s friend.”

She had hardly ceased to speak when a small man, with his cocked hat set somewhat rakishly on one side, stepped forth from the little inn door; he had just lighted his pipe, and was inhaling its smoke with anxious attention lest the spark which he cherished should expire before the ignition of the weed became sufficiently general; his walk was therefore slow and interrupted; the top of his finger tenderly moved the kindling tobacco, and his two eyes squinted with intense absorption at the bowl of the pipe; by the time he had reached the back of the cart in which Mary Ashwoode and her attendant were seated, his labours were crowned by complete success, as was attested by the dense volumes of smoke which at regular intervals he puffed forth. He carried a cutting-whip under his arm, and was directing his steps toward a horse which, with its bridle thrown over a gate-post, was patiently awaiting his return. As he passed the rude vehicle in which the two fugitives were couched, [210] he happened to pause for a moment, and Mary thought she recognized the figure before her as that of an old acquaintance.

“Is that Larry - Larry Toole?” inquired she.

“It’s myself, sure enough,” rejoined that identical personage; “an’ who are you - a woman, to be sure, who else ‘id be axin’ for me?”

“Larry, don’t you know me?” said she.

“Divil a taste,” replied he. “I only see you’re a female av coorse, why would’nt you, for, by the piper that played before Moses, I’m never out of one romance till I’m into another.”

“Larry,” said she, lowering her voice, “it is Miss Ashwoode who speaks to you.”

“Don’t be funnin’ me, can’t you?” rejoined Larry, rather pettishly. “I’ve got enough iv the thricks iv women latterly; an’ too much. I’m a raal marthyr to famale mineuvers; there’s a bump on my head as big as a goose’s egg, glory be to God! an’ my bones is fairly aching with what I’ve gone through by raison iv [211] confidin’ myself to the mercy of women. Oh thunder -

“I tell you, Larry,” repeated Mary, “I am, indeed, Miss Ashwoode.”

“No, but who are you, in earnest?” urged Larry Toole; “can’t you put me out iv pain at wonst; upon my sowl I don’t know you from Moses this blessed minute.”

“Well, Larry, altho’ you cannot recognize my voice,” said she, turning back her hood so as to reveal her pale features in the moonlight, “you have not forgotten my face.”

“Oh, blessed hour! Miss Mary,” exclaimed Larry, in unfeigned amazement, while he hurriedly thrust his pipe into his pocket, and respectfully doffed his hat.

“Hush, hush,” said Mary, with a gesture of caution. “Put on your hat, too; I wish to escape observation; put it on, Larry; it is my wish.”

Larry reluctantly complied.

“Can you tell me where in town my uncle O’Leary is to be found?” inquired she, eagerly.

“Bedad, Miss Mary, he isn’t in town at [212] all,” replied the man; “they say he married a widdy lady about ten days ago; at any rate he’s gone out of town more than a week; I didn’t hear where.”

“I know not whither to turn for help or counsel, Flora,” said she, despairingly, “my best friend is gone.”

“Well,” said Larry-who, though entirely ignorant of the exact nature of the young lady’s fears, had yet quite sufficient shrewdness to perceive that she was, indeed, involved in some emergency of extraordinary difficulty and peril - “well, miss, maybe if you’d take a fool’s advice for once, it might turn out the best,” said Larry, “There’s an ould gentleman that knows all about your family; he was out at the manor, and had a long discoorse, himself and Sir Richard - God rest him-a short time before the ould masther died; the gentleman’s name is Audley; and, though he never seen you but once, he wishes you well, and ‘id go a long way to sarve you; an’ above all, he’s a raal rock iv sinse. I’m not bad myself, but, begorra, I’m nothin’ but a fool [213]beside him; now do you, Miss Mary, and the young girl that’s along with you, jist come in here; you can have a snug little room to yourselves, and I’ll go into town and have the ould gentleman out with you before you know what you’re about, or where you are; he’ll ax no more than the wind iv the word to bring him here in a brace iv shakes; and my name’s not Larry if he don’t give you suparior advice.”

A slight thing determines a mind perplexed and desponding; and Mary Ashwoode, feeling that whatever objection might well be started against the plan proposed by Larry Toole, yet felt that, were it rejected, she had none better to follow in its stead; any thing rather than run the risk of being placed again in her brother’s keeping; there was no time for deliberation, and therefore she at once adopted the suggestion. Larry, accordingly, conducted them into the little inn, and consigned them to the care of a haggard, slovenly girl, who, upon a hint from that gentleman, conducted them to a little chamber, up a flight of stairs, looking out upon the back yard, where, with a candle and a [214] scanty fire, she left the two anxious fugitives; and, as she descended, they heard the clank of the iron shoes, as Larry spurred his horse into a hard gallop, speeding like the wind upon his mission.

The receding sounds of his rapid progress had, however, hardly ceased to be heard, when the fears and anxieties which had been for a moment forgotten, returned with heavier pressure upon the poor girl’s heart, and she every moment expected to hear the dreaded voices of her pursuers in the passage beneath, or to see their faces entering at the door. Thus restlessly and fearfully, she awaited the return of her courier.

[215] CHAPTER XVIII.

THE COUNCIL - SHEWING WHAT ADVICE MR. AUDLEY GAVE, AND HOW IT WAS TAKEN.

LARRY Toole was true to his word. Without turning from the direct course, or pausing on his way for one moment, he accomplished the service which he had volunteered, and in an incredibly short time, returned to the little inn, bringing Mr. Audley with him, in a coach.

With an air of importance and mystery, suitable to the occasion, the little gentleman, followed by his attendant, proceeded to the chamber where Miss Ashwoode and her maid were awaiting his arrival. Mary arose as he entered the room, and Larry, from behind, ejaculated, in a tone of pompous exultation, “here he is; Miss Mary - Mr. Audley himself, an’ no mistake.”

“Tut, tnt, Larry,” exclaimed the little gen[216]tIeman, turning impatiently toward that per-sonage, whose obstreperous announcement had disarranged his plans of approach - “hold your tongue, Larry, I say-ahem!”

“Mr. Audley,” said Mary, “I hope you will pardon - ”

“Not one word of the kind - excuse the interruption not a word,” exclaimed the little gentleman, gallantly waving his hand - “only too much honour - too proud. Miss Ashwoode, I have long known something of your family; and strange as it may appear, have felt a peculiar interest in you - although I had not the honour of your acquaintance - for the sake of - of other parties. I have ever entertained a warm regard for your welfare, and although circumstances are much, very much changed, I cannot forget relations that once subsisted - ahem!” This was said, diplomatically, and he blew his nose with a short decisive twang. “I understand, my poor young lady,” he continued, relapsing into the cordial manner that was natural to him - “that you are at this moment in circumstances of difficulty, perhaps of [217] danger, and that you have been disappointed in this emergency, by the absence of your relative, Major O’Leary, with whose acquaintance, by-the-bye, I am honoured, and a more worthy, warm-hearted - but no matter - in his absence, then, I venture to tender my poor services - pray, if it be not too bold a request, tell me fully and fairly, the nature of your embarrassment; and if zeal, activity, and the friendliest dispositions can avail to extricate you, you may command them all - pray then, let me know what I can do to serve you.” So saying, the old gentleman took the pale and lovely lady’s hand, with a mixture of tenderness and respect which encouraged and assured her.

Larry having withdrawn, she told the little gentleman all that she could communicate, without disclosing her brother’s implication in the conspiracy. Even this reserve, the old gentleman’s warm and kindly manner, and the good-natured simplicity apparent in all he said and did, effectually removed, and the whole case, in all its bearings, and with all it’s circumstances, was plainly put before him. During the narra[218]tive, the little gentleman was repeatedly so transported with ire, as to slap his thigh, sniff violently, and mutter incoherent ejaculations between his teeth; and when it was ended, was so far overcome by his feelings, that he did not trust himself to address the young lady, until he had a little vented his indignation, by marching and countermarching, at quick time, up and down the room, blowing his nose with desperate abandonment, and muttering sundry startling interjections. At length he grew composed, and addressing Mary Ashwoode, observed-

“You are quite right, my dear young lady - quite right, indeed, in resolving against putting yourself into the hands of any body under Sir Henry’s influence - perfectly right and wise. Have you no relatives in this country - none capable of protecting you, and willing to do so?”

“I have, indeed, one relative,” rejoined she, “but - ”

“Who is it?” interrupted Audley.

“An uncle,” replied Mary.

“His name, my dear - his name?” inquired [219] the old gentleman, impatiently.

“His name is French - Oliver French,” replied she, “but - ”

“Never mind,” interrupted Audley again, “where does he live?”

“He lives in an old place called Ardgillagh,” rejoined she, “on the borders of the county of Limerick.”

“Is it easily found out - near the high road from Dublin - near any town-easily got at?” inquired he, with extraordinary volubility.

“I’ve heard my brother say,” rejoined she, “that it is not far from the high road from Dublin; he was there himself. I believe the place is well known by the peasantry for many miles round; but - ”

“Very good, very good, my dear,” inter-posed Mr. Audley again. “Has he a family - a wife?”

“No,” rejoined Mary; “he is unmarried, and an old man.”

“Pooh, pooh! why the devil hasn’t he a wife; but no matter, you’ll be all the welcomer. That’s our ground - all the safer that it’s a little out of the way,” exclaimed the old man.

[220] “We’ll steal a march - they’ll never suspect us; we’ll start at once.”

“But, I fear,” said Mary, dejectedly, “that he will not receive me. There has long been an estrangement between our family and him; with my father he had a deadly quarrel while I was yet an infant. He vowed that neither my father nor any child of his should ever cross his threshold. I’ve been told he bitterly resented what he believed to have been my father’s harsh treatment of my mother. I was too young, however, to know on which side the right of the quarrel was; but I fear there is little hope of his doing as you expect, for some six or seven years since my brother was sent down, in the hope of a reconciliation, and in vain. He returned, reporting that my uncle Oliver had met all his advances with scorn. No, no, I fear - I greatly fear he will not receive me.”

“Never believe it - never think so,” rejoined old Audley, warmly; “if he were man enough to resent your mother’s wrongs, think you his heart will have no room for yours? - think you his nature’s changed, that he cannot pity the [221] distressed, and hate tyranny any longer? Never believe me, if he wont hug you to his heart the minute he sees you. I like the old chap; he was right to be angry - it was his duty to be in a confounded passion; he ought to have been kicked if he hadn’t done just as he did - I’d swear he was right. Never trust me, if he’ll not take your part with his whole heart, and make you his pet for as long as you please to stay with him. Deuce take him, I like the old fellow.”

“You would advise me, then, to apply to him for protection?” asked Mary Ashwoode, “and I suppose to go down there immediately.”

“Most unquestionably so,” replied Mr. Audley, with a short nod of decision - “most unquestionably - start to-night; we shall go as far as the town of Naas; I will accompany you. I consider you my ward until your natural protectors take you under their affectionate charge, and guard you from grief and danger as they ought. My good girl,” he continued, addressing Flora Guy, “you must come along with your mistress; I’ve a coach at the door. We [222] shall go directly into town, and my landlady shall take you both under her care until I have procured two chaises - the one for myself and the other for your mistress and you. You will find Mrs. Pickley, my landlady, a very kind, excellent person, and ready to assist you in making your preparations for the journey.

The old gentleman then led his young and beautiful charge, with a mixture of gallantry and pity, by the hand down the little inn stairs, and in a very brief time Mary Ashwoode and her faithful attendant found themselves under the hospitable protection of Mrs. Pickley’s roof-tree.

[223] CHAPTER XIX.

PARTING - THE SHELTERED VILLAGE, AND THE JOURNEY’S END.

NEVER was little gentleman in such a fuss as Mr. Audley-never were so many orders issued and countermanded and given again - never were Larry Toole’s energies so severely tried and his intellects so distracted - impossible tasks and contradictory orders so “huddled on his back,” that he well nigh went mad under the burthen; at length, however, matters were arranged, two coaches with post-horses were brought to the door, Mary Ashwoode and her attendant were deposited in one, along with such extempore appliances for wardrobe and toilet as Mrs. Pickley in a hurried excursion was enabled to collect from the neighbouring shops and pack up for the journey, and Mr. Audley stood ready to take his place in the other.

