The Cock and Anchor. Illus. by Brinsley Le Fanu

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NOTE.

«' THE COCK AND ANCHOR : a Chronicle of Old Dublin City," was
first published in Dublin in three volumes in 1845, with the
joint imprints of William Curry, Junior, & Co., Dublin ; Long-
man, Brown, Green & Longmans, London ; and Fraser & Co.,
Edinburgh. There is no author's name on the title-page of
the original edition. The work has not since been reprinted
under the title of " The Cock and Anchor ; " but some years
after its first appearance my father made several alterations
(most of which are adhered to in the present edition) in the
story, and it was re-issued in the Select Library of Fiction
under the title of "Morley Court."

The novel has been out of print for a long period, and I have
decided to republish it now under its original and proper title.
I have made no changes in such dates as are mentioned here
and there in the course of the narrative, but the reader should
bear* in mind that this "Chronicle of Old Dublin City" was
written fifty years ago.

BRINSLEY SHERIDAN LE FANTT.

London, July, 1895.

CONTENTS.

CHAPTER PAGE

I.— THE " COCK AND ANCHOR" .... 1

II. — A BED IN THE " COCK AND ANCHOR'' . . 6

III.— THE LITTLE MAN 10

IV. — A SCARLET HOOD ...... 14

V. — O'CONNOR'S MOONLIGHT WALK .... 23

VI. — THE SOLDIER ....... 28

VII. — THREE GRIM FIGURES 36

VIII.— THE WARNING 40

IX.— THE "BLEEDING HORSE" . . . .44

X.— THE MASTER OF MORLEY COURT ... 51

XL— THE OLD BEECH TREE WALK . . . .62

XII. — THE APPOINTED HOUR 72

XIII.— THE INTERVIEW 75

XIV. — ABOUT A CERTAIN GARDEN AND A DAMSEL . 83

XV.— THE TRAITOR 88

XVI. — SIGNOR PARUCCI ALONE ... . . .92

XVII.— DUBLIN CASTLE BY NIGHT 99

XVIII.— THE Two COUSINS 106

XIX.— THE THEATRE . . ' . •. . . . 110

XX.— THE LODGING 116

XXI. — WHO APPEARED TO MART AsHWOODE . . . 122

XXII.— THE SPINET 125

XXIII.— THE DARK ROOM . .' • . . . .131

XXIV.— A CRITIC . . 135

XXV.— THE COMBAT AND ITS ISSUE . . . .140

XXVI.— THE HELL . . . . . . . . 143

XXVII.— THE DEPARTURE OF THE PEER . . . . 151

XXVIII.— THE THUNDER-STORM 154

XXIX.— THE CRONES . 157

XXX.— SKY-COPPER COURT 163

XXXI. — THE USURER AND THE OAKEN Box . . . 168

XXXII.— THE DIABOLIC WHISPER 171

XXXIII. — How SIR HENRY ASHWOODE PLAYED AND

PLOTTED 174

XXXIV.— THE " OLD ST. COLUMBKIL " . . .178

XXXV.— THE COUSIN AND THE BLACK CABINET . . 184

XXXVI.— JEWELS, PLATE, HORSES, DOGS .... 189

XXXVII.— THE RECKONING .... 191

vi Contents.

CHAI'TEK
XXXVIII.— STRANGE GUESTS AT THE MANOR . . -196

XXXIX.— THE BARGAIN 199

XL.— DREAMS • • 204

XLI.— A CERTAIN TRAVELLING ECCLESIASTIC . . 208

XLIL— THE SQUIRES 212

XLIIL— THE WILD WOOD 217

XLIV.— THE DOOM 222

XLV.— THE MAN IN THE CLOAK 226

XLVI.— THE DOUBLE CONFERENCE 231

XL VII.— THE "JOLLY BOWLERS' ' 236

XLVIIL— THE STAINED EUFFLES 241

XLIX.— OLD SONGS ....... 246

L.— THE PRESS IN THE WALL 252

LI.— FLORA GUY 259

LII. — MARY ASHWOODE'S WALK 262

LIII. — THE DOUBLE FAREWELL 266

LIV.— THE Two CHANCES 273

LV.— THE FEARFUL VISITANT 277

LVI. — EBENEZER SHYCOCK 280

LVIL— THE CHAPLAIN'S ARRIVAL AT MORLET COURT . 284

LVIII.— THE SIGNAL 290

LIX. — HASTE AND PERIL 296

LX.— THE UNTREASURED CHAMBER .... 299

LXI. — THE CART AND THE STRAW 302

LXII. — THE COUNCIL 308

LXIIL— PARTING 311

LXIV.— MISTRESS MARTHA AND BLACK M< GUINNESS . 315

LXV. — THE CONFERENCE 319

LXVL— THE BED-CHAMBER 322

LXVIL— THE EXPULSION 327

LXVIIL— THE FRAY 332

LXIX.— THE BOLTED WINDOW 337

LXX. — THE BARONET'S ROOM 341

LXXI. — THE FAREWELL 345

LXXII. — THE ROPE AND THE RIOT . * ;>;>v' . . 349

LXXIII.— THE LAST LOOK 354

CONCLUSION 357

LIST OF FULL PAGE ILLUSTRATIONS.

" Farewell, my lord," said Swift, abruptly . . Frontispiece

Threw himself luxuriously into a capacious leather-
bottomed chair . io face page 4

Again the conqueror crowed the shrill note of

victory ,, 34

Parrucci approached the prostrate figure . . ,, 156

" Painted ! varnished ! " she screamed hysterically „ 188

He made his way to the aperture . . . . , , 223

Glide noiselessly behind Chancey . v . . ,, 293

Driven to bay ... he drew his sword . . . ,, 338

His horse, snorting loudly, checked his pace . ,, 354

THE "COCK AND ANCHOR."

CHAPTER I.

THE "COCK AND ANCHOR" — TWO HORSEMEN — AND A SUPPER BY
THE INN FIRE.

SOME time within the first ten years of the last century, there
stood in the fair city of Dublin, and in one of those sinuous
and narrow streets which lay in the immediate vicinity of the
Castle, a goodly and capacious hostelry, snug and sound, and
withal carrying in its aspect something staid and aristocratic,
and perhaps in nowise the less comfortable that it was rated,
in point of fashion, somewhat obsolete. Its structure was
quaint and antique ; so much so, that had its counterpart pre-
sented itself within the precincts of "the Borough," it might
fairly have passed itself off for the genuine old Tabard of
Geoffry Chaucer.

The front of the building, facing the street, rested upon a
row of massive wooden blocks, set endwise, at intervals of
some six or eight feet, and running parallel at about the same
distance, to the wall of the lower story of the house, thus
forming a kind of rude cloister or open corridor, running the
whole length of the building.

The spaces between these rude pillars were, by a light
frame-work of timber, converted into a succession of arches ;
and by an application of the same ornamental process, the
ceiling of this extended porch was made to carry a clumsy
but not unpicturesque imitation of groining. Upon this
open-work of timber, as we have already said, rested the
second story of the buiLling; protruding beyond which again,
and supported upon beams whose projecting ends were carved
into the semblance of heads hideous as the fantastic monsters
of heraldrv, arose the third story, presenting a series of tall
and fancifully-shaped gables, decorated, like the rest of the

B

2 The " Cock and A nckor?

building, with an abundance of grotesque timber-work. A
wide passage, opening under the corridor which we have de-
scribed, gave admission into the inn-yard, surrounded partly by
the building itself, and partly by the stables and other offices
connected with it. Viewed from a little distance, the old
fabric presented by no means an unsightly or ungraceful
aspect : on the contrary, its very irregularities and antiquity,
however in reality objectionable, gave to it an air of comfort
and almost of dignity to which many of its more pretending
and modern competitors might in vain have aspired. Whether
it was, that from the first the substantial fabric had asserted a
conscious superiority over all the minor tenements which
surrounded it, or that they in modest deference had gradually
conceded to it the prominence which it deserved — whether, in
short, it had always stood foremost, or that the street had
slightly altered its course and gradually receded, leaving it
behind, an immemorial and immovable landmark by which to
measure the encroachments of ages — certain it is, that at the
time we speak of, the sturdy hostelry stood many feet in
advance of the line of houses which flanked it on either side,
narrowing the street with a most aristocratic indifference to
the comforts of the pedestrian public, thus forced to shift for
life and limb, as best they might, among the vehicles and
horses which then thronged the city streets — no doubt, too,
often by the very difficulties which it presented, entrapping
the over-cautious passenger, who preferred entering the
harbour which its hospitable and capacious doorway offered,
to encountering all the perils involved in doubling the point.

