“Mr. O’Connor,” said Ashwoode, as soon as he was sufficiently restored, “you have saved my life — how can I thank you?”
“Spare your thanks, sir,” replied O’Connor, haughtily; “for any man I would have done as much — for anyone bearing your name I would do much more. Are you hurt, sir?”
“O’Connor, I have done you much injustice,” said the young man, betrayed for the moment into something like genuine feeling. “You must forget and forgive it — I know your feelings respecting others of my family — henceforward I will be your friend — do not refuse my hand.”
“Henry Ashwoode,” replied O’Connor, “I take your hand — gladly forgetting all past causes of resentment — but I want no vows of friendship, which tomorrow you may regret. Act with regard to me henceforward as if this night had not been — for I tell you truly again, that I would have done as much for the meanest peasant breathing as I have done tonight for you; and once more I pray you tell me, are you much hurt?”
“Nothing, nothing,” replied Ashwoode— “merely a fall such as I have had a thousand times after the hounds. It has made my head swim confoundedly; but I’ll soon be steady. What, in the meantime, has become of honest Darby? If I mistake not, I see his horse browsing there by the roadside.”
A few steps showed them what seemed a bundle of clothes lying heaped upon the road; they approached it — it was the body of the servant.
“Get up, Darby — get up, man,” cried Ashwoode, at the same time pressing the prostrate figure with his boot. It had been lying with the back uppermost, and in a half-kneeling attitude; it now, however, rolled round, and disclosed, in the bright moonlight, the hideous aspect of the murdered man — the head a mere mass of ragged flesh and bone, shapeless and blackened, and hollow as a shell. Horror-struck at the sight, they turned in silence away, and having secured the two horses, they both mounted and rode together back to the little inn, where, having procured assistance, the body of the wretched servant was deposited. Young Ashwoode and O’Connor then parted, each on his respective way.
CHAPTER X.
THE MASTER OF MORLEY COURT AND THE LITTLE GENTLEMAN IN BOTTLE-GREEN — THE BARONET’S DAUGHTER — AND THE TWO CONSPIRATORS.
Encounters such as those described in the last chapter were, it is needless to say, much more common a hundred and thirty years ago than they are now. In fact, it was unsafe alike in town and country to stir abroad after dark in any district affording wealth and aristocracy sufficient to tempt the enterprise of professional gentlemen. If London and its environs, with all their protective advantages, were, nevertheless, so infested with desperadoes as to render its very streets and most frequented ways perilous to pass through during the hours of night, it is hardly to be wondered at that Dublin, the capital of a rebellious and semi-barbarous country — haunted by hungry adventurers, who had lost everything in the revolutionary wars — with a most notoriously ineffective police, and a rash and dissolute aristocracy, with a great deal more money and a great deal less caution than usually fall to the lot of our gentry of the present day — should have been pre-eminently the scene of midnight violence and adventure. The continued frequency of such occurrences had habituated men to think very lightly of them; and the feeble condition of the civil executive almost uniformly secured the impunity of the criminal. We shall not, therefore, weary the reader by inviting his attention to the formal investigation which was forthwith instituted; it is enough for all purposes to record that, like most other investigations of the kind at that period, it ended in — just nothing.
Instead, then, of attending inquests and reading depositions, we must here request the gentle reader to accompany us for a brief space into the dressing-room of Sir Richard Ashwoode, where, upon the morning following the events which in our last we have detailed, the aristocratic invalid lay extended upon a well-cushioned sofa, arrayed in a flowered silk dressing-gown, lined with crimson, and with a velvet cap upon his head. He was apparently considerably beyond sixty — a slightly and rather an elegantly made man, with thin, anxious features, and a sallow complexion: his head rested upon his hand, and his eyes wandered with an air of discontented abstraction over the fair landscape which his window commanded. Before him was placed a small table, with all the appliances of an elegant breakfast; and two or three books and pamphlets were laid within reach of his hand. A little way from him sate his beautiful child, Mary Ashwoode, paler than usual, though not less lovely — for the past night had been to her one of fevered excitement, griefs, and fears. There she sate, with her work before her, and while her small hands plied their appointed task, her soft, dark eyes wandered often with sweet looks of affection toward the reclining form of that old haughty and selfish man, her father.