[224] “Larry,” said he before ascending, “here are ten guineas, which will keep you in bread and cheese until you hear from me again; don’t on any account leave the’ Cock and Anchor,’ your master’s horse and luggage are there, and, no doubt, whenever he returns to Dublin, which I am very certain must soon occur, he will go directly thither; so be you sure to meet him there, should he happen during my absence to arrive; and mark me, be very careful of this letter, give it him the moment you see him, which, please God, will be very soon indeed; keep it in some safe place - don’t carry it in your breeches pocket, you blockhead, you’ll grind it to powder, booby! indeed now that I think on’t, you had better give it at once in charge to the innkeeper of the ‘Cock and Anchor, don’t forget, on your life I charge you, and now good-night.”

“Good-night, and good luck, your honour, and may God speed you !” ejaculated Larry as the vehicles rumbled away. The charioteers had received their directions, and Mary Ashwoode and her trusty companion, confused and bewildered by the rapidity with which events had [225] succeeded one another during the day, and stunned by the magnitude of the dangers which they had so narrowly escaped, found themselves, scarcely crediting the evidence of their senses, rapidly traversing the interval which separated Dublin city from the little town of Naas.

It is not our intention to weary the reader with a detailed account of the occurrences of the journey, nor to present them with a catalogue of all the mishaps and delays to which Irish posting in those days and indeed much later, was liable; it is enough to state that upon the evening of the fourth day the two carriages clattered into the wretched little village which occupied the road on which opened the avenue leading up to the great house of Ardgillagh. The village, though obviously the abode of little comfort or cheerfulness, was not on that account the less picturesque; the road wound irregularly where it stood and was carried by an old narrow bridge across a wayward mountain stream which, wheeled and foamed in many a sportive eddy within its devious banks. Close by, the little mill was couched among the sheltering trees, [226] which extending in irregular and scattered groups through the village, and mingling with the stunted bushes and briars of the hedges, were nearly met from the other side of the narrow street by the broad branching limbs of the giant trees which skirted the wild wooded domain of Ardgillagh. Thus occupying a sweeping curve of the road, and embowered among the shadowy arches of the noble timber, the little village had at first sight an air of tranquillity, seclusion, and comfort, which made the traveller pause to contemplate its simple attractions and to admire how it could be that a few wretched hovels with crazy walls and thatch overgrown with weeds, thus irregularly huddled together beneath the rude shelter of the wood, could make a picture so pleasing to the eye and so soothing to the heart. The vehicles were drawn up by their drivers before the door of a small thatched building which, however, stood a whole head and shoulders higher than the surrounding hovels, exhibiting a second story with three narrow windows in front, and over its doorway, from which a large pig, under the stimulus of a broomstick [227]was majestically issuing, a sign board, the admiration of connoisseurs for miles around, presenting a half-length portrait of the illustrious Brian Borhome, and admitted to be a startling likeness. Before this mansion - the only one in the place which pretended to the character of a house of public entertainment - the post-boys drew bridle, and brought the vehicles to a halt. Mr. Audley was upon the road in an instant, and with fussy gallantry assisting Mary Ashwoode to descend. Their sudden arrival had astounded the whole household-consternation and curiosity filled the little establishment. The proprietor, who sat beneath the capacious chimney, started to his feet, swallowing, in his surprise, a whole potatoe, which he was just deliberately commencing, and by a miracle escaped choking. The landlady dropped a pot, which she was scrubbing, upon the back of a venerable personage who was in a stooping posture, lighting his pipe, and inadvertently wiped her face in the pot clout; every body did something wrong,

and nobody any thing right; the dog was kicked and the cat scalded, and in short, never was [228] known in the little village of Ardgillagh, within the memory of man, except when Ginckle marched his troops through the town, such a universal hubbub as that which welcomed the two chaises and their contents to the door of Pat Moroney’s hospitable mansion.

Mrs. Moroney, with more lampblack upon her comely features than she was at that moment precisely aware of, hastened to the door, which she occupied as completely and exclusively as the corpulent specimen of Irish royalty over her head did his proper sign-board; all the time gazing with an admiring grin upon Mr. Audley and the lady, whom he assisted to descend; and at exceedingly short and irregular intervals, executing sundry slight ducks, intended to testify her exuberant satisfaction and respect, while all around and about her were thrust the wondering visages of the less important inmates of the establishment; many were the murmured criticisms; and many the ejaculations of admiration and surprise which accompanied every movement of the party under observation.

[229] “Oh! but she’s a fine young lady, God bless her!” said one.

“But isn’t she mighty pale, though, entirely,” observed another.

“That’s her father - the little stout gentle-man; see how he houlds her hand for fear she’d thrip comin’ out. Oh I but he’s a nate man!” remarked a third.

“An’ her hand as white as milk; ‘an’ look at her fine rings,” said a fourth.

“She’s a rale lady; see the grand look of her, and the stately step, God bless her!” said a fifth.

“See, see; here’s another comin’ out; that’s her sisther,” remarked another.

“Hould your tongues, will yees?” ejaculated the landlady, jogging her elbow at random into somebody’s mouth.

“An’ see the little one taking the box in her hand,” observed one.

“Look at the tall lady, how she smiles at her, God bless her I she’s a rale good lady,” remarked another.

[230] “An’ now she’s linkin’ with him, and here they come, by gorra,” exclaimed a third.

“Back with yees, an’ lave the way,” exclaimed Mrs. Moroney; “don’t you see the quality comin’?”

Accordingly, with a palpitating heart, the worthy mistress of King Brian Borhome, prepared to receive her aristocratic guests. With due state and ceremony she conducted them into the narrow chamber which, except the kitchen, was the only public apartment in the establishment. After due attention to his fair charge, Mr. Audley inquired of the hostess -

“Pray, my good worthy woman, are we not now within a mile or less of the entrance into the domain of Ardgillagh?”

“The gate’s not two perches down the road, your honour,” replied she; “is it to the great house you want to go, sir?”

“Yes, my good woman; certainly,” replied he.

“Come here, Shawneen, come, asthore!” cried she, through the half open door. “I’ll send the little gossoon with you, your honour; [231] he’ll show you the way, and keep the dogs off, for they all knows him up at the great house. Here, Shawneen; this gintleman wants to be shewed the way up to the great house; and don’t let the dogs near him; do you mind? He hasn’t much English,” said she, turning to her guest, by way of apology, and then conveying her directions anew in the mother tongue.

Under the guidance of this ragged little urchin, Mr. Audley accordingly set forth upon his adventurous excursion.

Mrs. Moroney brought in bread, milk, eggs, and in short, the best cheer which her limited resources could supply; and, although Mary Ashwoode was far too anxious about the result of Mr. Audley’s visit, to do more than taste the tempting bowl of new milk which was courteously placed before her, Flora Guy, with right good will and hearty appetite, did ample justice to the viands which the hostess provided.

After some idle talk between herself and Flora Guy, Mrs. Moroney observed in reply to an interrogatory from the girl-

[232] “Twenty or thirty years ago there wasn’t such a fox-hunter in the country as Mr. French; but he’s this many a year ailing, and winter after winter, it’s worse and worse always he’s getting, until at last he never stirs out at all; and for the most part he keeps his bed.”

“Is anyone living with him?” inquired Flora.

“No, none of his family,” answered she; “no one at all, you may say; there’s no one does any thing in his place, an’ very seldom anyone sees him except Mistress Martha and Black M’Guinness; them two has him all to themselves; and, indeed, there’s quare stories goin’ about them.”

[233] CHAPTER XX.

MISTRESS MARTHA AND BLACK M’GUINNESS.

MR. Audley, as we have said, preceded by his little ragged guide, walked thoughtfully on his way to visit the old gentleman, of whose oddities and strange and wayward temper the keeper of the place where they had last obtained a relay of horses, had given a marvellous and perhaps somewhat exaggerated account. Now that he had reached the spot, and that the moment approached which was to be the crisis of the adventure, he began to feel far less confident of success than he had been while the issue of his project was comparatively remote.

They passed down the irregular street of the village, and beneath the trees which arched over head like the vast and airy aisles of some huge gothic pile, and after a short walk of some two [234] or three hundred yards, during which they furnished matter of interesting speculation to half the village idlers, they reached a rude gate of great dimensions, but which had obviously seen better days. There was no lodge or gate-house, and Mr. Audley followed the little conductor over a stile, which occupied the side of one of the great ivy-mantled stone piers; crossing this, he found himself in the demesne. A broken and irregular avenue or bridle track - for in most places it was little more - led onward over hill and through hollow, along the undulations of the soft green sward, and under the fantastic boughs of gnarled thorns and oaks and sylvan birches, which in thick groups, wild and graceful as nature had placed them, clothed the varied slopes. The rude approach which they followed led them it wayward course over every variety of ground - now flat and boggy, again up hill, and over the grey surface of lichen-covered rocks - again down into deep fern-clothed hollows, and then across the shallow, brawling stream, without bridge or appliance of any kind, but simply through its waters, forced, as best they [235] might, to pick their steps upon the moss-grown stones that peeped above the clear devious cur-rent. Thus they passed along through this wild and extensive demesne, varied by a thousand inequalities of ground and by the irregular grouping of the woods, which owed their picturesque arrangement to the untutored fancies of nature herself, whose dominion had there never known the intrusions of the axe, or the spade, or the pruning hook, but exulted in the unshackled indulgence of all her wildest revelry. After a walk of more than half an hour’s duration, through a long vista among the trees, the grey gable of the old mansion of Ardgillagh, with its small windows and high and massive chimney stacks, presented itself.

There was a depressing air of neglect and desertion about the old place, which even the unimaginative temperament of Mr. Audley, was obliged to acknowledge. Rank weeds and grass had forced their way through the pavement of the court-yard, and crowded in patches of vegetation, even to the very door of the house. The same was observable, in no less a degree, in the [236] great stable-yard, the gate of which, unhinged, lay wide open, exhibiting a range of out-houses and stables, which would have afforded lodging for horse, and man to a whole regiment of dragoons. Two men, one of them in livery, were loitering through the court-yard, apparently not very well knowing what to do with themselves; and as the visitors approached, a whole squadron of dogs, the little ones bouncing in front with shrill alarm, and the more formidable, at a majestic canter, and with deep-mouthed note of menace bringing up the rear, came snarling, barking, and growling, towards the intruders at startling speed.

“Piper, Piper, Toby, Fan, Motheradauna, Boxer, Boxer, Toby!” screamed the little guide, advancing a few yards before Mr. Audley, who, in considerable uneasiness, grasped his walking cane with no small energy. The interposition of the urchin was successful, the dogs recognized their young friend, the angry clangor was hushed and their pace abated, and when they reached Mr. Audley and his guide, in compliment to the latter they suffered the little gentleman to pass [237] on, with no further question than a few suspicious sniffs, as they applied their noses to the calves of that gentleman’s legs. As they continued to approach, the men in the court, now alarmed by the vociferous challenge of the dogs, eyed the little gentleman inquisitively, for a visitor at Ardgillagh was a thing that had not been heard of for years. As Mr. Audley’s intention became more determinate, and his design appeared more unequivocally to apply for admission, the servant, who watched his progress, ran by some hidden passage in the stable-yard into the mansion, and was ready to gratify his curiosity legitimately, by taking his post in the hall in readiness to answer Mr. Audley’s summons, and to hold parley with him at the door.

“Is Mr. French at home?” inquired Mr. Audley.

“Ay, sir, he is at home,” rejoined the man, deliberately, to allow himself time fully to scrutinize the visitor’s outward man.

“Can I see him pray?” asked the little gentleman.

“Why, raly, sir, I can’t exactly say,” ob[238]served the man, scratching his head.

“He’s up stairs in his own chamber-indeed, for that matter, he’s seldom out of it. If you’ll walk into the room there, sir, I’ll inquire.”

Accordingly, Mr. Audley entered the apartment indicated and sate himself down in the deep recess of the window to take breath. He weIl knew the kind of person with whom he had to deal, previously to encountering Oliver French in person. He had heard quite enough of Mistress Martha, and of Black M’Guinness, already, to put him upon his guard, and fill him with just suspicions as to their character and designs; he, therefore, availed himself of the little interval to arrange his plans of operation in his own mind. He had not waited long, when the door opened, and a tall, elderly woman, with a bunch of keys at. her side, and arrayed in a rich satin dress, walked demurely into the room. There was something unpleasant and deceitful in the expression of the half-closed eyes and thin lips of this lady which inspired Mr. Audley with instinctive dislike of her - an impression which was rather height[239]ened than otherwise by the obvious profusion with which her sunken and sallow cheeks were tinged with rouge. This demure and painted lady made a courtesy on seeing Mr. Audley, and in a low and subdued tone which well accorded with her meek exterior, inquired -

“You were asking for Mr. Oliver French, sir?”

