“Yes,” he continued, when the pain had subsided, “I am now growing old, I am breaking very fast, sinking, I feel it — I cannot be very long a trouble to anybody — embarrassments are closing around me on all sides — I have not the means of extricating myself — despondency, despair have come upon me, and with them loss of spirits, loss of health, of strength, of everything which makes life a blessing; and, all these privations rendered more horrible, more agonizing, by the reflection that my ill-humour, my peevish temper, are continually taxing the patience, wounding the feelings, perhaps alienating the affections of those who are nearest and dearest to me.”
Here the baronet became very much affected; but, lest his agitation should be seen, he turned his head away, while he grasped his daughter’s hand convulsively: the poor girl covered his with kisses. He had wrung her very heart.
“There is one course,” continued he, “by adopting which I might extricate myself from all my difficulties” — here he raised his eyes with a haggard expression, and glared wildly along the cornice— “but I confess I have great hesitation in leaving you.”
He wrung her hand very hard, and groaned slightly.
“Father, dear father,” said she, “do not speak thus — do not — you frighten me.”
“I was wrong, my dear child, to tell you of struggles of which none but myself ought to have known anything,” said the baronet, gloomily. “One person indeed has the power to assist, I may say, to save me.”
“And who is that person, father?” asked the girl.
“Yourself,” replied Sir Richard, emphatically.
“How? — I!” said she, turning very pale, for a dreadful suspicion crossed her mind— “how can I help you, father?”
The old gentleman explained briefly; and the girl, relieved of her worst fears, started joyously from her seat, clapped her hands together with gladness, and, throwing her arms about her father’s neck, exclaimed, —
“And is that all? — oh, father; why did you defer telling me so long? you ought to have known how delighted I would have been to do anything for you; indeed you ought; tell them to get the papers ready immediately.”
“They are ready, my dear,” said Sir Richard, recovering his self-possession wonderfully, and ringing the bell with a good deal of hurry — for he fully acknowledged the wisdom of the old proverb, which inculcates the expediency of striking while the iron’s hot— “your brother had them prepared yesterday, I believe. Inform Mr. Craven,” he continued, addressing the servant, “that I would be very glad to see him now, and say he may as well bring in the young gentleman who has accompanied him.”
Mr. Craven accordingly appeared, and the “young gentleman,” who had but one eye, and a very seedy coat, entered along with him. The latter personage bustled about a good deal, slapped the deeds very emphatically down on the table, and rumpled the parchments sonorously, looked about for pen and ink, set a chair before the document, and then held one side of the parchment, while Mr. Craven screwed his knuckles down upon the other, and the parties forthwith signed; whereupon Mr. Craven and the one-eyed young gentleman both sat down, and began to sign away with a great deal of scratching and flourishing on the places allotted for witnesses; after all which, Mr. Craven, raising himself with a smile, told Miss Ashwoode, facetiously, that the Chancellor could not have done so much for the deed as she had done; and the one-eyed young gentleman held his nose contemplatively between his finger and thumb, and reviewed the signatures with his solitary optic.
Miss Ashwoode then withdrew, and Mr. Craven and the “young gentleman” made their bows. Sir Richard beckoned to Mr. Craven, and he glided back and closed the door, having commanded the “young gentleman” to see if the coach was ready.
“You see, Mr. Craven,” said Sir Richard, who, spite of all his philosophy, felt a little ashamed even that the attorney should have seen the transaction which had just been completed— “you see, sir, I may as well tell you candidly: my daughter, who has just signed this deed, is about immediately to be married to Lord Aspenly; he kindly offered to lend me some fifteen thousand pounds, or thereabouts, and I converted this offer (which I, of course, accepted), into the assignment, from his bride, that is to be, of this little property, giving, of course, to his lordship my personal security for the debt which I consider as owed to him: this arrangement his lordship preferred as the most convenient possible. I thought it right, in strict confidence, of course, to explain the real state of the case to you, as at first sight the thing looks selfish, and I do not wish to stand worse in my friends’ books than I actually deserve to do.” This was spoken with Sir Richard’s most engaging smile, and Mr. Craven smiled in return, most artlessly — at the same time he mentally ejaculated, “d —— d sly!” “You’ll bring this security, my dear Mr. Craven,” continued the baronet, “into the market with all dispatch — do you think you can manage twenty thousand upon it?”