Such as we have attempted to describe it, the old building
stood more than a century since ; and when the level sunbeams
at eventide glinted brightly on its thousand miniature window
panes, and upon the broad hanging panel, which bore, in the
brighest hues and richest gilding, the portraiture of a Cock
and Anchor ; and when the warm, discoloured glow of sunset
touched the time-worn front of the old building with a rich
and cheery blush, even the most fastidious would have allowed
that the object was no unpleasiug one.

A dark autumnal night had closed over the old city of
Dublin, and the wind was blustering in hoarse gusts through
the crowded chimney-stacks — careering desolately through
the dim streets, and occasionally whirling some loose tile or
fragment of plaster from the house tops. The streets were
silent and deserted, except when occasionally traversed by
some great man's carriage, thundering and clattering along
the broken pavement; and by its passing glare and rattle
making the succeeding darkness and silence but the more
dreary. None stirred abroad who could avoid it; and with
the exception, oi such rare interruptions as we have mentioned,

Tht " Cock and A nchor" 3

the storm and darkness held undisputed possession of the
city. Upon this ungenial night, and somewhat past the hour
of ten, a well-mounted traveller rode into the narrow and
sheltered yard of the "Cock and Anchor;" and having
bestowed upon the groom who took the bridle of his steed
sueh minute and anxious directions as betokened a kind and
knightly tenderness for the comforts of his good beast, he forth-
with entered the public room of the inn — a large and com-
fortable chamber, having at the far end a huge hearth
overspanned by a broad and lofty mantelpiece of stone, and
now sending lorth a warm and ruddy glow, which penetrated
in genial streams to every recess and corner of the room,
tinging the dark wainscoting of the walls, glinting red an-t
brightly upon the burnished tankards and flagons with which
the cupboard was laden, and playing cheerily over the massive
beams which traversed the ceiling. Groups of men, variously
occupied and variously composed, embracing all the usual
company of a well frequented city tavern — from the staid
and sober man of business, who smokes his pipe in peace, to
the loud disputatious, half-tipsy town idler, who calls for
more flagons than he can well reckon, and then quarrels with
mine host about the shot — were disposed, some singly, others
in social clusters, in cosy and luxurious ease at the stout oak
tables which occupied the expansive chamber. Among these
the stranger passed leisurely to a vacant table in the neigh-
bourhood of the good fire, and seating himself thereat, dotfed
his hat and cloak, thereby exhibiting a finely proportioned
and graceful figure, and a face of singular nobleness and
beauty. He might have seen some thirty summers — perhaps
less — but his dark and expressive features bore a character of
resolution and melancholy which seemed to tell of more griefs
and perils overpast than men so young in the world can
generally count.*

The new-comer, having thrown his hat and gloves upon the
table at which he had placed himself, stretched his stalwart
limbs toward the fire in the full enjoyment of its genial
influence, and advancing the heels of his huge jack boots
nearly to the bars, he seemed for a time wholly lost in the
comfortable contemplation of the red embers which flickered,
glowed, and shifted before his eyes. From his quiet reverie
he was soon recalled by mine host in person, who, with all
courtesy, desired to know " whether his honour wished supper
and a bed ? " Both questions were promptly answered in the
affirmative : and before many minutes the young horseman
was deep in the discussion of a glorious pasty, flanked by
a tiagon of claret, such as he had seldom tasted before. He
hd,d scarcely concluded his meal, when another traveller,
cloaked, booted, and spurred, and carrying under his arm

B 2

4 The " Cock and A nchor?

a pair of long horse-pistols, and a heavy whip, entered the
apartment, walked straight up to the fire-place, and having
obtained permission of the cavalier already established
there to take share of his table, he deposited thereon the
formidable weapons which he carried, cast his hat, gloves,
and cloak upon the floor, and threw himself luxuriously
into a capacious leather- bottomed chair which confronted the
cheery fire.

" A bleak night, sir, and a dark, for a ride of twenty miles,"
observed the stranger, addressing the younger guest.

" I can the more readily agree with you, sir," replied the
latter, " seeing that I myself have ridden nigh forty, and am
but just arrived."

" Whew ! that beats me hollow," cried the other, with a
kind of self-congratulatory shrug. " You see, sir, we never
know how to thank our stars for the luck we have until we
come to learn what luck we might have had. I rode fronn
Wicklow — pray, sir, if it be not too bold a question, what line
did you travel?"

"The Cork road."

" Ha ! that's an ugly line they say to travel by night. You
met yith no interruption ? ''

"Troth, but I did, sir," replied the young man, " and none
of the pleasantest either. I was stopped, and put in no small
peril, too."

" How ! stopped — stopped on the highway ! By the mass,
you outdo me in every point! Would you, sir, please to
favour me, if 'twere not too much trouble, with the facts of
the adventure — the particulars?"

"Faith, sir," rejoined the yonng man, "as far as my
knowledge serves me, you are welcome to them all. When I
was still about twelve miles from this, I was joined from a
by-road by a well mounted, and (as far as I could discern) a
respectable- looking traveller, who told me he rode for Dublin,
and asked to join company by the way. I assented ; and we
jogged on pleasantly 'enough for some two or three miles. It
was very dark — ''

"As pitch,'' ejaculated the stranger, parenthetically.

" And what little scope of vision I might have had," con-
tinued .the younger traveller, " was well nigh altogether
obstructed by the constant flapping of my cloak, blown, by the
storm over my face and eyes. I suddenly became conscious
that we had been joined by a third horseman, who, in total
silence, rode at my other side.''

" How and when did lie come up with you ? "

" 3 can't say,'' replied the narrator — " nor did his presence
give me the smallest uneasiness. He who had joined me first,
all at once called out that his stirrup strap was broken, and

The "Cock and Anchor!" 5

halloo'd to me to rein in until he should repair the accident.
This I had hardly done, when some fellow, whom I had not
seen, sprang from behind upon my horse, and clasped my arms
so tightly to my body, that so far from making use of them,
1 could hardly breathe. The scoundrel who had dismounted
caught my horse by the head and held him firmly, while my
hitherto silent companion clapped a pistol to my ear."

" The devil ! '' exclaimed the elder man, " that was checkmate
with a vengeance. '

" Why, in truth, so it turned out," rejoined his companion ;
" though I confess my first impulse was to bulk the gentlemen
of the road at any hazard; and with this view I plied my
Kpnrs rowel deep, but the rascal who held the bridle was too
old a hand to be shaken oil by a plunge or two. He swung
with his whole weight to the bit, and literally brought poor
Eowley's nose within an inch of the road. Finding that
resistance was utterly vain, and not caring to squander what
little brains I have upon so paltry an adventure, I acknowledged
the jurisdiction of the gentleman's pistol, and replied to his
questions."

" You proved your sound sense by so doing,'' observed the
other. " But what was their purpose ? "

"As far as I could gather/' replied the younger man,
" they were upon the look-out for some particular person, I
cannot say whom ; for, either satisfied by my answers, or
having otherwise discovered their mistake, they released me
without taking anything from me but my sword, which, how-
ever, I regret much, for it was my father's; and having blown
the priming from my pistols, they wished me the best of good
luck, and so we parted, without the smallest desire on my part
to renew the intimacy. And now, sir, you know just as much
of the matter as I do myself."