The silence had continued long, for the old man’s temper might not, perhaps, have brooked an interruption of his ruminations, although, if the sour and spited expression of his face might be trusted, his thoughts were not the most pleasant in the world. The train of reflection, whatever it might have been, was interrupted by the entrance of a servant, bearing in his hand a note, with which he approached Sir Richard, but with that air of nervous caution with which one might be supposed to present a sandwich to a tiger.
“Why the devil, sirrah, do you pound the floor so!” cried Sir Richard, turning shortly upon the man as he advanced, and speaking in sharp and bitter accents. “What’s that you’ve got? — a note? — take it back, you blockhead — I’ll not touch it — it’s some rascally scrap of dunning paper — get out of my sight, sirrah.”
“An it please you, sir,” replied the man, deferentially, “it comes from Lord Aspenly.”
“Eh! oh! ah!” exclaimed Sir Richard, raising himself upon the sofa, and extending his hand with alacrity. “Here, give it to me; so you may go, sir — but stay, does a messenger wait? — ask particularly from me how his lordship does, do you mind? and let the man have refreshment; go, sirrah, go — begone!”
Sir Richard then took the note, broke the seal, and read the contents through, evidently with considerable satisfaction. Having completed the perusal of the note twice over, with a smile of unusual gratification, tinctured, perhaps, with the faintest possible admixture of ridicule, Sir Richard turned toward his daughter with more real cheerfulness than she had seen him exhibit for years before.
“Mary, my good child,” said he, “this note announces the arrival here, on tomorrow, of my old, or rather, my most particular friend, Lord Aspenly; he will pass some days with us — days which we must all endeavour to make as agreeable to him as possible. You look — you do look extremely well and pretty to-day; come here and kiss me, child.”
Overjoyed at this unwonted manifestation of affection, the girl cast her work away, and with a beating heart and light step, she ran to her father’s side, threw her arms about his neck, and kissed him again and again, in happy unconsciousness of all that was passing in the mind of him she so fondly caressed.
The door again opened, and the same servant once more presented himself.
“What do you come to plague me about now?” inquired the master, sharply; recovering, in an instant, his usual peevish manner— “What’s this you’ve got? — what is it?”
“A card, sir,” replied the man, at the same time advancing the salver on which it lay within reach of the languid hand of his master.
“Mr. Audley — Mr. Audley,” repeated Sir Richard, as he read the card; “I never heard of the man before, in the course of my life; I know nothing about him — nothing — and care as little. Pray what is he pestering about? — what does he want here?”
“He requests permission to see you, sir,” replied the man.
“Tell him, with my compliments, to go to hell!” rejoined the invalid;— “Or, stay,” he added, after a moment’s pause— “what does he look like? — is he well or ill-dressed? — old or young?”
“A middle-aged man, sir; rather well-dressed,” answered the servant.
“He did not mention his business?” a
sked Sir Richard.
“No, sir,” replied the man; “but he said that it was very important, and that you would be glad to see him.”
“Show him up, then,” said Sir Richard, decisively.
The servant accordingly bowed and departed.
“A stranger! — a gentleman! — and come to me upon important and pleasant business,” muttered the baronet, musingly— “important and pleasant! — Can my old, cross-grained brother-in-law have made a favourable disposition of his property, and — and — died! — that were, indeed, news worth hearing; too much luck to happen me, though — no, no, it can’t be — it can’t be.”
Nevertheless, he thought it might be; and thus believing, he awaited the entrance of his visitor with extreme impatience. This suspense, however, was not of long duration; the door opened, and the servant announced Mr. Audley — a dapper little gentleman, in grave habiliments of bottle-green cloth; in person somewhat short and stout; and in countenance rather snub-featured and rubicund, but bearing an expression in which goodhumour was largely blended with self-importance. This little person strutted briskly into the room.
“Hem! — Sir Richard Ashwoode, I presume?” exclaimed the visitor, with a profound bow, which threatened to roll his little person up like an armadillo.