“I fear not more than fourteen, or perhaps, sixteen, with an effort. I do not think Glenvarlogh would carry much more — I fear not; but rely upon me, Sir Richard; I’ll do everything that can be done — at all events, I’ll lose no time about it, depend upon it — I may as well take this deed along with me — I have the rest; and title is very — very satisfactory — good-morning, Sir Richard,” and the man of parchments withdrew, leaving Sir Richard in a more benevolent mood than he had experienced for many a long day.
The attorney had not been many seconds gone, when a second vehicle thundered up to the door, and a perfect storm of knocking and ringing announced the arrival of Lord Aspenly himself.
CHAPTER XIV.
ABOUT A CERTAIN GARDEN AND A DAMSEL — AND ALSO CONCERNING A LETTER AND A RED LEATHERN BOX.
Several days passed smoothly away — Lord Aspenly was a perfect paragon of politeness; but although his manner invariably assumed a peculiar tenderness whenever he approached Miss Ashwoode, yet that young lady remained in happy ignorance of his real intentions. She saw before her a grotesque old fop, who might without any extraordinary parental precocity have very easily been her grandfather, and in his airs and graces, his rappee and his rouge (for his lordship condescended to borrow a few attractions from art), and in the thousand-and-one et ceteras of foppery which were accumulated, with great exactitude and precision, on and about his little person, she beheld nothing more than so many indications of obstinate and inveterate celibacy, and, of course, interpreted the exquisite attentions which were meant to enchain her young heart, merely as so much of that formal target practice in love’s archery, in which gallant single gentlemen of seventy, or thereabout, will sometimes indulge themselves. Emily Copland, however, at a glance, saw and understood the nature of Lord Aspenly’s attentions, and she saw just as clearly the intended parts and the real position of the other actors in this somewhat ill-assorted drama, and thereupon she took counsel with herself, like a wise damsel, and arrived at the conclusion, that with some little management she might, very possibly, play her own cards to advantage among them.
We must here, however, glance for a few minutes at some of the subordinate agents in our narrative, whose interposition, nevertheless, deeply, as well as permanently, affected the destinies of more important personages.
It was the habit of the beautiful Mistress Betsy Carey, every morning, weather permitting, to enjoy a ramble in the grounds of Morley Court; and as chance (of course it was chance) would have it, this early ramble invariably led her through several quiet fields, and over a stile, into a prettily-situated, but neglected flower-garden, which was now, however, undergoing a thorough reform, according to the Dutch taste, under the presiding inspiration of Tobias Potts. Now Tobias Potts was a widower, having been in the course of his life twice disencumbered. The last Mrs. Potts had disappeared some five winters since, and Tobias was now well stricken in years; he possessed the eyes of an owl, and the complexion of a turkey-cock, and was, moreover, extremely hard of hearing, and, withal, a man of few words; he was, however, hale, upright, and burly — perfe
ctly sound in wind and limb, and free from vice and children — had a snug domicile, consisting of two rooms and a loft, enjoyed a comfortable salary, and had, it was confidently rumoured, put by a good round sum of money somewhere or other. It therefore struck Mrs. Carey very forcibly, that to be Mrs. Potts was a position worth attaining; and accordingly, without incurring any suspicion — for the young women generally regarded Potts with awe, and the young men with contempt — she began, according to the expressive phrase in such case made and provided, to set her cap at Tobias.
In this, his usual haunt, she discovered the object of her search, busily employed in superintending the construction of a terrace walk, and issuing his orders with the brevity, decision, and clearness of a consummate gardener.
