Delphi Complete Works of Sheridan Le Fanu

by J. Sheridan le Fanu

  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 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 countryman; “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 acknowledgment 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 anything 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 the devil have me, body and soul, the hour I take money, or money’s worth, for doin’ the like.”

  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 stony road, until at length their charioteer checked the progress of his vehicle before the hospitable doorway 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 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 boozing 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, sat along with her faithful companion, awaiting his return, under the embowering shadow of the old trees.

  “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 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, 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 wouldn’t 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 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, although 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 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 best,” said Larry. “There’s an ould gentleman that knows all about your family; he was out at the manor, and had a long discourse, 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 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; anything 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, accordin
gly, 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 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.

  CHAPTER LXII.

  THE COUNCIL — SHOWING 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, tut, Larry,” exclaimed the little gentleman, turning impatiently toward that personage, 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 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 goodnatured simplicity, apparent in all he said and did, effectually removed, and the whole case, in all its bearings, and with all its circumstances, was plainly put before him. During the narrative, 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 anybody 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 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,” interposed 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. “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 distressed, and hate tyranny any longer? Never believe me, if he won’t 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 tonight; 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 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 han
d 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.

  CHAPTER LXIII.

  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 posthorses 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.

  “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 goodnight.”