Sir Richard returned the salute by a slight nod and a gracious wave of the hand.
“You will excuse my not rising to receive you, Mr. Audley,” said the baronet, “when I inform you that I am tied here by the gout; pray, sir, take a chair. Mary, remove your work to the room underneath, and lay the ebony wand within my reach; I will tap upon the floor when I want you.”
The girl accordingly glided from the room.
“We are now alone, sir,” continued Sir Richard, after a short pause. “I fear, sir — I know not why — that your business has relation to my brother; is he — is he ill?”
“Faith, sir,” replied the little man bluntly, “I never heard of the gentleman before in my life.”
“I breathe again, sir; you have relieved me extremely,” said the baronet, swallowing his disappointment with a ghastly smile; “and now, sir, that you have thus considerately and expeditiously dispelled what were, thank heaven! my groundless alarms, may I ask you to what accident I am indebted for the singular good fortune of making your acquaintance — in short, sir, I would fain learn the object of your visit.”
“That you shall, sir — that you shall, in a trice,” replied the little gentleman in green. “I’m a plain man, my dear Sir Richard, and love to come to the point at once — ahem! The story, to be sure, is a long one, but don’t be afraid, I’ll abridge it — I’ll abridge it.” He drew his watch from his fob, and laying it upon the table before him, he continued— “It now wants, my dear sir, precisely seven minutes of eleven, by London time; I shall limit myself to half-an-hour.”
“I fear, Mr. Audley, you should find me a very unsatisfactory listener to a narrative of half-an-hour’s length,” observed Sir Richard, drily; “in fact, I am not in a condition to make any such exertion; if you will obligingly condense what you have to say into a few minutes, you will confer a favour upon me, and lighten your own task considerably.” Sir Richard then indignantly took a pinch of snuff, and muttered, almost audibly— “A vulgar, audacious, old boor.”
“Well, then, we must try — we must try, my dear sir,” replied the little gentleman, wiping his face with his handkerchief, by way of preparation— “I’ll just sum up the leading points, and leave particulars for a more favourable opportunity; in fact, I’ll hold over all details to our next merry meeting — our next tête-à-tête — when I hope we shall meet upon a pleasanter footing — your gouty toes, you know — d’ye take me? Ha! ha! excuse the joke — ha! ha! ha!”
Sir Richard elevated his eyebrows, and looked upon the little gentleman with a gaze of stern and petrifying severity during this burst of merriment.
“Well, my dear sir,” continued Mr. Audley, again wiping his face, “to proceed to business. You have learned my name from my card, but beyond my name you know nothing about me.”
“Nothing whatever, sir,” replied Sir Richard, with profound emphasis.
“Just so; well, then, you shall,” rejoined the little gentleman. “I have been a long time settled in France — I brought over every penny I had in the world there — in short, sir, something more than twelve thousand pounds. Well, sir, what did I do with it? There’s the question. Your gay young fellows would have thrown it away at the gaming table, or squandered it on gold lace and velvets — or again, your prudent, plodding fellow would have lived quietly on the interest and left the principal to vegetate; but what did I do? Why, sir, not caring for idleness or show, I threw some of it into the wine trade, and with the rest I kept hammering at the funds, winning twice for every once I lost. In fact, sir, I prospered — the money rolled in, sir, and in due course I became rich, sir — rich — warm, as the phrase goes.”
“Very warm, indeed, sir,” replied Sir Richard, observing that his visitor again wiped his face— “but allow me to ask, beyond the general interest which I may be presumed to feel in the prosperity of the whole human race, how on earth does all this concern me?”
“Ay, ay, there’s the question,” replied the stranger, looking unutterably knowing— “that’s the puzzle. But all in good time; you shall hear it in a twinkling. Now, being well to do in the world, you may ask me, why do not I look out for a wife? I answer you simply, that having escaped matrimony hitherto, I have no wish to be taken in the noose at these years; and now, before I go further, what do you take my age to be — how old do I look?”
The little man squared himself, cocked his head on one side, and looked inquisitively at Sir Richard from the corner of his eye. The patience of the baronet was nigh giving way outright.