“Good-morning, Mr. Potts,” said the charming Betsy. Mr. Potts did not hear. “Good-morning, Mr. Potts,” repeated the damsel, raising her voice to a scream.
Tobias touched his hat with a gruff acknowledgment.
“Well, but how beautiful you are doing it,” shouted the handmaid again, gazing rapturously upon the red earthen rampart, in which none but the eye of an artist could have detected the rudiments of a terrace, “it’s wonderful neat, all must allow, and indeed it puzzles my head to think how you can think of it all; it is now, raly elegant, so it is.”
Tobias did not reply, and the maiden continued, with a sentimental air, and still hallooing at the top of her voice —
“Well, of all the trades that is — and big and little, there’s a plenty of them — there’s none I’d choose, if I was a man, before the trade of a gardener.”
“No, you would not, I’m sure,” was the laconic reply.
“Oh, but I declare and purtest I would though,” bawled the young woman; “for gardeners, old or young, is always so goodhumoured, and pleasant, and fresh-like. Oh, dear, but I would like to be a gardener.”
“Not an old one, howsomever,” growled Mr. Potts.
“Yes, but I would though, I declare and purtest to goodness gracious,” persisted the nymph; “I’d rather of the two perfer to be an old gardener” (this was a bold stroke of oratory; but Potts did not hear it); “I’d rather be an old gardener,” she screamed a second time; “I’d rather be an old gardener of the two, so I would.”
“That’s more than I would,” replied Potts, very abruptly, and with an air of uncommon asperity, for he silently cherished a lingering belief in his own juvenility, and not the less obstinately that it was fast becoming desperate — a peculiarity of which, unfortunately, until that moment the damsel had never been apprised. This, therefore, was a turn which a good deal disconcerted the young woman, especially as she thought she detected a satirical leer upon the countenance of a young man in crazy inexpressibles, who was trundling a wheelbarrow in the immediate vicinity; she accordingly exclaimed not loud enough for Tobias, but quite loud enough for the young man in the infirm breeches to hear, —
“What an old fool. I purtest it’s meat and drink to me to tease him — so it is;” and with a forced giggle she tripped lightly away to retrace her steps towards the house.
As she approached the stile we have mentioned, she thought she distinguished what appeared to be the inarticulate murmurings of some subterranean voice almost beneath her feet. A good deal startled at so prodigious a phenomenon, she stopped short, and immediately heard the following brief apostrophe delivered in a rich brogue: —
“Aiqually beautiful and engaging — vartuous Betsy Carey — listen to the voice of tindher emotion.”
The party addressed looked with some alarm in all directions for any visible intimation of the speaker’s presence, but in vain. At length, from among an unusually thick and luxuriant tuft of docks and other weeds, which grew at the edge of a ditch close by, she beheld something red emerging, which in a few moments she clearly perceived to be the classical countenance of Larry Toole.
“The Lord purtect us all, Mr. Toole. Why in the world do you frighten people this way?” ejaculated the nymph, rather shrilly.
“Whist! most evangelical iv women,” exclaimed Larry in a low key, and looking round suspiciously— “whisht! or we are ruined.”
“La! Mr. Laurence, what are you after?” rejoined the damsel, with a good deal of asperity. “I’ll have you to know I’m not used to talk with a man that’s squat in a ditch, and his head in a dock plant. That’s not the way for to come up to an honest woman, sir — no more it is.”
“I’d live ten years in a ditch, and die in a dock plant,” replied Larry with enthusiasm, “for one sight iv you.”
“And is that what brought you here?” replied she, with a toss of her head. “I purtest some people’s quite overbearing, so they are, and knows no bounds.”
“Stop a minute, most beautiful bayin’ — for one instant minute pay attintion,” exclaimed Mr. Toole, eagerly, for he perceived that she had commenced her retreat. “Tare an’ owns! divine crature, it’s not goin’ you are?”
