“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 tomorrow, 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 tomorrow 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 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 — 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, 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, goodhumoured 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?”
“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 upon my soul and conscience, and I wouldn’t swear 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 ecstasies.
“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 nothing 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, 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 tomorrow,” said Chancey.
“I can’t tomorrow,” replied she; “for all the tablecloth 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.
“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 tomorrow.”
“Oh! dear me! no fear at all, I’ll keep it open for you; now be a good girl, and remember, don’t disappoint.”
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.
CHAPTER LII.
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 following evening, 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 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 sat and read through the pleasant summer hours; and now, alas! there was the little seat and there the gnarled roots and the hoary stem
s of the wild trees, and the graceful ivy clusters, and the timeworn mossy arch that vaulted the 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 discovered, 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 footfalls in pursuit, accompanied by the 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 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 terror; “he is not gone; he is about this place; so surely as you stand there, I saw him; and, O God! he pursued me, and had my strength faltered 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 anything 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 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 tomorrow morning.”
That night Sir Henry Ashwoode, Nicholas Blarden, and their worthy confederate, Gordon Chancey, were closeted 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, “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 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 offhand,” 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 madhouse; 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.”
“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’ll 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 I’m fifty miles away to-day, it occurs to me it would be a deuced good plan to have you fifty miles away tomorrow — 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 everything 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 anywhere 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 everything is settled to a turn, and we may as well get under the blankets at once, and be stirring betimes in the morning.”
CHAPTER LIII.
THE DOUBLE FAREWELL.
Next day 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 goodbye, 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!” echoed 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 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 villainy of people, my lady.”
“Don’t cry so, Carey,” replied Mary Ashwoode, “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 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 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.
Complete Works of Sheridan Le Fanu (Illustrated) Page 36