"And a very serious matter it is, too," observed the
stranger, with an emphatic nod. " Landlord ! a pint of
Tuulled claret — and spice it as I taught yon — d'ye mind? A
very grave matter — do you think you could possibly identify
those men ? "

" Identify them ! how the devil could I P — it was dark as
pitch — a cat could not have seen them."

" But was there no mark — no peculiarity discernible, even
in the dense obscurity — nothing about any of them, such as
you might know again ? ''

"Nothing — the very outline was indistinct. I could merely
see that they were shaped like men."

"Truly, truly, that is much to be lamented," said the elder
gentleman; ''though fifty to one,'' he added, devoutly, "they'll
hang one day or another — let that console us. Meantime,
here comes the clarst."

6 The "Cock and A nchor:1

So saying, the new-comer rose from his seat, coolly removed
his black matted peruke from his shorn head, and replaced it
by a dark velvet cap, which he drew from some mysterious
iiookin his breeches pocket ; then, hanging the wig upon the
back of his chair, he wheeled the seat round to the table, and
for the first time offered to his companion an opportunity of
looking him fairly in the face. If he were a believer in the
influence of first impressions, he had certainly acted wisely
in deferring the exhibition until the acquaintance had made
some progress, for his countenance was, in sober truth,
anything but attractive — a pair of grizzled brows overshadowed
eyes of quick and piercing black, rather small, and unusually
restless and vivid— the mouth was wide, and the jaw so much
underhung as to amount almost to a deformity, giving to the
lower part of the face a character of resolute ferocity which
was not at all softened by the keen fiery glance of his eye ; a
massive projecting forehead, marked over the brow with a
deep scar, and furrowed by years and thought, added not a
little to the stern and commanding expression of the face.
The complexion was swarthy ; and altogether the countenance
was one of that sinister and unpleasant kind which the
imagination associates with scenes of cruelty and terror, and
which might appropriately take a prominent place in the
foreground of a feverish dream. The young traveller had
seen too many ugly sights, in the course of a roving life of
danger and adventure, to remember for a moment the im-
pression which his new companion's visage was calculated to
produce. They chatted together freely ; and the elder (who,
by the way, exhibited no very strong Irish peculiarities of
accent or idiom, any more than did the other) when he bid
his companion grood-night, left him under the impression that,
however forbidding his aspect might be, his physical dis-
advantages were more than counterbalanced by the shrewd,
quick sagacity, correct judgment, and wide range of experience
of which he appeared possessed.

CHAPTER II.

A BED IN THE " COCK AND ANCHOR" — A LANTERN AND AN
UGLY VISITOR BY THE BEDSIDE.

LEAVING the public room to such as chose to push their
revels beyond the modesty of midnight, our young friend
betook himself to his chamber; where, snugly deposited in one
of the snuggest beds which the " Cock and Anchor " afforded,

A Bed in the "Cock and A nchor" J

with the ample tapestry curtains drawn from post to post,
while the rude wind buffeted the casements and moaned
through the antique chimney-tops, he was soon locked in the
deep, dreamless slumber of fatigue.

How long this sweet oblivion may have lasted it was not
easy to say ; some hours, however, had no doubt intervened,
when the sleeper was startled from his repose by a noise at
his chamber door. The latch was raised, and someone bearing
a shaded light entered the room and cautiously closed the
door again. In the belief that the intruder was some guest
or domestic of the inn who either mistook the room or was
not aware of its occupation, the young man coughed once or
twice slightly in token of his presence, and observing that
his signal had not the desired effect, he inquired rather
sharply, —

" Who is there?"

The only answer returned was a long " Hist ! " and forth-
with the steps of the unseasonable visitor were directed to the
bedside. The person thus disturbed had hardly time to raise
himself half upright when the curtains at one side were drawn
apart, and by the imperfect light which forced its way through
the horn enclosure of a lantern, he beheld the bronzed and
sinister features of his fireside companion of the previous
evening. The stranger was arrayed for the road, with his cloa-k
and cocked hat on. Both parties, the visited and the visitor,
for a time remained silent and in the same fixed attitude.

"Pray, sir," at length inquired the person thus abruptly
intruded upon, " to what special good fortune do I owe this
most unlooked-for visit? "

The elder man made no reply ; but deliberately planted the
large dingy lantern which he carried upon the bed in which
the young man lay.

" You have tarried somewhat too long over the wine-cup,"
continued he, not a little provoked at the coolness of the
intruder. " This, sir, is not your chamber ; seek it elsewhere.
T am in no mood to bandy jests. You will consult your own
ease as well as mine by quitting this room with all dispatch.''

" Young gentleman," replied the elder man in a low, firm
tone, " I have used short ceremony in disturbing you thus.
To judge from your face you are no less frank than hardy.
You will not require apologies when you have heard me.
When I last night sate with you I observed about you a token
long since familiar to me as the light — you wear it on your
linger — it is a diamond ring. That ring belonged to a dear
friend of mine — an old comrade and a tried friend in a
hundred griefs and perils : the owner was Richard O'Connor.
1 have not heard from him for ten years or more. Can you
say how he fares ? "

8 The "Cock and Anchor"

" The brave soldier and good man you have named was my
father," replied the young man, mournfully.

" Was ! " repeated the stranger. " Is he then no more— is
he dead?"

" Even so," replied the young man, sadly.

" I knew it— I i'elt it. When I saw that jewel last night
something smote at my heart and told me, that the hand that
wore it once was cold. Ah, me ! it was a friendly and a brave
hand. Through all the wars of King James" (and so saying
he touched his hat) " we were together, companions in arms
and bosom friends. He was a comely man and a strong ; no
hardship tired him, no difficulty dismayed him; and the
merriest fellow he was that ever trod on Irish ground. Poor
O'Connor! in exile; away, far away from the country he
loved so well ; among foreigners too. Well, well, wheresoever
they have laid tbee, there moulders not a truer nor a braver
heart in the fields of all the world ! "

He paused, sighed deeply, and then continued, —

" Sorely, sorely are thine old comrades put to it, day by
day, and night by night, for comfort and for safety— sorely
vexed and pillaged. Nevertheless — over-ridden, and despised,
and scattered as we are, mercenaries and beggars abroad, and
landless at home — still something whispers in my ear that
there will come at last a retribution, and such a one as will
make this perjured, corrupt, and robbing ascendency a warn-
ing and a wonder to all after times. Is it a common thing,
think you, that all the gentlemen, all the chivalry of a whole
country — the natural leaders and protectors of the people —
should be stripped of their birthright, ay, even of the poor
privilege of seeing in this their native country, strangers
possessing the inheritances which are in all right their own ;
cast abroad upon the world; soldiers of fortune, selling their
blood for a bare subsistence ; many of them dying of want ;
and all because for honour and conscience sake they refused
to break the oath which bound them to a ruined prince ? Is
it a slight thing, think you, to visit with pains and penalties
such as these, men guilty of no crimes beyond those of fidelity
and honour? "

The stranger said this with an intensity of passion, to which
the low tone in which he spoke but gave an additional im-
pressiveness. After a short pause he again spoke, —

" Young gentleman," said he, " you may have heard your
father — whom the saints receive ! — ?peak, when talking over
old recollections, of one Captain O'Hanlon, who shared with
him the most eventful scenes of a perilous time. He may, I
say, have spoken of such a one."

" He has spoken of him," replied the young man ; " often,
and kindly too."