“Yes, madam,” replied Mr. Audley, returning the salute with a bow as formal; “I wish much to see him, if he could afford me half an hour’s chat.”

“Mr. French is very ill - very - very poorly, indeed,” said Mistress Martha, closing her eyes, and shaking her head. “He dislikes talking to strangers. Are you a relative,

sir?”

“Not I, madam - not at all, madam,” rejoined Mr. Audley.

A silence ensued, during which he looked out for a minute at the view commanded by the window; and as he did so, he observed with the corner of his eyes that the lady was studying him with a severe and searching [240] scrutiny. She was the first to break the silence.

“I suppose it’s about business you want to see him?” inquired she, still looking at him with the same sharp glance.

“Just so,” rejoined Mr. Audley; “it is indeed upon business.”

“He dislikes transacting business or speaking of it himself,” said she. “He always employs his own man, Mr. M’Guinness. I’ll call Mr. M’Guinness, that you may communicate the matter to him.”

“You must excuse me,” said Mr. Audley. “My instructions are to give my message to Mr. Oliver French in person - though indeed there’s no secret in the matter. The fact is, madam, my mission is of a kind which ought to make me welcome. You understand me? I come here to announce a - a - an acquisition, in short - a sudden and, I believe, a most unexqected acquisition. But perhaps I’ve said too much; the facts are for his own ear solely. Such are my instructions; and you know I have no choice. I’ve posted all the way from [241] Dublin to execute the message; and between ourselves, should he suffer this occasion to escape him, he may never again have an opportunity of making such an addition to - but I must hold my tongue - I’m prating against orders. In a word, madam, I’m greatly mistaken, or it will prove the best news that has been told in this house since its master was christened.”

He accompanied this announcement with a prodigious number of nods and winks, of huge significance, and all designed to beget the belief that he carried in his pocket the copy of a will, or other instrument, conveying to the said Oliver French, of Ardgillagh, the gold mines of Peru, or some such trifle.

Mistress Martha paused, looked hard at him, then reflected again. At length she said, with the air of a woman who has made up her mind -

“I dare to say, sir, it is possible for you to see Mr. French. He is a little better to-day. You’ll promise not to fatigue him - but you must first see Mr. M’Guinness. He can [242] tell better than I whether his master is sufficiently well to-day for an interview of the kind.”

So saying, Mrs. Martha sailed, with saint-like dignity, from the room.

“She rules the roast, I believe,” said Mr. Aud1ey, within himself. “If so, all’s smooth from this forth. Here comes the gentleman, however - and, by the laws, a very suitable co-mate for that painted Jezebel.”

As Mr. Audley concluded this criticism, a small man, with a greasy and dingy complexion, and in a rusty suit of black, made his appearance.

This individual was, if possible, more subdued, meek, and Christian-like than the lady who had just evacuated the room in his favour. His eyes were, if possible, habitually more nearly closed; his step was as soft and cat-like to the full; and, in a word, he was in air, manner, gait, and expression as like his accomplice as a man can well be to one of the other sex.

A short explanation having passed between [243] this person and Mr. Audley, he retired for a few minutes to prepare his master for the visit, and then returning, conducted the little bachelor up stairs.

[244] CHAPTER XXI.

THE CONFERENCE - SHOWING HOW OLIVER FRENCH BURST INTO A RAGE AND FLUNG HIS CAP ON THE FLOOR.

MR. AUDLEY followed Black M’Guinness as we have said up the stairs, and was, after an introductory knock at the door, ushered by him into Oliver French’s bedroom - its arrangements were somewhat singular - a dressing table with all the appliances of the most elaborate cultivation of the graces, and a huge mirror upon it, stood directly opposite to the door; against the other wall, between the door and this table was placed a massive sideboard covered with plate and wine flasks, cork-screws and cold meat, in most admired disorder - two large presses were also visible, one of which lay open, exhibiting clothes, and papers, and other articles piled together in a highly original manner - two or three very beautiful pictures hung [245] upon the walls. At the far end of the room stood the bed, and at one side of it a table covered with wines and viands, and at the other, a large iron-bound chest, with a heavy bunch of keys dangling from its lock - a little shelf too, occupied the wall beside the invalid, abundantly stored with tall phials with parchment labels, and pill-boxes and gallipots innumerable. In the bed, surrounded by the drapery of the drawn curtains, lay, or rather sate, Oliver French himself, propped up with pillows; he was a corpulent man, with a generous double chin; a good-natured grey eye twinkled from under a bushy, grizzled eye-brow, and a countenance which bore unequivocally the lines of masculine beauty, although considerably disfigured by the traces of age, as well as of something very like intemperance and full living: he wore a silk night-gown and a shirt of snowy whiteness, with lace ruffles, and on his head was a crimson velvet cap.

Grotesque as were the arrangements of the room, there was, nevertheless, about its occupant, an air of aristocratic superiority and ease which at once dispelled any tendency to ridicule.

[246] “Mr. Audley, I presume,” said the invalid.

Mr. Audley bowed.

“Pray, sir, take a chair. M’Guinness, place a chair for Mr. Audley, beside the table here. I am, as you see, sir,” continued he, “a confirmed valetudinarian; I suffer abominably from gout, and have not been able to remove to my easy chair by the fire for more than a week. I understand that you have some matters of importance to communicate to me ; but before doing so, let me request of you to take a little wine, you can have whatever you like best - there’s some Madeira at your elbow there, which I can safely recommend, as I have just tasted it myself - o - oh! d--- the gout-you’ll excuse me, sir - a cursed twinge.”

“Very sorry to see you suffering,” responded Mr. Audley - “very, indeed, sir.”

“It shan’t, however, prevent my doing you reason, sir,” replied he, with alacrity. “M’Guinness, two glasses. I drink, sir, to our better ac-acquaintance. Now, M’Guinness, you may leave the room.

[247] Accordingly Mr. M’Guinness withdrew, and the gentlemen were left tete-a-tete.

“And now, sir,” continued Oliver French, “be so good as to open the subject of your visit.

Mr. Audley cleared his voice twice or thrice, in the hope of clearing his head at the same time, and then, with some force and embarrassment, observed -

“I am necessarily obliged, Mr French, to allude to matters which may possibly revive unpleasant recollections. I trust, indeed, my dear sir, - I’m sure that you will not suffer yourself to be distressed or unduly excited, when I tell you that I must recall to your memory a name which I believe does not sound gratefully to your ear - the name of Ashwoode.”

“Curse them,” was the energetic commentary of the invalid.

“Well, sir, I dare venture to say that you and I are not very much at variance in our estimate of the character of the Ashwoodes generally,” said Mr. Audlcy. “You are aware, [248] I presume, that Sir Richard has been some time dead.”

“Ha! actually gone to hell? - no, sir, I was not aware of this. Pray, proceed, sir,” responded Oliver French.

“I am aware, sir, that he treated his lady harshly,” resumed Audley.

“Harshly, harshly, sir,” cried the old man, with an energy that well nigh made his companion bounce from his seat - “why, sir, beginning with neglect and ending with blows - through every stage of savage insult and injury, his wretched wife, my sister-the most gentle, trusting, lovely creature that ever yet was born to misery, was dragged by that inhuman monster, her husband, Sir Richard Ashwoode; he broke her heart - he killed her, sir - killed her. She was my sister - my only sister; I was justly proud of her - loved her most dearly, and the inhuman villain broke her heart.”

Through his clenched teeth he uttered a malediction, and with a vehemence of hatred which plainly showed that his feelings [249] toward the family had undergone no favourable change.

“Well, sir,” resumed Mr. Audley, after a considerable interval, “I cannot wonder at the strength of your feelings in this matter, more especially as at this moment I myself burn with indignation scarce one degree less intense than yours, against the worthy son of that most execrable man, and upon grounds, too, very nearly similar.”

He then proceeded to recount to his auditor, waxing warm as he went on, all the circumstances of Mary Ashwoode’s sufferings, and every particular of the grievous persecution which she had endured at the hands of her brother, Sir Henry. Oliver French ground his teeth and clutched the bed-clothes, as he listened, and when the narrative was ended, he whisked the velvet cap from his head, and flung it with all his force upon the floor.

“Oh, God Almighty! that I had but the use of my limbs,” exclaimed he, with desperation - “I would give the whole world a lesson in the person of that despicable [250] scoundrel - I would - but” - he added bitterly, “I am powerless - I am a cripple.”

“You are not powerless, sir, for purposes nobler than revenge,” exclaimed Audley, with eagerness; “you may shelter and protect the helpless, friendless child of calamity, the story of whose wrongs has so justly fired you with indignation.”

“Where is she - where?” cried Oliver French, eagerly - “I ought to have asked you long ago.”

“She is not far away - she even now awaits your decision in the little village hard by,” responded Audley.

“Poor child - poor child !” ejaculated Oliver, much agitated, “and did she - could she doubt my willingness to befriend her - good God - could she doubt it - bring her - bring her here at once - I long to see her - poor bird - poor bird - the world’s winter has closed over thee too soon. Alas! poor child - tell her-tell her, Mr. Audley, that I long to see her - that she is most welcome - that all which I command is heartily and entirely at her service - [251] plead my apology for not going myself to meet her - as God knows I would fain do - you see I am a poor cripple - a very worthless, helpless, good-for-nothing old man. Tell her all better than I can do it now. God bless you, sir - God bless you, for believing that such an ill-conditioned old fellow as I am, had yet heart enough to feel rightly sometimes. I had rather die a thousand deaths than that you had not brought the poor outcast child to my roof: Tell her how glad - how very, very happy - how proud it makes me that she should come to her old uncle Oliver - tell her this - God bless you, sir !”

With a cordial pressure, he griped Audley’s hand, and the old gentleman, with a heart over-flowing with exultation and delight, retraced his steps. to the little village, absolutely bursting with impatience to communicate the triumphant result of his visit.

[252] CHAPTER XXII.

THE BED-CHAMBER.

Black M’Guinness and Mistress Martha, had listened in vain, to catch the purport of Mr. Audley’s communication. Unfortunately for them, their master’s chamber was guarded by a double door, and his companion had taken especial pains to close both of them before detailing the subject of his visit. They were, however, a good deal astonished by Mr. French’s insisting upon rising forthwith, and having himself clothed and shaved. This huge, good-natured lump of gout was, accordingly, arrayed in a full suit - one of the handsomest which his wardrobe commanded - his velvet cap replaced by a flowing peruke, his gouty feet smothered in endless flannels, and himself deposited in his great easy chair by the fire, and his lower extremities [253] propped up upon stools and pillows. These preparations, along with a complete re-arrangement of the furniture, and other contents of the room, effectually perplexed, and somewhat alarmed his disinterested dependants.

Mr. Audley returned, ere the preparations were well completed, and handed Mary Ashwoode and her attendant from the chaise. It needs not to say, how the old bachelor of Ardgillagh received her - with, perhaps, the more warmth and tenderness that, as he protested, with tears in his eyes, she was so like her poor mother, that he felt as if old times had come again, and that she stood once more before him, clothed in the melancholy beauty of her early and ill-fated youth. It were idle to describe the overflowing kindness of the old man’s greeting, and the depth of gratitude with which his affectionate and hearty welcome was accepted by the poor grieved girl. He would scarcely, for the whole evening, allow her to leave him for one moment; and every now and again renewed his pressing invitation to her, and to Mr. Audley to take some more wine, or some [254] new delicacy; he, himself, enforcing his solicitations by eating and drinking in almost unbroken continuity during the whole time. All his habits were those of the most unlimited self-indulgence; and his chief, if not his sole recreation for years had consisted in compounding, during the whole day long, those astounding gastronomic combinations, which embraced every possible variety of wine and liqueur, of vegetable, meat, and confection; so that the fact of his existing at all, under the extraordinary regimen which he had adopted, was a triumph of the genius of digestion over the demon of dyspepsia, such as this miserable world has seldom witnessed. Nevertheless, that he did exist, and that too, apparently in robust though unwieldy health, with the exception of his one malady, his constitutional gout, was a fact which nobody could look upon and dispute. With an imperiousness which brooked no contradiction, he compelled Mr. Audley to eat and drink very greatly more than he could conveniently contain - browbeating the poor little gentleman into submission, and swearing, in the most im[255]pressive manner, that he had not eaten one ounce weight of food of any kind since his entrance into the house; although the unhappy little gentleman felt at that moment like a boa constrictor who has just bolted a buffalo, and pleaded in stifled accents, for quarter; but it would not do. Oliver French, Esquire, had not had his humour crossed, nor one of his fancies contradicted for the last forty years, and he was not now to be thwarted or put down by a little “hop-o’-my-thumb,” who, though ravenously hungry, pretended through mere perverseness, to be bursting with repletion. Mr. Audley’s labours were every now and again pleasingly relieved by such applications as these from his merciless entertainer.