“I have no notions, good or bad, Mr. Toole,” replied the young lady, with great volubility and dignity, “and no idaya in the wide world for to be standing here prating, and talking, and losing my time with such as you — if my business is neglected, it is not on your back the blame will light. I have my work, and my duty, and my business to mind, and if I do not mind them, no one else will do it for me; and I am astonished and surprised beyant telling, so I am, at the impittence of some people, thinking that the likes of me has nothing else to be doing but listening to them discoorsing in a dirty ditch, and more particular when their conduct has been sich as some people’s that is old enough at any rate to know better.”
The fair handmaiden had now resumed her retreat; so that Larry, having raised himself from his lowly hiding-place, was obliged to follow for some twenty yards before he again came up with her.
“Wait one half second — stop a bit, for the Lord’s sake,” exclaimed he, with most earnest energy.
“Well, wonst for all, Mr. Laurence,” exclaimed Mistress Carey severely, “what is your business with me?”
“Jist this,” rejoined Larry, with a mysterious wink, and lowering his voice— “a letter to the young mistress from” — here he glanced jealously round, and then bringing himself close beside her, he whispered in her ear— “from Mr. O’Connor — whisht — not a word — into her own hand, mind.”
The young woman took the letter, read the superscription, and forthwith placed it in her bosom, and rearranged her kerchief.
“Never fear — never fear,” said she, “Miss Mary shall have it in half an hour. And how,” added she, maliciously, “is Mr. O’Connor? He is a lovely gentleman, is not he?”
“He’s uncommonly well in health, the Lord be praised,” replied Mr. Toole, with very unaccountable severity.
“Well, for my part,” continued the girl, “I never seen the man yet to put beside him — unless, indeed, the young master may be. He’s a very pretty young man — and so shocking agreeable.”
Mr. Toole nodded a pettish assent, coughed, muttered something to himself, and then inquired when he should come for an answer.
“I’ll have an answer tomorrow morning — maybe this evening,” pursued she; “but do not be coming so close up to the house. Who knows who might be on our backs in an instant here? I’ll walk down whenever I get it to the two mulberries at the old gate; and I’ll go there either in the morning at this hour, or else a little before supper-time in the evening.”
Mr. Toole, having gazed rapturously at the object of his tenderest aspirations during the delivery of this address, was at its termination so far transported by his feelings, as absolutely to make a kind of indistinct and flurried attempt to kiss her.
“Well, I purtest, this is overbearing,” exclaimed the virgin; and at the same time bestowing Mr. Toole a sound box on the ear, she tripped lightly toward the house, leaving her admirer a prey to what are usually termed conflicting emotions.
When Sir Richard returned to his dressing-room at about noon, to prepare for dinne
r, he had hardly walked to the toilet, and rung for his Italian servant, when a knock was heard at his chamber door, and, in obedience to his summons, Mistress Carey entered.
“Well, Carey,” inquired the baronet, as soon as she had appeared, “do you bring me any news?”
The lady’s-maid closed the door carefully.
“News?” she repeated. “Indeed, but I do, Sir Richard — and bad news, I’m afeard, sir. Mr. O’Connor has written a great long letter to my mistress, if you please, sir.”
“Have you gotten it?” inquired the baronet, quickly.
“Yes, sir,” rejoined she, “safe and sound here in my breast, Sir Richard.”
“Your young mistress has not opened it — or read it?” inquired he.
“Oh, dear! Sir Richard, it is after all you said to me only the other day,” rejoined she, in virtuous horror. “I hope I know my place better than to be fetching and carrying notes and letters, and all soarts, unnonst to my master. Don’t I know, sir, very well how that you’re the best judge what’s fitting and what isn’t for the sight of your own precious child? and wouldn’t I be very unnatural, and very hardened and ungrateful, if I was to be making secrets in the family, and if any ill-will or misfortunes was to come out of it? I purtest I never — never would forgive myself — never — no more I ought — never.”
Here Mistress Carey absolutely wept.
Complete Works of Sheridan Le Fanu (Illustrated) Page 12