A Bed in the "Cock and Anchor." g

"I am that man," continued the stranger; "your father's
oil friend and comrade ; and right glad am I, seeing that I
can never hope to meet him more on this side the grave, to
renew, after a kind, a friendship which I much prized, now in
the person of his son. Give me yonr hand, young gentleman :
I pledge you mine in the spirit of a tried and faithful friend-
ship. I inquire not what has brought you to this unhappy
country ; I am sure it can be nothing which lies not within
the eye of honour, so I ask not concerning it ; but on the
contrary, I will tell you of myself what may surprise you —
what will, at least, show that I am ready to trust yon freely.
You were stopped to-night upon the Southern road, some ten
miles from this. It was I who stopped you ! "

O'Oonnoi made a sudden but involuntary movement of
menace ; but without regarding it, O'Hanlon continued, —

" You are astonished, perhaps shocked — you look so ; but
mind you, there is some difference between stopping men on
the highway, and robbing them when you have stopped them.
I took you for one who we were informed would pass that
way, and about the same hour — one who carried letters from
a pretended friend — one whom I have long suspected, a half-
faced, cold-hearted friend — carried letters, I say, from such a
one to the Castle here; to that malignant, perjured reprobate
and apostate, the so-called Lord Wharton — as meet an orna-
ment for a gibbet as ever yet made a feast for the ravens. I
was mistaken : here is your sword ; and may you long wear it
as well as he from whom it was inherited." Here he raised
the weapon, the blade of which he held in his hand, and the
young man saw it and the hilt flash and glitter in the dusky
light. "And take the advice of an old soldier, young friend,"
continued O'Hanlon, "and when you are next, which I hope
may not be for many a long day, overpowered by odds and
at their mercy, do not by truitless violence tempt them to
disable you by a simpler and less pleasant process than that
of merely taking your sword and unpriming your pistols.
Many a good man has thrown away his life by such boyish
foolery. Upon the table by your bed you will in the morning
find your rapier, and God grant that it and you may long
prove fortunate companions!" He was turning to go, but
recollecting himself, he added, " One word before I go. I am
known here as Mr. Dwyer — remember the name, Dwyer — I
am generally to be heard of in this place. Should you at any
time during your stay in this city require the assistance of a
friend who has a cheerful willingness to serve you, and who is
not perhaps altogether destitute of power, you have only to
leave a billet in the hand of the keeper of this inn, and if I be
above ground it will reach me — of course address it under the
name I have last mentioned — and so, young gentleman, fare

10 The "Cock and Anchor."

you well." So saying, he grasped the hand of his new friend,
shook it warmly, and then, turning upon hi.s heel, strode swiftly
to the door, and so departed, leaving O'Connor with so much
abruptness as not to allow him time to utter a question or
remark on what had passed.

The excitement of the interview speedily passed away, the
fatigues of the preceding day were persuasively seconded by
the soothing sound of the now abated wind and by the utter
darkness of the chamber, and the young man was soon deep
in the forgetfulness of sleep once more. When the broad, red
light of the morning sun broke cheerily into his room, stream-
ing through the chinks of the old shutters, and penetrating
through the voluminous folds of the vast curtains of rich,
faded damask which surmounted the huge hearse-like bed in
•which he lay, so as to make its inmate aware that the hour of
repose was past and that of action come, O'Connor remembered
the circumstances of the interview which had been so strangely
intruded upon him but as a dream ; nor was it until he saw
the sword which he had believed irrecoverably lost lying safely
upon the table, that he felt assured that the visit and its
purport were not the creation of his slumbering fancy. In
reply to his questions when he descended, he was informed
by mine host of the " Cock and Anchor," that Mr. Dwyer
had left the inn-yard upon his stout hack, 'a good hour before
daybreak.

CHAPTER III.

THE LITTLE MAN IN BLUE AND SILVER.

AMONG the loungers who loitered at the door of the " Cock and
Anchor," as the day wore on, there appeared a personage whom
it behoves us to describe. This was a small man, with a very red
face and little grey eyes — he wore a cloth coat of sky blue,
with here and there a piece of silver lace laid upon it without
much regard to symmetry ; for the scissors had evidently dis-
placed far the greater part of the original decorations, whose
primitive distribution might be traced by the greater freshness
of the otherwise faded cloth which they had covered, as well as
by some stray threads, which stood like stubbles here and there
to mark the ravages of the sickle. One hand was buried in
the deep flap pocket of a waistcoat of the same hue and
material, and bearing also, in like manner, the evidences of a
very decided retrenchment ia the article of silver lace. These
symptoms of economy, however, in no degree abated the

The Little Man.

ii

evident admiration with which the wearer every now and then
stole a glance on what remained of its pristine splendours — a
glance which descended not ungraciously upon a leg in whose
fascinations its owner reposed an implicit faith. His right
hand held a tobacco-pipe, which, although its contents were
not ignited, he carried with a luxurious nonchalance ever and
anon to the corner of his mouth, where it afforded him sundry
imaginary puffs — a cheap and fanciful luxury, in which my
Irish readers need not be told their humbler countrymen, for
lack of better, are wont to indulge. He leaned against one of
the stout wooden pillars on which the front of the building
was reared, and interlarded his economical pantomime of pipe-
smoking with familiar and easy conversation with certain of
the outdoor servants of the inn — a familiarity which argued
not any sense of superiority proportionate to the pretension,
of his attire.

" And so," said the little man, turning with an aristocratic
ease towards a stout fellow in a jerkin, with bluff visage and
folded arms, who stood beside him, and addressing him in a
most melodious brogue — " and so, for sartain, you have but
five single gintlemeu in the house — mind, I say single gintle-
men — for, divil carry me if ever I take up with a family again
— it doesn't answer — it don't shoot me — I was never made for

a family, nor a family for me — I can't stand their b y

regularity; and — ''with a sigh of profound sentiment, and lower-
ing his voice, he added — "and, the maid-sarvants — no, devil a
taste — they don't answer — they don't shoot. My disposition,
Tom, is tindher — tindher to imbecility — I never see a petticoat
but it flutters my heart — the short and the long of it is, I'm
always falling in love — and sometimes the passion is not retali-
ated by the object, and more times it is — but, in both cases, I'm
aiqually the victim— for my intintions is always honourable,
and of course nothin' comes of it. My life was fairly frettin'
away in a dhrame of passion among the housemaids — I felt
myself witherin' away like a flower in autumn — 1 was losing
my relish for everything, from bacon and table-dhrink upwards
— dangers were thickening round me — I had but one way to
execrate myself — I gave notice — I departed, and here I am."

Having wound up the sentence, the speaker leaned forward
and spat passionately on the ground — a pause ensued, which
was at length broken by the same speaker.

" Only two out of the five," said he, reflectively, " only two
unprovided with sarvants."

" And neither of 'em," rejoined Tom, a blunt English
groom, "very likely to want one. The one is a lawyer, with a
hack as lean as himself, and more holes, I warrant, than half-
1 ence in his breeches pocket. He's out a-looking for lodgings,
I take it."

1 2 The " Cock and A nchor"

"He's not exactly what I want," rejoined the little man.
" What's th'other like ? ''

" A gentleman, every inch, or Tm no judge," replied the
groom. " He came last night, and as likely a bit of horseflesh
under him as evor my two hands wisped down. He chucked
me a crown-piece this morning, as if it had been no more nor
a cockle shell — he did."

" By gorra, he'll do ! "exclaimed the little man energetically.
" It's a bargain — I'm his man."

"Ay, but you mayn't answer, brother ; he mayn't take you,"
observed Tom.

" Wait a bit— jist wait a bit, till he sees me," replied he of
the blue coat.

" Ay, wait a bit," persevered the groom, coolly — " wait a bit,
and when he does see you, it strikes me wery possible he mayn't
like your cut.''

" Not like my cut ! '' exclaimed the little man, as soon as he
had recovered breath ; for the bare supposition of such an
occurrence involved in his opinion so utter and astounding a
contradiction of all the laws by which human antipathies and
affections are supposed to be regulated, that he felt for a
moment as if his whole previous existence had been a dream
and an illusion. " Not like my cut I ''

" No," rejoined the groom, with perfect imperturbability.