“Now, my good friend - my worthy friend - will you think it too great a liberty, sir, if I ask you to move the pillow a leetle under this foot?”

“None in the world, sir - quite the contrary - I shall have the very greatest possible pleasure,” would poor Mr. Audley reply - preparing for the task.

[256] “You are very good, sir, very kind, sir. Just draw it quietly to the right - a little, a very little - you are very good, indeed, sir. O-oh, O-oh, you, you booby - you’ll excuse me, sir - gently - there, there - gently, gently. O-oh, you d---d handless idiot - pray pardon me, sir; that will do.”

Such passages as these were of frequent occurrence; but though Mr. Audley was as choleric as most men at his time of life, yet the incongruous terms of abuse were so obviously the result of inveterate and almost unconscious habit, stimulated by the momentary twinges of acute pain, that he did not suffer this for an instant to disturb the serenity and goodwill with which he regarded his host, spite of all his oddities and self-indulgence.

In the course of the evening, Oliver French ordered Mistress Martha to have beds prepared for the party, and that lady, with rather a vicious look, withdrew. She soon returned, and asked in her usual low, dulcet tone, whether the young lady could spare her maid to assist in arranging the room, and forthwith Flora Guy [257] consigned herself to the guidance of the sinister looking abigail.

“This is a fine country, isn’t it?” inquired Mistress Martha softly, when they were quite alone.

“A very fine country, indeed, ma’am,” rejoined Flora, who had heard enough to inspire her with a certain awe of her conductress, which inclined her as much as possible to assent to whatever proposition she might be inclined to advance, without herself hazarding much original matter.

“It’s a pity you can’t see it in the summer time; this is a very fine place indeed when all the leaves are on the trees,” repeated Mistress Martha.

“Indeed, so I’d take it to be, ma’am,” rejoined the maid.

“Just passing through this way - hurried like, you can’t notice much about it though,” remarked the elderly lady, carelessly.

“No, ma’am,” replied Flora, becoming more reserved, as she detected in her companion a [258] wish to draw from her all she knew of her mistress’s plans.

“There are some views that are greatly admired in the neighbourhood - the glen and the falls of Glashangower. If she could stay a week she might see every thing.

“Oh! indeed, it’d a lovely place,” observed Flora, evasively.

“That old gentleman, that Mr. Audley, your young mistress’s father, or - or uncle, or whatever he is” - Mrs. Martha here made a considerable pause, but Flora did not enlighten her, and she continued - “whatever he is to her, it’s no matter, he seems a very good-humoured nice old gentleman - he’s in a great hurry back to Dublin, where he came from, I suppose.”

“Well, I raly don’t know,” replied the girl.

“He looks very comfortable, and every thing handsome and nice about him,” observed Mistress Martha again. “I suppose he’s well off - plenty of money - not in want at all.”

“Indeed he seems all that,” rejoined the maid.

“He’s cousin, or something or another, to [259] the master, Mr. French; didn’t you tell me so?” asked the painted Abigail.

“No ma’am; I didn’t tell you; I don’t know,” replied she.

“This is a very damp old house, and full of rats; I wish I had known a week ago that beds would be wanting; but I suppose it was a sudden thing,” said the housekeeper.

“Indeed I suppose it just was, ma’am,” responded the attendant.

“Are you going to stay here long?” asked the old lady, more briskly than she had yet spoken.

“Raly, ma’am, I don’t know,” replied Flora.

The old painted termagant shot a glance at her of no pleasant meaning; but for the present checked the impulse in which it had its birth, and repeated softly - “You don’t know; why you are a very innocent, simple little girl.”

“Pray, ma’am, if it’s not making too bold, which is the room, ma’am?” asked Flora.

“What’s your young lady’s name?” added [260] the matron, directly, and disregarding the question of the girl.

Flora Guy hesitated.

“Do you hear me - what’s your young lady’s name?” repeated the woman, softly, but deliberately.

“Her name, to be sure; her name is Miss Mary,” replied she.

“Mary what?” asked Martha.

“Miss Mary Ashwoode,” replied Flora, half afraid as she uttered it.

Spite of all her efforts, the woman’s face exhibited disagreeable symptoms of emotion at this announcement; she bit her lips and dropped her eyelids lower than usual. to conceal the expression which gleamed in her eyes, while her colour shifted even through her rouge. At length, with a smile infinitely more unpleasant than any expression which her face had yet worn, she observed -

“Ashwoode, Ashwoode. Oh! dear, to be sure; some of Sir Richard’s family; well, I did not expect to see them darken these doors [261] again. Dear me! who’d have thought of the Ashwoode’s looking after him again! well, well, but they’re a very forgiving family,” and she uttered an ill-omened tittering.

“Which is the room, ma’am, if you please?” repeated Flora.

“That’s the room,” cried the stalworth dame, with astounding vehemence, and at the same time opening a door and exhibiting a large neglected bed-chamber, with its bed-clothes and other furniture lying about in entire disorder, and no vestige of a fire in the grate; “that’s the room, Miss, and make the best of it yourself for you’ve nothing else to do.”

In this very uncomfortable predicament, Flora Guy applied herself energetically to reduce the room to something like order, and although it was very cold and not a little damp she succeeded, nevertheless, in giving it an air of tolerable comfort by the time her young mistress was prepared to retire to it.

As soon as Mary Ashwoode had entered this chamber, her maid proceeded to narrate the occurrences which had just taken place.

[262] “Well Flora,” said she, smiling, “I hope the old lady will resume her good temper by to-morrow, for one night I can easily contrive to rest with such appliances as we have. I am more sorry for your sake, my poor girl, than for mine, however, and wherever I lay me down, my rest will be, I fear me, very nearly alike.”

“She’s the darkest, ill-lookingest old woman, God bless us, that ever I set my two good-looking eyes upon, my lady,” said Flora. “I’ll put a table to the door; for, to tell God’s truth, I’m half afeard of her. She has a nasty look in her, my lady - a bad look entirely.”

Flora had hardly spoken, when the door opened, and the subject of their conversation entered.

“Good evening to you, Miss Ashwoode,” said she, advancing close to the young lady, and speaking in her usual low, soft tone. “I hope you find every thing to your liking. I suppose your own maid has settled every thing according to your fancy. Of course, she knows best how to please you. I’m very de[263]lighted to see you here in Ardgillagh, as I was telling your innocent maid there - very glad, indeed; because, as I said, it shows how forgiving you are, after all the master has said and done, and the way he has always spit upon every one of your family that ever came here looking after his money - though, indeed, I’m sure you’re a great deal too good and too religious to care about money; and I’m sure and certain it’s only for the sake of Christian charity, and out of a forgiving disposition, and to show that there isn’t a bit of pride of any sort, or kind, or description in your carcase - that you’re come here to make yourself at home in this house, that never belonged to you, and that never will, and to beg favours of the gentleman that hates, and despises, and insults every one that carries your name - so that the very dogs in the streets would not lick their blood. I like that, Miss Ashwoode - I do like it,” she continued, advancing a little nearer; “for it shows you don’t care what bad people may say or think, provided you do your Christian duty. They may say you’re come here to [264] try and get the old gentleman’s money; they may say that you’re eaten up to the very backbone with meanness, and that you’d bear to be kicked and spit upon from one year’s end to the other for the sake of a few pounds - they’ll call you a sycophant and a schemer - but you don’t mind that - and I admire you for it - they’ll say, miss - for they don’t scruple at any thing - they’ll say you lost your character and fortune in Dublin, and came down here in the hope of finding them again; but I tell you what it is,” she continued, giving full vent to her fury, and raising her accents to a tone more resembling the scream of a screech-owl than the voice of a human being, “I know what you’re at, and I’ll blow your schemes, Miss Innocence. I’ll make the house too hot to hold you. Do you think I mind the old bed-ridden cripple, or anyone else within its four walls? Hoo! I’d make no more of them or of you than of that old glass there;” and so saying, she hurled the candlestick, with all her force, against the large mirror which depended from the wall, and dashed it to atoms.

[265] “Hoo! hoo!” she screamed, “you think I’m afraid to do what I threatened; but wait - wait, I say; and now good night 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.

[266] CHAPTER XXIV.

THE EXPULSION.

While this scene was going on in Mary Ashwoode’s chamber, our friend, Oliver French, having wished Mr. Audley good night, had summoned to his presence his confidential servant, Mr. M’Guinness. The corpulent invalid sate in his capacious chair by the fireside, with his muffled legs extended upon a pile of pillows, and 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, every thing with which he came in contact.

[267] “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; damn away, sir - pray, do.

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

“Scoundrel!” repeated M’Guinness, over-turning 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.”

[268] 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 shan’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 [269] 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 bloody 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.

[270] “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, are you the amiable and remarkably quiet gentlewoman with whom I was today 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 some-thing 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 [271] 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’re 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.

[272] “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 post-boy and tell him to put his horses to, this moment, 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; your very good health, sir; a pleasant pair of furies I - just give me the legs of that woodcock while we are waiting.”

[273] 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 post-boy 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 again, and let the other return, and with my friend the post-boy do a like good office by my honest comrade [274] Mr. M’Guinness - mind you go along with them to the village and let them be set down at Moroney’s public-house; every thing belonging to them shall be sent down to-morrow 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 [275] 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, and 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 [276] 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 - [277] 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 in[278]dulged 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.

[279] CHAPTER XXV.

THE FRAY.

It now becomes our duty as we have said, 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 blood-shot eyes upon the man who took his horse’s bridle, “no news since.”

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

[280] “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

[281] 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 rake-helly 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, contrasting 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 [282] than once already presented itself. “And then for the brother, the fellow that laid his blows on me before the whole play-house 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 person [283] 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 sign-board, 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.

Blarden consulted his huge gold watch. “It’s eleven o’clock now, every minute of it, and he’s not come - hoity toity rather, I should say, all things considered - I thought he was better up to his game by this time - but no matter - I’ll give him a lesson just now.”

As if for the express purpose of further irritating Mr. Blarden’s already by no means ange[284]lic temper, several parties, composed of second-rate sporting characters, all laughing, swearing, joking, betting, whistling, and by every device, contriving together to produce as much clatter and uproar as it was possible to do, successively entered the place.

“Well, Nicky, boy, how does the world wag with you?” inquired a dapper little fellow, approaching Blarden, with a kind of brisk, hopping gait, and coaxingly digging that gentleman’s ribs with the butt of his silver-mounted whip.

“What the devil brings all these chaps here at this hour?” inquired Blarden.

“Soft is your horn, old boy,” rejoined his acquaintance, in the same arch strain of pleasantry - “two regular good mains to be fought to-day - tough ones I promise you - Fermanagh Dick against Long White - fifty birds each - splendid fowls I’m told - great betting - it will come off in little more than an hour.”

“I don’t care if it never come off,” rejoined Blarden, “I’m waiting for a chap that ought to have been here half-an-hour ago. Rot him, I’m sick waiting.”

[285] “Well, come, I’ll tell you how we’ll pass the time - I’ll toss you for guineas, as many tosses as you like,” rejoined the small gentleman, accommodatingly. “What do you say? - is it a go?”

“Sit down then,” replied Blarden - “sit down, can’t you, and begin.”

Accordingly the two friends proceeded to recreate themselves thus pleasantly. Mr. Blarden’s luck was decidedly bad, and he had been already” physicked,” as his companion playfully remarked, to the amount of some five-and-twenty guineas, and his temper had become in a corresponding degree affected, when he observed Sir Henry Ashwoode, jaded, haggard, and with dress disordered, approaching the place where he sat.

“Blarden, we had better leave this place,” said Ashwoode, glancing round at the crowded benches; “there’s too much noise here. What say you?”