“Sir,” replied he, in no very gracious tones, “you may be the ‘Wandering Jew,’ for anything I either know or see to the contrary.”
“Ha! good,” rejoined the little man, with imperturbable good humour, “I see, Sir Richard, you are a wag — the Wandering Jew — ha, ha! no — not that quite. The fact is, sir, I am in my sixty-seventh year — you would not have thought that — eh?”
Sir Richard made no reply whatever.
“You’ll acknowledge, sir, that that is not exactly the age at which to talk of hearts and darts, and gay gold rings,” continued the communicative gentleman in the bottle-green. “I know very well that no young woman, of her own free choice, could take a liking to me.”
“Quite impossible,” with desperate emphasis, rejoined Sir Richard, upon whose ear the sentence grated unpleasantly; for Lord Aspenly’s letter (in which “hearts and darts” were profusely noticed) lay before him on the table; “but once more, sir, may I implore of you to tell me the drift of all this?”
“The drift of it — to be sure I will — in due time,” replied Mr. Audley. “You see, then, sir, that having no family of my own, and not having any intention of taking a wife, I have resolved to leave my money to a fine young fellow, the son of an old friend; his name is O’Connor — Edmond O’Connor — a fine, handsome, young dog, and worthy to fill any place in all the world — a high-spirited, good-hearted, dashing young rascal — you know something of him, Sir Richard?”
The baronet nodded a supercilious assent; his attention was now really enlisted.
“Well, Sir Richard,” continued the visitor, “I have wormed out of him — for I have a knack of my own of getting at people’s secrets, no matter how close they keep them, d’ye see — that he is over head and ears in love with your daughter — I believe the young lady who just left the room on my arrival; and indeed, if such is the case, I commend the young scoundrel’s taste; the lady is truly worthy of all admiration — and — mdash;”
“Pray, sir, proceed as briefly as may be to the object of your conversation with me,” interrupted Sir Richard, drily.
“Well, then, to return — I understand, sir,” continued Audley, “that you, suspecting somethi
ng of the kind, and believing the young fellow to be penniless, very naturally, and, indeed, I may say, very prudently, and very sensibly, opposed yourself to the thing from the commencement, and obliged the sly young dog to discontinue his visits; — well, sir, matters stood so, until I — cunning little I — step in, and change the whole posture of affairs — and how? Marry, thus, I come hither and ask your daughter’s hand for him, upon these terms following — that I undertake to convey to him, at once, lands to the value of one thousand pounds a year, and that at my death I will leave him, with the exception of a few small legacies, sole heir to all I have; and on his wedding-day give him and his lady their choice of either of two chateaux, the worst of them a worthy residence for a nobleman.”
“Are these chateaux in Spain?” inquired Sir Richard, sneeringly.
“No, no, sir,” replied the little man, with perfect guilelessness; “both in Flanders.”
“Well, sir,” said Sir Richard Ashwoode, raising himself almost to a sitting posture, and preluding his observations with two unusually large pinches of snuff, “I have heard you very patiently throughout a statement, all of which was fatiguing, and much of which was positively disagreeable to me: and I trust that what I have now to say will render it wholly unnecessary for you and me ever again to converse upon the same topic. Of Mr. O’Connor, whom, in spite of this strange repetition of an already rejected application, I believe to be a spirited young man, I shall say nothing more than that, from the bottom of my heart I wish him every success of every kind, so long as he confines his aspirations to what is suitable to his own position in society; and, consequently, conducive to his own comfort and respectability. With respect to his very flattering vicarious proposal, I must assure you that I do not suspect Miss Ashwoode of any inclination to descend from the station to which her birth and fortune entitle her; and if I did suspect it, I should feel it to be my imperative duty to resist, by every means in my power, the indulgence of any such wayward caprice; but lest, after what I have said, any doubt should rest upon your mind as to the value of these obstacles, it may not be amiss to add that my daughter, Miss Ashwoode, is actually promised in marriage to a gentleman of exalted rank and great fortune, and who is, in all respects, an unexceptionable connection. I have the honour, sir, to wish you good-morning.”
Complete Works of Sheridan Le Fanu (Illustrated) Page 8