The little man deigned no other reply than that conveyed
in a glance of the most inexpressible contempt, which,
having wandered over the person and accoutrements of
the unconscious Tom, at length settled upon his own lower
extremities, where it gradually softened into a gaze of
melancholy complacency, while he muttered, with a pitying
smile, "Not like my cut — not like it!" and then, turning
majestically towards the groom, he observed, with laconic
dignity, —

"I humbly consave the gintleman has an eye in his
head."

This rebuke had hardly been administered when the sub-
ject of their conference in person passed from the inn into the
street.

" There he goes," ob?erved Tom.

" And here /go after him," added the candidate for a place ;
and in a moment he was following O'Connor with rapid steps
through the narrow streets of the town, southward. It
occurred to him, as he hurried after his intended master, that
it might not be amiss to defer his interview until they were
out of the streets, and in some more quiet place ; nor in all
probability would he have disturbed himself at all to follow
the young gentleman, were it not that even in the transient
glimpse which he had had of the person and features of

The Little Man. 13

O'Connor, the little man thought, and by no means in-
correctly, that he recognized the form of one whom he had
often seen before.

" That's Mr. O'Connor, as sure as my name's Larry Toole,"
muttered the little man, half out of breath with his exertions —
" an' it's himself '11 be proud to get me. I wondher what he's
afther now. I'll soon see, at any rate."

Thus communing within himself, Larry alternately walked
and trotted to keep the chase in view. He might very easily
have come up with the object of his pursuit, for on reaching
St. Patrick's Cathedral, O'Connor paused, and for some
minutes contemplated the old building. Larry, however, did
not care to commence his intended negotiation in the street ;
he purposed giving him rope enough, having, in truth, no
peculiar object in following him a,t that precise moment,
beyond the gratification of an idle curiosity ; he therefore
hung back until O'Connor was again in motion, when he once
more renewed his pursuit.

O'Connor had soon passed the smoky precincts of the town,
and was now walking at a slackened pace among the green
fields and the trees, all clothed in the rich melancholy hues of
early autumn. The evening sun was already throwing its
mellow tint on all the landscape, and the lengthening shadows
told how far the day was spent. In the transition from the
bustle of a town to the lonely quiet of the country at eventide,
and especially at that season of the year when decay begins to
sadden the beauties of nature, there is something at once sooth-
ing and unutterably melancholy. Leaving behind the glare,
and dust, and hubbub of the town, who has not felt in his
inmost heart the still appeal of nature ? The saddened beauty
of sear autumn, enhanced by the rich and subdued light of
gorgeous sunset — the filmy mist — the stretching shadows —
the serene quiet, broken only by rural sounds, more soothing
even than silence — all these, contrasted with the sounds and
sights of the close, restless city, speak tenderly and solemnly
to the heart of man of the beauty of creation, of the goodness
of God, and, along with these, of the mournful condition of all
nature — change, decay, and death. Such thoughts and
feelings, stealing in succession upon the heart, touch, one by
one, the springs of all our sublimest sympathies, and fill the
mind with the beautiful sense of brotherhood, under God, with
all nature. Under the not unpleasing influence of such
suggestions, O'Connor slackened his pace to a slow irregular
walk, which sorely tried the patience of honest Larry Toole.

" After all," exclaimed that worthy, " it's nothin' more nor
less than an evening walk he's takin', God bless the mark !
What business have I followin' him ? unless — see — .sure
enough he's takin' the short cut to the manor. By gorra, t. JB

1 4 The " Cock and A nchor. "

is worth mindin'— I must not folly him, however— I don't want
to meet the family — so here I'll plant myself until sich times
as he's comin' back airain."

So saying, Larry Toole clambered to the top of the grassy
embankment which fenced the road, and seating himself
between a pair of aged hawthorn trees, he watched young
O'Connor as he followed the wanderings of a wild bridle-road
until he was at length fairly hidden from view by the inter-
vening trees and brushwood.

CHAPTER IV.

A SCARLET HOOD AMONG THE OLD TREES— TEE MANOR OF
MORLEY COURT— AND A PEEP INTO AN ANTIQUE CHAMBER.

THE path which O'Connor followed was one of those quiet and
pleasant by-roads which, in defiance of what are called im-
provements, are still to be discovered throughout Ireland here
and there, in some unsuspected region, winding their green
and sequestered ways through many a varied scene of rural
beauty ; and, unless when explored by some chance fisherman
or tourist, unknown to all except the poor peasant to whose
simple conveniences they minister.

Low and uneven embankments, overgrown by a thousand
kinds of weeds and wild flowers and brushwood, marked the
boundaries of this rustic pathway, but in so friendly a sort,
and with so little jealousy or exclusion, that they seemed
designed rather to lend a soft and sheltered resting-place to
the tired traveller than to check the wayward excursions of
the idle rambler into the merry fields and woodlands through,
which it wound. On either side the tall, hoary trees, like
time-worn pillars, reared their grey, moss-grown trunks and
arching branches, now but thinly clothed with the discoloured
foliage of autumn, and casting their long shadows in the
evening sun far over the sloping and unequal sward. The
scene, the hour, and the loneliness of the place, would of them-
selves have been enough to induce a pensive train of thought ;
but, beyond the silence and seclusion, and the falling of the
leaves in their eternal farewell, and all the other touching
signs of nature's beautiful decay, there were deep in O'Connor'8
"breast recollections and passions with which the scene before
him was more nearly associated, than with the ordinary
suggestions of fantastic melancholy.

At some distance from this road, and half hidden among
the trees, there stood an old and extensive building, chiefly

A Scarlet Hood. 1 5

of deep red brick, presenting many and varied fronts and
quaint gables, antique-fashioned casements, and whole groups
of fantastic chimneys, sending up their thin curl of smoke into
the still air, and glinting tall and red in the declining sun ;
while the dusky hue of the old bricks was every here and there
concealed under rich mantles of dark, luxuriant ivy, which, in
some parts of the structure, had not only mounted to the
summits of the wall, but clambered, in rich profusion, over
the steep roof, and even to the very chimney tops. This
antique building — rambling, massive, and picturesque in no
ordinary degree — might well have attracted the observation of
the passer-by, as it presented in succession, through the irregu-
lar vistas of the rich old timber, now one front, now another,
alternately hidden and revealed as the point of observation
was removed. But the eyes of O'Connor sought this ancient
mansion, and dwelt upon its ever- varying aspacts, as he pur-
sued his way, with an interest more deep and absorbing than
that of mere curiosity or admiration ; and as he slowly
followed the grass-grown road, a thousand emotions and
remembrances came crowding upon his mind, impetuous, pas-
sionate, and wild, but all tinged with a melancholy which even
the strong and sanguine heart of early manhood could not
overcome. As the path proceeded, it became more closely
sheltered by the wild bushes and trees, and its windings grew
more wayward and frequent, when on a sudden, from behind a
screen of old thorns which lay a little in advance, a noble dog,
of the true old Irish wolf breed, came bounding towards him,
with every token of joy and welcome.

" Eover, Rover — down, boy, down," said the stranger, as the
huge animal, iu his boisterous greeting, leaped upon him
again and again, flinging his massive paws upon his shoulders,
and thrusting his cold nose into his bosom — " down, Rover,
down."

The first transport of welcome past, the noble dog waited to
receive from his old friend some marks of recognition in return,
and then, swinging his long tail from side to side, away he
sprang, as if to carry the joyful tidings to the companion of
his evening ramble.