“What do I say?” rejoined Blarden, in his very loudest and most insolent tone - “I say you have made an appointment and broke it, so [286] stand there till it’s my convenience to talk to you - that’s all.”

Ashwoode felt his blood tingling in his veins with fury as he observed the sneering significant faces of those who, attracted by the loud tones of Nicholas Blarden, watched the effect of his insolence upon its object. He heard conversations subside into whispers and titters among the low scoundrels who enjoyed his humiliation; yet he dared not answer Blarden as he would have given worlds at that moment to have done, and with the extremest difficulty restrained himself from rushing among the vile rabble who exulted in his degradation, and compelling them at least to respect and fear him. While he stood thus with compressed lips and a face pale as ashes with rage, irresolute what course to take, one of the coins for which Blarden played rolled along the table, and thence along the floor to some distance.

“Go fetch that guinea - jump, will you?” cried Blarden in the same boisterous and intentionally insolent tone. “What are you standing there for like a stick? - pick it up, sir.”

[287] Ashwoode did not move, and an universal titter ran round the spectators, whose attention was now effectually enlisted.

“Do what I order you - do it this moment. D--- your audacity, you had better do it,” said Blarden, dashing his clenched fist upon the table so as to make the coin thereon jump and jingle.

Still Ashwoode remained resolutely fixed, trembling in every joint with very passion; prudence told him that he ought to leave the place instantly, but pride and obstinacy, or his evil angel held him there.

The sneering whispers of the crowd, who now pressed more nearly around them in the hope of some amusement, became more and more loud and distinct, and the words, “white feather,” “white liver,” “muff,” “cur,” and other terms of a like import reached Ashwoode’s ear. Furious at the contumacy of his wretched slave, and determined to overbear and humble him, Blarden exclaimed in a tone of ferocious menace -

“Do as I bid you, you cursed insolent [288] upstart - pick up that coin, and give it to me - or by the laws you’ll shake for it.”

Still Ashwoode moved not.

“Do as I bid you, you robbing swindler,” shouted he, with an oath too appalling for our pages, and again rising, and stamping on the floor, “or I’ll give you to the crows.”

The titter which followed this menace was unexpectedly interrupted. The young man’s aspect changed; the blood rushed in livid streams to his face; his dark eyes blazed with deadly fire; and, like the bursting of a storm, all the gathering rage and vengeance of weeks in one tremendous moment found vent. With a spring like that of a tiger he rushed upon his persecutor, and before the astonished spectators could interfere, he had planted his clenched fists dozens of times, with furious strength, in Blarden’s face. Utterly destitute of personal courage, the wretch, though incomparably a more powerful man than his light-limbed antagonist, shrank back, stunned and affrighted, under the shower of blows, and stumbled and [289] fell over a wooden stool. With murderous resolution, Ashwoode instantly drew his sword. and another moment would have witnessed the last of Blarden’s life, had not several persons thrown themselves between that person and his frantic assailant.

“Hold back,” cried one. “The man’s down - don’t murder him.”

“Down with him - he’s mad,” cried another - “brain him with the stool.”

“Hold his arm, some of you, or he’ll murder the man,” shouted a third, “hold him, will you?”

Overpowered by numbers, with his face lacerated and his clothes torn, and his naked sword still in his hand, Ashwoode struggled and foamed, and actually howled, to reach his abhorred enemy - glaring like a baffled beast upon his prey.

“Send for constables quick - quick, I say,” shouted Blarden, with a frantic imprecation, his face all bleeding under his recent discipline.

“Let me go - let me go, I tell you - or by the father that made me, I’ll send my sword through half a dozen of you,” almost shrieked Ashwoode.

[290] “Hold him - hold him fast - consume you, hold him back,” shouted Blarden - “he’s a forger - run for constables.”

Several did run in various directions for peace-officers.

“Let me go,” screamed Ashwoode, struggling fearfully. “Beware what you do. You strive with a desperate man - let me go - let me go.”

“Wring the sword from his hand, why don’t you?” cried one - “cut it out of his hands with a knife.”

“Knock him down - down with him - hold on.”

Amid such exclamations, Ashwoode at length succeeded, by several desperate efforts, in extricating himself from those who held him; and without hat, and with clothes rent to fragments in the scuffle, and his face and hands all torn and bleeding, still carrying his naked sword in his hand, he rushed from the room, and, followed at a respectable distance by several of those who had witnessed the scuffle, and by his distracted appearance attracting the wondering gaze of those who traversed the streets, he ran recklessly onward to the ” Cock and Anchor.”

[291] CHAPTER XXVI.

THE BOLTED WINDOW.

Followed, at some distance, by a wondering crowd, he entered the inn-yard, where, for the first time, he checked his flight, and returned his sword to the scabbard.

“Here ostler, groom - quickly here,” cried Ashwoode. “In the devil’s name where are you?”

The ostler presented himself, gazing in unfeigned astonishment at the distracted, pale, and bleeding figure before him.

“Where have you put my horse?” said Ashwoode.

“The boy’s wisping him down in the back stable, your honour,” replied he.

“Have him saddled and bridled in three seconds,” said Ashwoode, striding before the man, towards the place indicated. “I’ll make [292] it worth your while - my life - my life depends on it.”

“Never fear,” said the fellow, quickening his pace - “may I never buckle a strap, if I don’t.”

With these words they entered the stable together, but the horse was not there.

“Confound them, they brought. him to the dark stable, I suppose,” said the groom, impatiently - “come along, sir.”

“‘Sdeath! it will be too late - quick-quick, man - in the fiend’s name be quick,” said Ashwoode, glaring fearfully towards the entrance to the inn-yard.

Their visit to the second stable was not more satisfactory.

“Where the devil’s Sir Henry Ashwoode’s horse?” inquired the groom, addressing a fellow, who was seated on an oat bin, drumming listlessly with his heels upon its sides, and smoking a pipe the while - “where’s the horse?” repeated he.

The man first satisfied his curiosity, by a leisurely view of Ashwoode’s disordered dress and [293] person, and then removed his pipe deliberately from his mouth, and spat upon the ground.

“Where’s Sir Henry’s horse?” he repeated.

“Why, Jim took him out a quarter of an hour ago, walking him down towards the Poddle there. I’m thinking he’ll be back soon now.”

“Saddle a horse - any horse - only let him be sure and fleet,” cried Ashwoode, “and I’ll pay you his price thrice over.”

“Well, it’s a bargain,” replied the groom, promptly, “I don’t like to see a gentleman caught in a hobble, if I can help him out of it, take my advice though, and duck your head under the water in the trough there - your face is full of blood and dust, and couldn’t but be noticed wherever you went.”

While the groom was, with marvellous celerity, preparing the horse which he selected for the young man’s service, Ashwoode, seeing the reasonableness of his advice, ran to the large trough full of water which stood before the pump in the inn yard; but, as he reached it, he perceived the entrance of some four or five [294] persons into the little quadrangle whom, at a glance, he discovered to be constables.

“That’s him - he’s our bird-after him - there he goes,” cried several voices.

Ashwoode sprung up the stairs of the gallery, which, as in most old inns, overhung the yard. He ran along it, and rushed into the first passage which opened from it. This he traversed with his utmost speed, and reached a chamber door. It was fastened; but, hurling himself against it with his whole weight, he burst it open, the hoarse voices of his pursuers, and their heavy tread ringing in his ears. He ran directly to the casement; it looked out upon a narrow by-lane. He strove to open it, that he might leap down upon the pavement, but it resisted his efforts; and, driven to bay, and hearing the steps at the very door of the chamber, he turned about and drew his sword.

“Come, no sparring,” cried the foremost, a huge fellow, in a great coat, and with a bludgeon in his hand, “give in quietly, you’re regularly caged.”

[295] As the fellow advanced, Ashwoode met him with a thrust of his sword; the constable partly threw it up with his hand, but it entered the fleshy part of his arm, and came out near his shoulder blade.

“Murder, murder - help, help !” shouted the man, staggering back, while two or three more of his companions thrust themselves in at the door.

Ashwoode had hardly disengaged his sword, when a tremendous blow upon the knuckles with a bludgeon, dashed it from his grasp, and, almost at the same instant, he received a second blow upon the head, which felled him to the ground, insensible, and weltering in blood, the execrations and uproar of his assailants still ringing in his ears.

“Lift him on the bed. Pull off his cravat. By the hoky he’s done for. Devil a kick in him. Open his vest. Are you hurted Crotty? Get some water and spirits, some of yees, an’ a towel. Begorra, we just nicked him. He’s an active chap. See he’s opening his mouth and his eyes. Hould him, Teague, for he’s the devil’s bird. [296] Never mind it Crotty. Divil a fear of you. Tear open the shirt. Bedad it was close shaving. Give him a drop iv the brandy. Never a fear of you, old bull-dog.”

These, and such broken sentences, from fifty voices, filled the little chamber where Ashwoode lay in dull and ghastly insensibility after his recent deadly struggle. While some stuped the wounds of the combatants with spirits and water, and others applied the same medicaments to their own interiors; and all talked loud and fast together, as men are apt to do after scenes of excitement.

---

[297] We need not follow Ashwoode through the dreadful preliminaries which terminated in his trial. In vain did he implore an interview with Nicholas Blarden his relentless prosecutor; the fatal trial proceeded. It were needless to enter into the evidence for the prosecution, and that for the defence together, with the points made and arguments advanced by the opposing counsel; it is enough to know that the case was conducted with much ability on both sides, and that the jury, having deliberated for more than an hour, at length found the verdict which we shall just now state. A baronet in the dock was too novel an exhibition to fail in drawing a full attendance, and the consequence was, that never was known such a crowd of human beings [298] in a compass so small as that which packed the court-house upon this memorable occasion.

Throughout the whole proceedings, Sir Henry Ashwoode, though deadly pale, conducted himself with singular coolness and self-possession, frequently suggesting questions to his counsel, and watching the proceedings apparently with a mind as disengaged from every agitating consciousness of personal danger, as that of any of the indifferent but curious bystanders who looked on. He was handsomely dressed, and in his degraded and awful situation preserved, nevertheless, in his outward mien and attire, the dignity of his rank and former pretensions. As is invariably the case in Ireland, popular sympathy moved strongly in favour of the prisoner; a feeling of interest which the grace, beauty, and evident youth of the accused, as well as his high rank, for the Irish have ever been an aristocratic race, served much to enhance; and when the case closed, and the jury retired after an adverse charge from the learned judge, to consider their verdict; perhaps Ashwoode himself would have seemed, to the careless observer, the least inte[299]rested in the result, of all who were assembled in that densely crowded place, to hear the final adjudication of the law. Those, however, who watched him more narrowly could observe, in this dreadful interval, that he raised his hand-kerchief often to his face, keeping it almost constantly at his mouth, to conceal the nervous twitching of the muscles, which he could not control. The eyes of the eager multitude wandered from the prisoner to the jury box, and thence to the impassive parchment countenance of the old ermined effigy who presided at the harrowing scene, and not one ventured to speak above his breath. At length, a sound was heard at the door of the jury-box - the jury was returning - a buzz ran through the court - and then the prolonged “hish,” enjoining silence - while one by one the jurors entered and resumed their places in the box. The verdict was-guilty.

In reply to the usual interrogatory from the officer of the court, Sir Henry Ashwoode spoke, and though many there were moved, even to sobs and tears, yet his manner had recovered its grace [300] and collectedness, and his voice was unbroken and musical as when it was wont to charm all hearers in the gay saloons of fashion, and splendour, and heedless folly, in other times - when he, blasted and ruined as he stood there, was the admired and courted favourite of the great and gay.