O'Connor knew that some of those whom he should not
have chosen to meet just then or there were probably within
a stone's throw of the spot where he now stood, and for a
moment he was strongly tempted to turn, and, if so it might
be, unobserved to retrace his steps. The close screen of wild
trees which overshadowed the road would have rendered this
design easy of achievement; but while he was upon the point
of turning to depart, a few notes of some wild and simple
Irian melody, carelessly lilted by a voice of silvery sweetness,
floated to his ear. Every cudeuoe and vibration of that voice

i6

The "Cock and Anchor -."

was to him enchautment — he could not choose but pause.
The sweet sounds were interrupted by a rustling among the
withered leaves which strewed the ground. Again the fine old
dog made his appearance, dashing joyously along the path
towards him, and following in his wake, with slow and gentle
steps, came a light and graceful female form. On her
shoulders rested a short mantle of scarlet cloth ; the hood was

thrown partially backward, so as to leave the rich dark ringlets
to float freely in the light breeze of evening ; the faintest
Hush imaginable tinged the clear paleness of her cheek, giving
to her exquisitely beautiful features a lustre, whose richness
did not, however, subdue their habitual and tender melan-
choly. The moment the full dark eyes of the girl encountered

A Scarlet Hood. 1 7

O'Connor, the song died away upon her lips — the colour fled
from her cheeks, and as instantaneously the sudden paleness
was succeeded by a blush of such depth and brilliancy as
threw far into shade even the brightest imagery of poetic
fancy.

" Edmond ! " she exclaimed, in a tone so faint and low as
scarcely to reach his ear, and which yet thrilled to his very
heart.

"Yes, Mary — it is, indeed, Edmond O'Connor," answered
he, passionately and mournfully — "come, after long years of
separation, over many a mile of sea and land — unlooked-for,
and, mayhap, unwished-for—come once more to see you, and,
in seeing you, to be happy, were it but for a moment — come to
tell you that he L-ves you fondly, passionately as ever — come
to ask you, dear, dear Mary, if you, too, are unchanged P "

As he thus spoke, standing by her side, O'Connor gazed on
the sad, sweet face of her he loved so well, and held that little
hand, which he would have given worlds to call his own. The
beautiful girl was too artless to disguise her agitation. She
would have spoken, but the effort was vain — the tears
gathered in her dark eyes, and fell faster and faster, till at
length the fruitless struggle ceased, and she wept long and
bitterly.

" Oh ! Edmond," said she, at length, raiding her eyes
sorrowfully and fondly to O'Connor's face — "what has called
you hither ? We two should hardly have met now or thus."

*' Dear Mary," answered he, with melancholy fervour,
" since last I held this loved hand, years have passed away —
three long years and more — in which we two have never met
— in which you scarce have even heard of me. Mary, three
years bring many changes —changes irreparable. Time —
which has, if it were possible, made you more beautiful even
than when I saw you last— may yet have altered earlier
feelings, and turned your heart from me. Were it so, Marv,
I would not seek to blame you. I am not so vain — your rank
— your great attractions — your surpissiag beautv, must have
won many admirers— drawn many suitors round you; and I
— I, amoug all these, may well have been forgotten — I, whose
best merit is but in loving you beyond my life. I will not,
then — I will not, Mary, ask if you love me still : but coming
thus unbidden and unlooked-for, am I forgiven — am I wel-
come, Mary ? "

The artless girl looked up in his face with such a beautiful
Bmile of trust and love as told more in one brief moment than
language could in volumes.

" Yes, Mary," said O'Connor, reading that smile aright,
with swelling heart and proud devotion ; " yes, Mary. I am
remembered — you are still my own — my own : true, faithful,

c

1 8 7 he " Cock and A nchor"

unchanged, in spite of years of time and leagues of separa-
tion ; in spite of all ! — my tme-hearted, my adored, my
own ! "

He spoke; and in ihe fulness of their hearts they were both
for a while silent, each gazing on the other in the rapt tender-
ness of long-tried love — in the deep, guileless joj of this chance
meeting-.

" Hear me," he whispered, lower almost than the murmur
of the breeze through the arching boughs above them, as if
fearful that even a breath would trouble the still enchant-
ment that held them spell-bound : "hear me, for I have much
to tell. The years that have passed since I spoke to you
before have brought to me their store of good and ill, of sorrow
and of hope. I have many things to tell you, Mary ; much
that gives me hope — the cheeriest hope— even that of over-
coming Sir Eichard's opposition ! Ay, Mary, reasonable
hope; and why? Because I urn no longer poor: an old
friend of my father's, Mr. Audley, has taken me by the hand,
adopted me, made me his heir — the heir to riches and posses-
sions which even your father will allow to be considerable—
which he well may think enough to engage his prudence in
favour of our union. In this hope, dearest, I am here. I
daily expect the arrival of my generous friend and benefactor;
and with him I will go to your father and urge my suit once
more, and with God's blessing at last prevail — but hark ! some
one comes."

Even while he spoke, the lovers were startled by the sound
of voices in gay colloquy, approaching along the quiet by-road
on which they stood.

" Leave me, Edmond, leave me," said the beautiful girl,
with earnest entreaty ; " they must not see you with me
now."

" Farewell then, dearest, since it must be so," replied
O'Connor, as he pressed her hand closely in his own ; " but
meet me to-niorrow evening — meet me by the old gate in the
beech-tree walk, at the hour when you used to walk therf.
Nay, refuse me not, Mary. Farewell, farewell till then!"
and so saying, before she had time to frame an answer, he
turned from her, and was quickly lost among the trees and
underwood which skirted the pathway.

In the speakers who approached, the young lady at once
recognized her brother, Henry Ashwoode, and Emily Copland,
her pretty cousin. The young man was handsome alike in
face and figure, slightly made, and bearing in his carriage
that indescribable air of aristocratic birth and pretension
which sits not ungracefully upon a handsome person ; his
countenance, too, bore a striking resemblance to that of his
sister, and, allowing for the difference of sex, resembled it as

A Scarlet Hood. 19

nearly as any countenance which had never expressed a
passion but such as had its aim and origin alike in self, could
do. He was dressed in the extreme of the prevailing fashion ;
and altogether his outward man was in all respects such as to
justify his acknowledged pretensions to be considered one of
the prettiest men in the then gay city of Dublin. The young
lady who accompanied him was, in all points except in that of
years, as unlike her cousin, Mary Ashwoode, as one pretty
girl could well be to another. She was very fair ; had a
quick, clear eye, which carried in its glance sometning more
than mere mirth or vivacity; an animated face, with, how-
ever, something of a bold, and at times even of a haughty
expression. Laughing and chatting in light, careless gaiety,
the youthful pair approached the spot where Mary Ashwoode
stood.

" So, so, fair sister," cried the young man, gaily, " alone and
musing, and doubtless melancholy. Shall we venture to
approach her, Emily ? "

Women have keener eyes in small matters than men ; and
Miss Copland at a glance perceived her fair cousin's flushed
cheek and embarrassed manner.

" Angels and ministers of grace defend us ! " cried she ;
" the girl has certainly seen a ghost or a dragoon officer."

" Neither, I assure you, cousin," replied Miss Ashwoode, with
an effort; "my evening's ramble has not extended beyond
this spot ; and as yet I've seen no monster more alarming
than my brother's new periwig."

The young man bowed.

"Nay, nay," cried Miss Copland, "but I must hear it.
There certainly is some awful mystery at the bottom of all
these conscious looks ; but apropos of awful mysteries," con-
tinued she, turning to young Ashwoode, half in pity for Mary's
increasing embarrassment; "where is Major O'Leary ?
What has become of your amusing old uncle? "

" That's more than Jean tell," replied the young man ; " I
wash my hands of the scapegrace. I know nothing of him
I saw him for a moment in town this morning, and he pro-
mised, with a round dozen of oaths, to be out to dine with us
to-day. Thus much yon know, and thus much I know ; for the
rest, having sins enough of my own to carry, as I said before,
I wash my hands of him and his."

" Well, now remember, Henry," continued she, " I make it
a point with you to bring him out here to-morrow. In sober
seriousness I can't get on without him. It is a melancholy
and a terrible truth, but still one which I feel it my duty to
speak boldly, that Major O'Leary is the only gallant and
susceptible man in the family.