“My lord,” said he, “I have nothing to urge which, in the strict requirements of the law avails to abate the solemn sentence which you are about to pronounce - for my life I care not - something is, however, due to my character, and the name I bear - a name, my lord, never, never, except on this day, never clouded by the shadow of dishonour - a name which will yet, after I am dead and gone, be surely and entirely vindicated; vindicated, my lord, in the entire dispersion of the foul imputations and fatal contrivances under which my fame is darkened and my life is taken. Far am I from impeaching the verdict that I have just heard. I will not arraign the jurymen, nor lay to their charge that I am this day wrongfully condemned, but to the charge of those who, on that witness [301] table, have sworn my life away - perjurers procured for money, whose exposure I leave to time, and whose punishment to God. Knowing that although my body shall ignominiously perish, and though my fame be tarnished for an hour; yet, shall truth and years, with irresistible power, bring my innocence to light - rescue my character, and restore the name I bear. He who stands in the shadow of death, as I do, has little to fear in human censure, and little to gather from the applause of men. My life is forfeited, and I must soon go into the presence of my Creator, to receive my everlasting doom; and in presence of that almighty and terrible God before whom I must soon stand, and as I look for mercy when he shall judge me, I declare, that of this crime, of which I am pronounced guilty, I am altogether innocent. I

am the victim of a conspiracy, the motives of which my defence hath truly showed you. I never committed the crime for which I am to suffer. I repeat that I am innocent, and in witness of the truth of what I say, I appeal to my maker and my judge, the Eternal and Almighty God.”

[302] Having thus spoken, Ashwoode received his sentence, and was forthwith removed to the condemned cell.

Ashwoode had many and influential friends, and it required but a small exercise of their good offices to procure a reprieve. He would not suffer himself to despond - no, nor for one moment to doubt his final escape from the fangs of justice. He was first reprieved for a fortnight, and before that term expired, again for six weeks. In the course of the latter term, however, an event occurred which fearfully altered his chances of escape, and filled his mind with the justest and most dreadful apprehensions. This was the recall of Wharton from the viceroyalty of Ireland.

The new lord lieutenant could not see, in the case of the young Whig baronet, the same extenuating circumstances which had wrought so effectually upon his predecessor, Wharton. The judge who had tried the case refused to recommend the prisoner to the mercy of the crown; and the viceroy accordingly, in his turn, refused to entertain any application for the commutation [303] or further suspension of his sentence; and now, for the first time, Sir Henry Ashwoode felt the tremendous reality of his situation. The term for which he was reprieved had nearly expired, and he felt that the hours which separated him from the deadly offices of the hangman, were numbered. Still, in this dreadful consciousness, there mingled some faint and flickering ray of hope - by its uncertain mockery rendering the terrors of his situation, but the more intolerable, and by the sleepless agonies of suspense, unnerving the resolution which he might have otherwise summoned to his aid.

[304] CHAPTER XXVII.

THE BARONET’S ROOM.

Desperately wounded, O’Connor lay, between life and death, for many weeks, in the dim and secluded apartment whither O’Hanlon had borne him after his combat with Sir Henry Ashwoode. There, fearing lest his own encounter with Wharton, and its startling result, should mark them for pursuit and search, he placed O’Connor under the charge of trusty creatures of his own - for some time not daring to visit him except under cover of the night. This alarm, however, soon subsided, and, consequently, less precaution was adopted. O’Connor’s wounds were, as we have said, most dangerous, and for fully two months he lay upon the fiery couch of fever, alternately raving in delirium, and locked in the dull stupor of entire [305] apathy and exhaustion. Through this season of pain and peril he was sustained, however, by the energies of a young and vigorous constitution. The fever, at length, abated, and the unclouded light of reason returned; still, however, in body he was weak, so weak that, sorely against his will, he was perforce obliged to continue the occupant of his narrow bed, in the dingy and secluded lodgings in which he lay. Impatient to learn something of her who entirely filled his thoughts, and of the truth of whose love for him he now felt the revival of more than hope; he chafed and fretted in the narrow limits of his dark and gloomy chamber. Spite of all the remonstrances of the old crone who attended him, backed by the more awful fulminations of his apothecary, O’Connor would not submit any longer to the confinement of his bed; and, but for the firm and effectual resistance of O’Hanlon, would have succeeded, weak as he was, in making his escape from the house, and resuming his ordinary occupations and pursuits, as though his health had not suffered, nor his strength become impaired, so as to leave him [306] scarcely the power of walking a hundred steps, without the extremest exhaustion and lassitude. To O’Hanlon’s expostulations he was forced to yield, and even pledged his word to him not to attempt a removal from his hated lodgings, without his consent and approbation. In reply to a message to his friend Audley, he learned, much to his mortification, that that gentleman had left town, and as thus full of disquiet and anxiety, one day O’Connor was seated, pale and languid, in his usual place by the window, the door of his apartment opened, and O’Hanlon entered. He took the hand of the invalid and said -

“I commend your patience, young man, you have been my parole prisoner for many days. When is this durance to end?”

“I’faith, I believe with my life,” rejoined O’Connor, “I never knew before, what weariness and vexation in perfection are - this dusky room is hateful to me, it grows narrower and narrower every day - and those old houses opposite - every pane of glass in their windows, and every brick in their walls, I have learned by rote - I am [307] tired to death. But, seriously, I have other and very different reasons for wishing to be at liberty again - reasons so urgent as to leave me no rest by night or day. I chafe and fret here like a caged bird. I have been too long shut up - my strength will never come again unless I am allowed to breathe the fresh air - you are all literally killing me with kindness.”

“And yet,” rejoined O’Hanlon, “I have never been thought an over careful leech, and truth to say had I suffered you to have your own way, you would not now have been a living man. I know, as well as any of them how to tend a wound, and this I will say, that in all my practice it never yet has been my lot to meet with so ill-conditioned and cross-grained a patient as yourself. Why, nothing short of downright force has kept you in your room - your life is saved in spite of yourself.”

“If you keep me here much longer,” replied O’Connor, “it will prove but indifferent economy, as regards my bodily health, for I shall undoubtedly, cut my throat before another week.”

[308] “There shall be no need, my friend, to find such an escape,” replied O’Hanlon, “for I now absolve you of your promise, hitherto, so well observed; nay, more, I advise you to leave the house to-day. I think your strength sufficient, and the occasion, moreover, demands that you should visit an acquaintance immediately.”

“Who is it?” inquired O’Connor, starting to his feet with alacrity, “thank God I am at length again my own master.”

“When I this day entered the yard of the ‘Cock and Anchor,’” answered O’Hanlon, “the inn where you and I first encountered, I found a fellow inquiring after you most earnestly; he had a letter with which he was charged. It is from Sir Henry Ashwoode, who lies now in prison, and under sentence of death. You start, and no wonder - his old associates have convicted him of forgery.”

” Gracious heaven, is it possible ?” exclaimed O’Connor.

“Nay, certain,” continued O’Hanlon,” nor has he any longer a chance of escape. He has been twice reprieved - but his friend Wharton is [309] recalled - his reprieve expires in three days time, and then he will be inevitably executed.”

“Good God! is this - can it be reality?” exclaimed O’Connor, trembling with the violence of his agitation, “give me the letter.” He broke the seal, and read as follows:-

“Edmond O’Connor - I know I have wronged you sorely. I have destroyed your peace and endangered your life. You are more than avenged. I write this in the condemned cell of the gaol. If you can bring yourself to confer with me for a few minutes, come here. I stand on no ceremony, and time presses. Do not fail. If you be living I shall expect you.

“Henry Ashwoode.”

O’Connor’s preparations were speedily made, and leaning upon the arm of his elder friend, he - with slow and feeble steps, and a head giddy with his long confinement, and the agitating anticipation of the scene in which he was just about to be engaged-traversed the streets which separated his lodgings [310] from the old city gaol - a sombre, stern, and melancholy-looking building, surrounded by crowded and dilapidated houses, with decayed plaster and patched windows, and a certain desolate and sickly aspect, as though scared and blasted by the contagious proximity of that dark receptacle of crime and desperation which loomed above them. At the gate O’Hanlon parted from him, appointing to meet him again in the “Cock and Anchor,” whither he repaired. After some question, O’Connor was admitted. The clanging of bolts, and bars, and door-chains, smote heavily on his heart - he heard no other sounds but these and the echoing tread of their own feet, as they traversed the long, dark, stone-paved passages which led to the dungeon in which he, whom he had last seen in the pride of fashion, and youth, and strength, was now a condemned felon, and within a few hours of a public and ignominious death. The turn-key paused at one of the narrow doors opening from the dusky corridor, and unclosing it, said -

[311] ” A gentleman, sir, to see you.”

“Request him to come in,” replied a voice, which, though feebler than it used to be, O’Connor had no difficulty in recognizing. In compliance with this invitation, he with a throbbing heart, entered the prison-room. It was dimly lighted by a single small window set high in the wall, and darkened by iron bars. A small deal table, with a few books carelessly laid upon it, occupied the centre of the cell, and two heavy stools were placed beside it, on one of which was seated a figure, with his back to the light, to conceal, with a desperate tenacity of pride, the ravages which the terrific mental fever of weeks had wrought. in his once bold and handsome face. By the wall was stretched a wretched pallet; and upon the plaster were written and scratched, according to the various moods of the miserable and guilty tenants of the place, a hundred records, some of slang philosophy, some of desperate drunken defiance, and some again of terror, but all bearing reference to the dreadful scene to which this was but the ante-chamber and the passage. Many hieroglyphical emblems of unmistakable signifi[312]cance had also been traced upon the walls, by the successive occupants of the place, such as coffins, gallows-trees, skulls and cross-bones; the most striking among which symbols, was a large figure of death upon a horse, sketched with much spirit, by some moralizing convict, with a piece of burned stick, and to which some waggish successor had appropriately added, in red chalk, a gigantic pair of spurs. As soon as O’Connor entered, the turnkey closed the door, and he and Sir Henry Ashwoode were left alone. A silence of some minutes, which neither party dared to break, ensued.

[313] CHAPTER XXVIII.

THE FAREWELL.

At length O’Connor spoke, and in a low voice, which trembled with agitation -

“Sir Henry Ashwoode,” he said, “I have come here in answer to a note which reached me but a few minutes since. You desired a conference with me; is there any commission with which you would wish to charge me? - if so, let me know it, and it shall be done.""None, none, Mr. O’Connor, thank you,”

rejoined Ashwoode, recovering his characteristic self-possession, and continuing proudly, “if you add to your visit a patient audience of a few minutes, you will have conferred upon me the only favour I desire. Pray, sit down; it is rather a hard and a homely seat,” he added, with a haggard, joyless smile-” but the only one this place supplies.”

[314] Another silence followed, during which Sir Henry Ashwoode restlessly shifted his attitude every moment, in evident and uncontrollable nervous excitement. At length he arose, and walked twice or thrice up and down the narrow chamber, exhibiting without any longer care for concealment, his pale, wasted face in the full light which streamed in through the grated window, his sunken eyes, and unshorn chin, and worn and attenuated figure.

“You hear that sound,” said he, abruptly stopping short, and looking with the same strange smile upon O’Connor; “the clank upon the flags as I walk up and down - the jingle of the fetters - isn’t it strange - isn’t it odd - like a dream - eh?”

Another silence followed, which Ashwoode again abruptly interrupted.

“You know all this story? - of course you do - every body does - how the wretches have trapped me - isn’t it terrible - isn’t it dreadful. Oh! you cannot know what it is to mope about this place alone, when it is growing dark, as I do every evening, and in the night time. [315] If I had been another man, I’d have been raving mad by this time. I said alone - did I?” he continued, with increasing excitement; “oh! that it were! - oh! that it were! He comes there - there,” he screamed, pointing to the foot of the bed, “with all those infernal cloths and fringes about his face, morning and evening. Ah, God! - such a thing - half idiot, half fiend; and still the same, though I curse him till I’m hoarse, he won’t leave it. Can’t they wait - can’t they wait; forever is a long day. As I’m a living man, he’s with me every night - there - there - in the body, gaping and nodding - there - there - there!”

As he shouted this with frantic and despairing horror, shaking his clenched hands toward the place of his dreaded nightly visitant, O’Connor felt a thrill of horror such as he had never known before, and hardly recovered from this painful feeling, when Sir Henry Ashwoode turned to the little table, on which, among other things, a vessel of water was placed, and filling out some into a cracked cup, he added to [316] it some drops from a phial, and hastily swallowed the mixture.

“Laudanum is all the philosophy or religion I can boast; it’s well to have even so much,” said he, returning the bottle to his pocket. “It’s a dead secret though that I have got any; this is a present from the doctor they allow me to see, and I’m, on honour, not to - to poison myself - isn’t that comical? - for fear he should get into a scrape; but I’ve another game to play - no fear of that - no, no.”

Another silence followed, and Sir Henry Ashwoode said quickly -

“What do the people say about it? Do they think I forged that accursed bond? Do they think me guilty?”

O’Connor declared his entire ignorance of public rumour, alleging his own illness, and consequent close confinement, as the cause of it.

“They shan’t believe me guilty, no they shan’t. Look ye, sir, I have one good feeling left,” he resumed vehemently; “I will not let my name suffer. If the most resolute [317] firmness to the very last, and the most solemn renunciation of the charges preferred against me, reiterated at the foot of the gallows, with the halter about my neck - if these can beget a belief of my innocence, my name shall be clear - my name shall not suffer; this last outrage I will avert; but; oh, my God! is there no chance yet - must I - must I perish? Will no one save me - will no one help me? Oh, God! oh, God! is there no pity - no succour; must it come?”

Thus crying, he threw himself forward upon the table, while every joint and muscle quivered and heaved with the fierce hysterical sobs which, more like a succession of short convulsive shrieks than actual weeping, betrayed his agony, while O’Connor looked on with a mixture of horror and pity, which all that was past could not suppress.

At length the paroxysm subsided. The wretched man filled out some more water, and mingling some drops of laudanum in it, he drank it off, and became comparatively composed.

“Not a word of this to any living being, I [318] charge you,” said he, clutching O’Connor’s arm in his attenuated hand, and fixing his sunken fiery eyes upon his; “I would not have my folly known; I’m not always so weak as you have seen me. It must be, that’s all - no help for it. It’s rather a novel thing, though, to hang a baronet - ha! ha! You look scared - you think my wits are unsettled; but you’re wrong. I don’t sleep; I hav’n’t for some time; and want of rest, you know, makes a man’s manner odd; makes him excitable - nervous. I’m more myself now.”

After a short pause, Sir Henry Ashwoode resumed -

“When we had that affray together, in which would to God you had run me through the heart, you put a question to me about my sister - poor Mary; I will answer that now, and more than answer it. That girl loves you with her whole heart; loves you alone; never loved another. It matters not to tell how I and my father - the great and accursed first cause of all our misfortunes and miseries - effected your estrangement. The Italian miscreant told you [] truth. The girl is gone I know not whither, to seek an asylum from me - ay, from me. To save my life and honour, I would have constrained her to marry the wretch who has destroyed me. It was he - he who urged it, who cajoled me. I joined him, to save my life and honour; and now - oh! God! where are they?”

O’Connor rose, and said somewhat sternly -

“May God pardon you, Sir Henry Ashwoode for all you have done against the peace of that most noble and generous being, your sister. What I have suffered at your hands I heartily forgive.”

“I ask forgiveness no where,” rejoined Ashwoode, stoically; “what’s done is done. It has been a wild and fitful life, and is now over. What forgiveness can you give me or she, that’s worth a thought? - folly, folly!

“One word of earnest hope, before I leave you; one word of solemn warning,” said O’Connor; “the vanities of this world are fading fast and for ever from your view; you are going where the applause of men can reach you no more; I conjure you then, for the sake [320] of your eternal peace, if your sentence be a just one, do not insult your Creator by denying your guilt, and pass into his awful presence with a lie upon your lips.”

Ashwoode paused for a moment, and then walked suddenly up to O’Connor, and almost in a whisper said -

“Not a word of that, my course is chosen; not one word more. Observe, what has passed between us is private; now leave me.” So saying, Ashwoode turned from him, and walked towards the narrow window of his cell.

“Farewell, Sir Henry Ashwoode - farewell for ever; and may God have mercy upon you,” said O’Connor, passing out upon the dark and narrow corridor.

The turnkey closed the door with a heavy crash upon his prisoner, and locked it once more, and thus the two young men, who had so often and so variously encountered in the unequal path of life, were parted never again to meet in the wayward scenes of this chequered and changeful existence. Tired and agitated, O’Connor threw himself into the first coach he [321] met, and was deposited safely in the “Cock and Anchor.” It were vain to attempt to describe the ecstacies and transports of honest Larry Toole at the unexpected recovery of his long-lost master; we shall not attempt to do so. It is enough for our purpose to state, that at the”Cock and Anchor,” O’Connor received two letters from his old friend, Mr. Audley, and one conveying a pressing invitation from Oliver French of Ardgillagh, in compliance with which, early on the next morning, he mounted his horse, and set forth, followed by his trusty squire, upon the high road to Naas, resolved to task his strength to the uttermost, although he knew that even thus he must necessarily divide his journey into many more stages than his impatience would have allowed, had more rapid travelling in his weak condition been possible.

[322] CHAPTER XXIX.

THE ROPE AND THE RIOT IN GALLOWS GREEN - AND THE WOODS OF ARDGILLAGH BY MOONLIGHT.

At length came that day, that dreadful day, whose evening Sir Henry Ashwoode was never to see. Noon was the time fixed for the fatal ceremonial; and long before that hour, the mob, in one dense mass of thousands, had thronged and choked the streets leading to the old gaol. Upon this awful day the wretched man acquired, by a strange revulsion, a kind of stoical composure, which sustained him throughout the dreadful preparations. With hands cold as clay, and a face white as ashes, and from which every vestige of animation had vanished, he proceeded, nevertheless, with a calm and collected demeanour, to make all his predetermined arrangements for the fearful scene. With a minute elaborateness [323] he finished his toilet, and dressed himself in a grave, but particularly handsome suit. Could this shrunken, torpid, ghastly spectre, in reality be the same creature who, a few months since, was the admiration and envy of half the beaux of Dublin?

There was little or none of the fitful excitability about him, which had heretofore marked his demeanour during his confinement; on the contrary, a kind of stupor and apathy had supervened, partly occasioned by the laudanum which he had taken in unusually large quantities, and partly by the overwhelming horror of his situation. He seemed to observe and to hear nothing. When the gaoler entered, to remove his irons, shortly before the time of his removal had arrived, he seemed a little startled, and observing the physician who had attended him among those who stood at the door of his cell, he beckoned him toward him.

“Doctor, doctor,” said he, in a husky voice, “how much laudanum may I safely take? I want my head clear to say a few words, to speak to the people. Don’t give me too much; but let me, with that condition, have whatever I can [324] safely swallow. You know - you understand me; don’t oblige me to speak any more just now.”

The physician felt his pulse, and looked in his face, and then mingled a little laudanum and water, which he applied to the young man’s pale, dry lips. This dose was hardly swallowed, when one of the gaol officials entered, and stated that the ordinary was anxious to know whether the prisoner wished to pray or confer with him in private before his departure. The question had to be twice repeated ere it reached Sir Henry. He replied, however, quickly, and in a low tone -

“No, no, not for the world. I can’t bear it; don’t disturb me - don’t, don’t.”

It was now intimated to the prisoner that he must proceed. His arms were pinioned, and he was conducted along the passages leading to the entrance of the gaol, where he was received by the sheriff. For a moment, as he passed out into the broad light and the keen fresh air, he beheld the vast and eager mob pressing and heaving like a great dark sea around him, and [325] the mounted escort of dragoons with drawn swords and gay uniforms; and without attaching any clear or definite meaning to the spectacle, he beheld the plumes of a hearse, and two or three fellows engaged in sliding the long black coffin into its place. These sights, and the strange, gaping faces of the crowd, and the sheriff’s carriage, and the gay liveries, and the crowded fronts and roofs of the crazy old houses opposite, for one moment danced like the fragment of a dream across his vision, and in the next he sate in the old-fashioned coach which was to convey him to the place of execution.

“Only twenty-seven years, only twenty-seven years, only twenty-seven years,” he muttered, vacantly and mechanically repeating the words which had reached his ear from those who were curiously reading the plate upon the coffin as he entered the coach - “only twenty-seven, twenty-seven.”

The awful procession moved on to the place of its final destination; the enormous mob rushing along with it - crowding, jostling, swearing, laughing, whistling, quarrelling, and hustling, as [326] they forced their way onward, and staring with coarse and eager curiosity whenever they could into the vehicle in which Ashwoode sate. All these sights - the haggard, smirched, and eager faces, the prancing horses of the troopers, the well-known shops and streets, and the crowded windows - all sailed by his eyes like some unintelligible and heart-sickening dream. The place of public execution for criminals was then, and continued to be for long after, a spot significantly denominated “Gallows Hill,” situated in the neighbourhood of St. Stephen’s Green, and not far from the line at present traversed by Baggot-street. There a permanent gallows was erected, and thither, at length, amid thousands of crowding spectators, the melancholy procession came, and proceeded to the centre of the area, where the gallows stood, with the long new rope swinging in the wind, and the cart and the hangman, with the guard of soldiers, prepared for their reception. The vehicles drew up, and those who had to play a part in the dreadful scene, descended. The guard took their place, preserving a narrow circle around the fatal spot, [327] free from the pressure of the crowd. The carriages were driven a little away, and the coffin was placed close under the gallows, while Ashwoode, leaning upon the chaplain, and upon one of the sheriffs, proceeded toward the cart, which made the rude platform on which he was to stand.

“Sir Henry Ashwoode,” observes a contemporary authority, the Dublin Journal, “showed a great deal of calmness and dignity, insomuch that a great many of the mob, especially among the women, were weeping. His figure and features were handsome, and he was finely dressed. He prayed a short time with the ordinary, and then, with little assistance, mounted the hurdle, whence he spoke to the people, declaring his innocence with great solemnity. Then the hangman loosened his cravat, and opened his shirt at the neck, and Sir Henry turning to him, bid him, as it was understood, to take a ring from his finger, for a token of forgiveness, which he did, and then the man drew the cap over his eyes; but he made a sign, and the hangman lifted it up again, and Sir Henry, looking round [328] at all the multitude, said again, three times, ‘In the presence of God Almighty, I stand here innocent;’ and then, a minute after, ‘I forgive all my enemies, and I die innocent;’ then he spoke a word to the hangman, and the cap being pulled down, and the rope quickly adjusted, the hurdle was moved away, and he swung off, the people with one consent crying out the while.

He struggled for a long time, and very hard; and not for more than an hour was the body cut down, and laid in the coffin. He was buried in the night-time. His last dying words have begot among most people a great opinion of his innocence, though the lawyers still hold to it that he '''as guilty. It was said that Mr. Blarden, the prosecutor, was in a house in Stephen’s Green, to see the hanging, and as soon as the mob heard it, they went and broke the windows, and, but for the soldiers, would have forced their way in, and done more violence.”

Thus speaks the Dublin Journal, and the extract needs no addition from us.

---

[329] We gladly leave this hateful scene. We turn from the dreadful fate of him whose follies and vices had wrought so much misery to others, and ended in such fearful ignominy and destruction to himself: We leave the smoky town, with all its fashion, vice, and villainy; its princely equipages; its prodigals; its paupers; its great men and its sycophants; its mountebanks and mendicants; its riches and its wretchedness. We leave that old city of strange compounds, where the sublime and the ridiculous, deep tragedies and most whimsical farces are ever mingling - where magnificence and squalor rub shoulders day by day, and beggars sit upon the steps of palaces. How much of what is wonderful, wild and awful, has not thy secret history known. How much of the romance [330] of human act and passion, vicissitude, joy and sorrow, grandeur and despair, has there not lived, and moved, and perished, age after age, under thy perennial curtain of solemn smoke!

Far, far behind, we leave the sickly smoky town - and over the far blue hills and wooded country-through rocky glens, and by sonorous streams, and over broad undulating plains, and through the quiet villages, with their humble thatched roofs from which curled up the light blue smoke among the sheltering bushes and tall hedge-rows - through ever-changing scenes of softest rural beauty, in day time and at even-tide, and by the wan, misty moonlight, we follow the two travellers who ride toward the old domain of Ardgillagh.

The fourth day’s journey brought them to the little village which formed one of the boundaries of that old place. But, long ere they reached it, the sun had gone down behind the distant hills, under his dusky canopy of crimson clouds, and the pale moon had thrown its broad light and shadows over the misty landscape. Under the soft splendour of the moon, chequered by [331] the moving shadows of the tall and ancient trees, they rode into the humble village - no sound arose to greet them but the desultory baying of the village dogs, and the soft sighing of the light breeze through the spreading boughs - and no signal of waking life was seen, except, few and far between, the red level beam of some still glowing turf fire, shining through the rude and narrow aperture that served the simple rustic instead of casement.