" Monstrous assertion P " exclaimed the young man ; " why,
c 2

20 The " Cock and A nchor"

not to mention myself, the acknowledged pink and perfection
of everything that is irresistible, have you not the perfect
command of my worthy cousin, Arthur Blake ? "

" !Now don't put me in a passion, Henry," exclaimed the
girl. " How dare you mention that wretch — that irreclaimable,
unredeemed fox-hunter. He never talks, nor thinks, nor
dreams of anything but dogs and badgers, foxes and other
vermin. I verily believe he never yet was seen off a horse's
back, except sometimes in a stable — he is an absolute Irish
centaur I And then his odious attempts at finery — his
elaborate, perverse vulgarity — the perpetual pinching and
mincing of his words I An off-hand, shameless brogue I can
endure — a brogue that revels and riots, and defies the world
like your uncle O'Leary's, I can respect and even admire — but
a brogue in a strait waistcoat — "

" Well, well," rejoined the young man, laughing, "though
you may not find any sprout of the family tree, excepting
Major O'Leary, worthy to contribute to your laudable require-
ments ; yet surely you have a very fair catalogue of young
and able-bodied gentlemen among our neighbours. What say
you to young Lloyd — he lives within a stone's throw. He is a
most proper, pious, and punctual young gentleman; and
would make, I doubt not, a most devout and exemplary
' Cavalier servente' "

" Worse and worse," cried the young lady despondingly ;
"the most domestic, stupid, affectionate, invulnerable wretch.
He never flirts out of his own family, and then, for charity I
believe, with the oldest and ugliest. He is the very person
for whose special case the rubric provided that no man shall
marry his grandmother."

" My fair cousin," replied the young man, laughing, " I
see you are hard to please. Meanwhile, sweet ladies both,
let me remind you that the sun has just set ; we must make
our way homeward — at least I must. By the way, can I do
anything in town for you this evening, beyond a tender
message to my reverend uncle? "

"Dear me," exclaimed Miss Copland, "you have not passed
an evening at home this age. What can you want, morning,
noon, and night in that smoky, dirty town ? "

" Why, the fact is, replied the young man, " business must
be done ; I positively must attend two routs to-night."

" Whose routs— what are they ? " inquired the young lady.

" One is Mrs. Tresham's, the other Lady Stukely's."

" I guessed that ugly old kinswoman of mine was at the
bottom of it," exclaimed the young lady with great vivacity.
" Lady Stukely — that pompous, old, frightful goose ! — she has
laid herself out to seduce you, Harry; but don't let that
dismay you, for tea to one if you fall, she'll make an honest

A Scarlet Hood. 2 1

man of you in the end and marry yon. Only think, Mary,
what a sister you shall have," and the young lady laughed
heartily, and then added, " There are some excellent, worthy,
abominable people, who seem made expressly to put one in a
passion — perpetual appeals to one's virtuous indignation.
Now do, Henry, for goodness sake, if a matrimonial catastrophe
must come, choose at least some nymph with less rouge and
wrinkles than poor dear Lady Stukely."

" Kind cousin, thyself shalt choose for me,'' answered the
young man ; " but pray, suffer me to Le at large for a year or
two more. I would fain live and breathe a little, before I go
down into the matrimonial pit and be no more seen. But let
us mend our pace, the evening tarns chill.'3

Thus chatting carelessly, they moved towards the large
brick building which we have already described, embowered
among the trees; where arrived, the young man forthwith
applied himself to prepare for a night of dissipation, and the
young ladies to get through a dull evening as best they might.

The two fair cousins sate in a large, old-fashioned drawing-
room ; the walls were covered with elaborately-wrought
tapestry representing, in a manner sufficiently grim and
alarming, certain scenes from Ovid's Metamorphoses ; a
cheerful fire blazed in the capacious hearth ; and the cumbrous
mantelpiece was covered with those grotesque and monstrous
china figures, misnamed ornaments, which were then beginning
to find favour in the eyes of fashion. Abundance of richly
carved furniture was disposed variously throughout the room.
The young ladies sate by a small table on which lay some
books and materials for work, placed near the fire. They
occupied each one of those huge, high-backed, and well-
stufted chairs in which it is a mystery how our ancestors could
sit and remain awake. Both were silently occupied with
their own busy reflections; and it was not until the rapid
clank of the horse's hoofs upon the pavement underneath the
windows, as young Ashwoode started upon his night ride to
the city, rose sharp and clear, that Miss Copland, waking
from her reverie, exclaimed, —

" Well, sweet coz, were ever so woebegone and desolate a
pair of damsels. The only available male creature in the
establishment, with the exception of Sir Eichard, who has
actually gone to bed, has fairly turned his back upon us."

"Dear Emily," replied her cousin, "pray be serious. I
wish to tell you what has passed this evening. You observed
my confusion and agitation when you and Henry overtook me."

"Why, to be sure I did,'' replied the young lady; "and
now, like an honest coz, you are going to tell me all about it.''
She drew her chair nearer as she spoke. " Come, my dear,
tell me everything — what was your discovery ? Come, now,

22 The "Cock and A nchor."

there's a good girl, do confess." So saying she threw one
arm round her cousin's neck and laid the other in her lap,
looking curiously into her face the while.

" Oh ! Emily, I have seen him ! " exclaimed Miss Ashwoode,
with an effort.

" Seen him ! — seen whom ?— old Nick, if I may judge from
your looks. Whom have you seen, dear?'5 eagerly inquired
Mis* Copland.

" I have seen Edmond O'Connor," answered she.

"Edmond O'Connor!" repeated the girl in unfeigned
surprise, "why, I thought he was in France, eating frogs and
dancing cotillons. What has brought him here P — why, he'll be
taken fora spy and executed on the spot. But seriously, cau
you conceive anything more rash and ill-judged than his
coming over just now ? "

" It is indeed, I greatly fear, very rash," replied the young
lady ; " he is resolved to s-peak with my father once more.''

*' And your father in such a precious ill-humour just at this
precise moment," exclaimed Miss Copland. " I never was so
much afraid of Sir Richard as I have been for the last two
days; he has been a perfect bruin — begging your pardon, my
dear girl — but even you must admit, let filial piety and all the
cardinal virtues say what they will, that whenever Sir
Eichard is recovering from a fit of the gout he is nothing
short of a perfect monster. 1 wager my diamond cross to a
thimble, that he breaks the poor young man's head the
moment he comes within reach of him. But jesting apart, I
i>ar, my dear cousin, that my uncle is in no mood just now
to listen to heroics."

A sharp knocking upon the floor immediately above the
chamber in which the young ladies sate, interrupted the con-
ference at this juncture.

"There is my father's signal — he wants me," exclaimed
Miss Ashwoode, and rising as she spoke, without more ado
she ran to render the required attendance.

" Strange girl," exclaimed Miss Copland, as her cousin's
step was heard ascending the stairs, " strange girl ! — she is
the veriest simpleton I ever yet encountered. All this fuss
to marry a fellow who is, in plain words, little better than a
beggarman — a good-looking beggarman, to be sure, but still
a beggar. Oh, Mary, simple Mary*! I am very much
tempted to despise you — there is certainly something wrong
about you ! I hate to see people without ambition enougn.
even to wish to keep their own natural position. The girl is
full of nonsense; but what's that to me ? she'll zmlearn it all
one day ; but I'm much afraid, simple cousin, a little too late."

Having thus soliloquized, she called her maid, and retired
for the night to her chamber.

O'Connor's Moonlight Walk. 23

CHAPTER V.

OF O'CONNOR'S MOONLIGHT WALK TO THE " COCK AND ANCHOR,"
AND WHAT BEFELL HIM BY THE WAY.