At one of these humble dwellings, Larry Toole applied for information, and with ready courtesy the “man of the house,” in person, walked with them to the entrance of the place, and shoved open one of the valves of the crazy old gate, and O’Connor rode slowly in, following, with his best caution, the directions of his guide. His honest squire, Larry, meanwhile, loitered a little behind, in conference with the courteous peasant, and with the laudable intention of procuring some trifling refection, which, however, he determined to swallow without dismounting, and with all convenient despatch, bearing in mind a wholesome remembrance of [332] the disasters which followed his convivial indulgence in the little town of Chapelizod. While Larry thus loitered, O’Connor followed the wild winding avenue which formed the only approach to the old mansion. This rude track led him a devious way over slopes, and through hollows, and by the broad grey rocks, white as sheeted phantoms in the moonlight, and the thick weeds and brushwood glittering with the heavy dew of night, and through the beautiful misty vistas of the ancient wild wood, now still and solemn as old cathedral aisles. Thus, under the serene and cloudless light of the sailing moon, he had reached the bank of the broad and shallow brook whose shadowy nooks and gleaming eddies were canopied under the gnarled and arching boughs of the hoary thorn and oak - and here tradition tells a marvellous tale.

It is narrated, that when O’Connor reached this point, his jaded horse stopped short, refusing to cross the stream, and when urged by voice and spur, reared, snorted, and by every indication, exhibited the extremest terror and an obstinate reluctance to pass the brook - the rider dis[333]mounted - took his steed by the head, patted and caressed him, and by every art endeavoured to induce him to traverse the little stream, but in vain; while thus fruitlessly employed, his attention was arrested by the sounds of a female voice, in low and singularly sweet and plaintive lamentation, and looking across the water, for the first time he beheld the object which so affrighted his steed. It was a female figure arrayed in a mantle of dusky red, the hood of which hung forward so as to hide the face and head; she was seated upon a broad grey rock by the brook’s side, and her head leaned forward so as to rest upon her knees; her bare arm hung by her side, and the white fingers played listlessly in the clear waters of the brook, while with a wild and piteous chaunt which grew louder and clearer as he gazed, she still sang on her strange mournful song. Spell-bound and entranced, he knew not why, O’Connor gazed on in speechless and breathless awe, until at length the tall form arose and disappeared among the old trees, and the sounds melted away and were lost among the soft chiming of the brook, and [334] heard no more. He dared not say whether it was reality or illusion, he felt like one suddenly recalled from a dream, and a certain awe and horror, and dismay still hung upon him, for which he scarcely could account.

Without further resistance, the horse now crossed the brook; O’Connor remounted, and followed the shadowy track; but again he was destined to meet with interruption; the path-way which he followed, embowered among the branching trees and bushes, at one point wound beneath a low ivy-mantled rock; he was turning this point, when his horse, snorting loudly, checked his pace with a recoil so sudden that he threw himself back upon his haunches, and remained except for his violent trembling, fixed and motionless. O’Connor raised his eyes, and standing upon the rock which overhung the avenue, he beheld, for a moment, a tall female form clothed in an ample cloak of dusky red. The arms with the hands clasped, as if in the extremity of woe, firmly together, were extended above her head, the face white as the foam of the river, and the eyes, preternaturally large and wild, were raised [335] fixedly toward the broad bright moon; this phantom, for such it was, for a moment occupied his gaze, and in the next, with a scream so piercing and appalling that his very marrow seemed to freeze at the sound, she threw herself forward as though she would cast herself upon the horse and rider - and, was gone.

The horse started wildly off and gallopped at headlong speed up the broken ascent, and for some time O’Connor had not collectedness to check his frantic course, or even to think; at length, however, he succeeded in calming the terrified animal - and, uttering a fervent prayer, he proceeded, without further adventure, till the tall grey gable of the old mansion in the spectral light of the moon among its thick embowering trees and rich ivy-mantles, with all its tall white chimney stacks and narrow windows with their thousand glittering panes, arose before his anxious gaze.

[336] CHAPTER XXX.

THE LAST LOOK.

Time had flowed on smoothly in the quiet old place, meanwhile, and with an even current unbroken and unmarred, except by one event. Sir Henry Ashwoode’s danger was known to old French and Mr. Audley; but with anxious and effectual care they kept all knowledge of his peril and disgrace from poor Mary: this pang was spared her. The months that passed had wrought in her a change so great and so melancholy, that none could look upon her without sorrowful forebodings, without misgivings against which they vainly strove. Sore grief had done its worst: the light and graceful step grew languid and feeble - the young face wan and wasted - the beautiful eyes grew dim; and now in her sad and early decline, as in other [337] times, when her smile was sunshine, and her very step light music, was still with her the same warm and gentle spirit; and even amid the waste and desolation of decay, still prevailed the ineffaceable lines of that matchless and touching beauty, which in other times had wrought such magic.

It was upon that day, the night of which saw O’Connor’s long-deferred arrival at Ardgillagh, that Flora Guy, vainly striving to restrain her tears, knocked at Mr. Audley’s chamber door. The old gentleman quickly answered the summons.

“Ah, sir,” said the girl, “she’s very bad, sir, if you wish to see her, come at once.”

“I do, indeed, wish to see her, the dear child,” said he, while the tears started to his eyes; “bring me to the room.”

He followed the kind girl to the door, and she first went in, and in a low voice told her that Mr. Audley wished much to see her, and she, with her own sweet, sad smile, bade her bring him to her bed-side.

Twice the old man essayed to enter, and [338] twice he stayed to weep bitterly as a child. At length he commanded composure enough to enter, and stood by the bed-side, and silently and reverently held the hand of her that was dying.

“My dear child! my darling !” said he, vainly striving to suppress his sobs, while the tears fell fast upon the thin small hand he held in his - “I have sought this interview, to tell you what I would fain have told you often before now, but knew not how to speak of it, I want to speak to you of one who loved you. and loves you still, as mortal has seldom loved; of - of my good young friend O’Connor.”

As he said this, he saw, or was it fancy, the faintest flush imaginable for one moment tinge her pale cheek. He had touched a chord to which the pulses of her heart, until they had ceased to beat, must tremble; and silently and slow the tears gathered upon her long dark lashes, and followed one another down her wan face, unheeded. Thus she listened while he related how truly O’Connor had loved her, and when the tale was ended she wept on long and silently.

[339] “Flora,” she said at length, “cut off a lock of my hair.”

The girl did as she was desired, and in her thin and feeble hand her young mistress took it.

“Whenever you see him, sir,” said she, “will you give him this, and say that I sent it for a token that to the last I loved him, and to help him to remember me when I am gone; this is my last message - and poor Flora, won’t you take care of her?”

“Won’t I, won’t I!”. sobbed the old man, vehemently. “While I have a shilling in the world she shall never know want - faithful creature” - and he grasped the honest girl’s hand, and shook it, and sobbed and wept like a child.

He took the long dark ringlet, which he had promised to give to O’Connor; and seeing that his presence agitated her, he took a long last look at the young face he was never more to see in life, and kissing the small hand again and again, he turned and went out crying bitterly.

Soon after this she grew much fainter, and twice or thrice she spoke as though her mind was busy with other scenes.

[340] “Let us go down to the well side,” she said, “the primroses and cowslips are always there the earliest ;” and then she said again, “He’s coming, Flora; he’ll be here very soon, so come and dress my hair; he likes to see my hair dressed with flowers-wild flowers.”

Shortly after this she sunk into a soft and gentle sleep, and while she lay thus calmly, there came over her pale face a smile of such a pure and heavenly light, that angelic hope, and peace, and glory, shone in its beauty. The smile changed not; but she was dead! The sorrowful struggle was over - the weary bosom was at rest - the true and gentle heart cold for ever - the brief but sorrowful trial was over - the desolate mourner was gone to that land where the pangs of grief, the tumults of passion, regrets, and cold neglect are felt no more.

Her favourite bird, with gay wing, flutters to the casement; the flowers she planted are sweet upon the evening air; and by their hearths the poor still talk of her and bless her; but the silvery voice that spoke, and the gentle hand that tended, and the beautiful smile that gave [341] an angelic grace to the offices of charity, where are they. -

---

[341] The tapers are lighted in the silent chamber, and Flora Guy has laid early spring flowers on the still cold form that sleeps there in its serene sad beauty tranquilly and for ever; when in the court-yard are heard the tramp and clatter of a horse’s hoofs - it is he - O’Connor, - he comes for her - the long lost - the dearly loved - the true-hearted - the found again.

‘Twere vain to tell of frantic grief - we cannot write - words cannot tell - nor imagination conceive; the depth - the wildness - the desolation of that woe.

[342] CONCLUSION.

Some fifteen years ago there were still to be seen in the little ruined church, which occupies a corner in what yet remains of the once magnificent domain of Ardgillagh, side by side among the tangled weeds, two grave-stones; one recording the death of Mary Ashwoode, at the early age of twenty two, in the year of grace 1710; the other, that of Edmond O’Connor, who fell at Denain, in the year of our Lord 1712. Thus were they, who in life were separated, laid side by side in death. It is a still and sequestered spot, and the little ruin clothed in rich ivy and sheltered, by the great old trees with its solemn and holy quiet, is such a resting place as most mortals would feign repose in when their race is done.

[343] For the rest our task is quickly done. Mr. Audley and Oliver French had so much gotten into one another’s way of going on that the former gentleman from week to week, and from month to month, continued to prolong his visit, until after a residence of eight years, he died at length in the mansion of Ardgillagh, at a very advanced age, and without more than two days, illness, having never experienced before in all his life, one hour’s sickness of any kind. Honest Oliver French outlived his boon companion by the space of two years, having just eaten an omelet and actually called for some woodcock-pie; he departed suddenly while the servant was raising the crust. Old Audley left Flora Guy well provided for at his death, but some how or other considerably before that event Larry Toole succeeded in prevailing on the honest handmaiden to marry him, and although, questionless, there was some disparity in point of years, yet tradition says, and we believe it, that there never lived a fonder or a happier couple, and it is a genealogical fact, that half the Tooles who are now to be found in that quarter of the country, [344] derive their descent from the very alliance in question.

Of Major O’Leary we have only to say that the rumour which hinted at his having united his fortunes with those of the house of Rumble, were but too well founded. He retired with his buxom bride to a small property, remote from the dissipation of the capital, and except in the matter of an occasional cock-fight whenever it happened to be within reach, or a tough encounter with the squire, when a new pipe of claret was to be tasted, one or two occasional indiscretions, he became, as he himself declared, in all respects an ornament to society.

Lady Stukely, within a few months after the explosion with young Ashwoode, vented her indignation by actually marrying young Pigwiggynne. It was said, indeed, that they were not happy; of this, however, we cannot be sure; but it is undoubtedly certain, that they used to beat, scratch, and pinch each other in private - whether in play merely, or with the serious intention of correcting one another’s infirmities of temper, we know not. Several weeks before [345] Lady Stukely’s marriage, Emily Copland succeeded in her long-cherished schemes against the celibacy of poor Lord Aspenly. His lordship, however, lived on with a perseverance perfectly spiteful, and his lady, alas and alack-a-day, tired out, at length committed a faux pas - the trial is on record, and eventuated, it is sufficient to say, in a verdict for the plaintiff.

Of Chancey, we have only to say, that his fate was as miserable as his life had been abject and guilty. When he arose after the tremendous fall which he had received at the hands of his employer, Nicholas Blarden, upon the memorable night which defeated all their schemes, for he did arise with life - intellect and remembrance were alike quenched - he was thenceforward a drivelling idiot. Though none cared to inquire into the cause and circumstances of his miserable privation, long was he well-known and pointed out in the streets of Dublin, where he subsisted upon the scanty alms of superstitious charity, until at length, during the great frost in the year 1739, he was found dead one morn[346]ing, in a corner under St. Audoen’s Arch, stark and cold, cowering in his accustomed attitude.

Nicholas Blarden died upon his feather bed, and if every luxury which imagination can devise, or prodigal wealth procure, can avail to soothe the racking torments of the body, and the terrors of the appalled spirit, he died happy.

Of the other actors in this drama, with the exception of M’Quirk, who was publicly whipped for stealing four pounds of sausages from an eating house in Bride-street - and the Italian, who, we believe, was seen as groom-porter in Mr. Blarden’s hell, for many years after, tradition is silent.

Those who are acquainted with the history of some of the leading Irish families, and who have turned over such scanty records of the times in which the scenes we have described are laid, as are still accessible, will have no difficulty whatever in recognizing, in the leading incidents and characters of the foregoing tale, the hard, stern lines of recorded truth.

END

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