As soon as O'Connor had made some little way from the
scene of his sudden and agitating interview with Miss Ash-
woode, he slackened his pace, and with slow steps began to
retrace his way toward the ciiy. So listless and interrupted
was his progress, that the sun had descended, and twilight was
fast melting into darkness before he reached that poiut in the
road at which diverged the sequestered path which he had
followed. As he approached the spot, he observed a small
man, with a pipe in bis mouth, and his person arranged in an
attitude of ease and graceful negligence, admirably calcu-
lated to exhibit the symmetry and perfection of his bodily
proportions. This man had planted himself in the middle of
the road, HO as completely to command the pass, and, as our
reader need scarcely be informed, was no other than Larry
Toole — the important personage to whom we have already in-
troduced him.

As O'Connor approached, Larry advanced, with a slow and
dignified motion, to receive him : and removing his pipe from
his mouth with a nonchalant air, he compressed the lighted
contents of the bowl with his finger, and then deposited the
utensil in his coat pocket, at the same time, executing, in
a very becoming manner, his most courtly bow. Somewhat
surprised, and by no means pleasantly, at an interruption of so
unlooked-for a kind, O'Connor observed, impatiently, " I have
neither time nor temper, friend, to suffer delay or listen to
foolery ;" and observing that Larry was preparing to follow
him, he added curtly, " I desire no company, sirrah, and
choose to be alone."

"An' it's exactly because you wish to be alone, and likes
solitude," observed the little man, " that you and me will
shoot, being formed by the bountiful hand iv nature, barrin' a
few small exceptions," — here he glanced complacently at his
right leg, which was a little in advance of its companion — " as
similiar as two eggs'."

Being in no mood to tolerate, far less to encourage this"
annoying intrusion, O'Connor pursued his way at a quickened
pace, and in obstinate silence, and in a little time exhibited
a total and very mortifying forgetfulness of Mr. Toole's
bodily proximity. That gentleman, however, was not so
easily to be shaken off — he perseveringly followed, keeping a
pace or two behind.

" It's parfectly unconthrovertible," pursued that worthy,

24 The "Cock and Anchor"

with considerable solemnity and emphasis, "and at laste as
plain as the nose on your face, that you haven't the smallest
taste of a conciption who it is you're spakin' too, Mr.
O'Connor.'

"And pray who may you be, friend ? " inquired he, some-
what surprised at being thus addressed by name.

" Who else would I be, your honour," rejoined the perse-
vering applicant — " who else could I be, if you had but a
erlimmer iv light to contemplate my forrum and fatures, but
Laurence Toole — called by the men for the most part Misthur
Toole, and (he added in a softened tone) by the girls most
commonly designated Larry."

"Ha — Larry — Larry Toole!" exclaimed O'Connor, half
reconciled to an intrusion up to that moment so ill endured.
" Well, Larry, tell me briefly how are the family at the
manor, yonder?"

" Why, plase your honour," rejoined Larry, promptly, "the
ould masthur, that's Sir Richard, is much oftener gouty than
good-humoured, and more's the pity. I b'lieve he's breaking
down very fast, and small blame to him, for he lived hard,
like a rale honourable gentleman. An' then, the young
masthur, that's Masthur Henry — but you didn't know him so
well — he's getting on at the divil's rate — scatt'ring guineas
like small shot. They say he plays away a power of money ;
and he and the masthur himself has often hard words enough
between them about the way things is goin' on ; but he ates
and dhrinks well, an' the health he gets is as 'good as he
wants for his purposes."

" Well — but your young mistress," suggested O'Connor —
"you have not told me yet how Miss Aghwoode has been
ever since. How have her health and spirits been — has she
been well ? "

" Mixed middlin', like belly bacon," replied Mr. Toole, with
an air of profound sympathy — "shilly-shally, sir — off an' on,
like an April day — sometimes atin' her victuals, sometimes
lavin' them — no sartainty. I think the ould masthur's gout
and crossness, and the young one's vagaries, is frettin' her ;
and it's sorry 1 am to see it. An' there's Miss Emily — that's
JVJiss Copland — a rale jovial slip iv a young lady. I think
you've seen her once or twice up at the manor ; but now, since
her father, the ould General, died, she is stayin' for good with
the family. She's a fine lady, and " (drawing close to O'Connor,
and speaking with very significant emphasis) " she has ten
thousand pounds of her own — do you mind me, ten thousand
— it's a good fortune — is not it, sir ? "

He paused for a moment, and receiving no answer, which
he interpreted as a sign that the announcement was operatiug
as it ought, he added with a confidential wink —

O'Connor's Moonlight Walk. 25

" I thought I might as well put you up to it, you know, for
no one knows where a blessin' may light."

" Larry," said O'Connor, after a considerable silence, some-
what abruptly and suddenly recollecting the presence of that
little person — " if you have aught to say to me, speak it
quickly. What may your business be ? "

" Why, bir," replied he, " the long and short of it is, I left
Sir Eichard more than a week since. Not that I was turned
away — no, Mr. O'Connor," continued Mr. Toole, with edifying
majesty, " no sich thing at all in the wide world. My resig-
nation, sir, was the fruit of my own solemn convictions — for
the five years i was with the family, I had no comfort, or aise,
or pace. I may as well spake plain to you, sir, for you, like
myself, is young " — Mr. Toole was certainly at the wrong
side of fifty — " you can aisily understand me, sir, when I siy
that I'm the victim iv romance, bad cess to it — romance, sir ;
my buzzam, sir, was always open to tindher impressions — im-
pressions, sir, that came into it as natural as pigs into a
pittaty garden. I could not shut them out — the short and the
long iv it is, 1 was always fallin' in love, since I was the size
iv a quart pot— eternally fallin' in love." Mr. Toole sighed,
and then resumed. " I done my best to smother my emotions,
but passion, sir, young and ardent passion, is impossible to be
suppressed : you might as well be trying to keep strong beer
in starred bottles durin' the pariod iv the dog days. But I
never knew rightly what love was all out, in rale, terrible
perfection, antill Mistress Betsy came to live in the family.
I'll not attempt to describe her — it's enough to say she fixed
my affections, and done for myself. She is own maid to the
young mistress. I need not expectorate upon the progress
iv my courtship — it's quite enough to observe, that for a consid-
herable time my path was strewed with flowers, antil a young
chap — an English bliggard, one Peter Clout — an' it's many 'a
the clout he got, the Lord be thanked for that same ! — a lump
iv a chap ten times as ugly as the divil, and without more
shapes about him than a pound ofcruds — an impittant, ignorant,
presumptions, bothered, bosthoon — antil this gentleman —

this Misthur Peter Clout, made his b y appearance ; then

all at once the divil's delight began. Betsy — the lovely
Betsy Carey - the lovely, the vartious, the beautiful, and the ex-
alted— began to play thricks. I know she was in love with me
— over head and ears, as bad as myself — but woman is a
m)starious agent, an' bangs Banagher. Long as I've been
larnin', I never could larn why it is they take delight in tor-
mentin' the tindher-hearted."

This reflection was uttered in a tone of tender woe, and the
speaker paused for some symptom of assent from his auditor.
It is, however, hardly necessary to say that he paused in vain.

26 The "Cock and A nchor"

O'Connor had enough to occupy his mind ; and so far from
listening to his companion's narrative, he was scarcely con-
scious that Mr. Toole, in bodily presence, was walking beside
him. That " tindher-hearted" individual accordingly re-
sumed the thread of his discourse.

" Bat, at any rate, she laid herself out to make me jealous
of Peter Clout ; and, with the blessin' iv the divil, she suc-
ceeded complately. Things were going on this way — she
lettin' OD to be mighty fond iv Peter, an' me gettin' angrier
an' angrier, and Mr. Clout more an' more impittent every day,
antill I seen there was no use in purtendin' ; so one mornin'
when we were both of us — myself and Mr. Peter Clout —
clainin' up the things in the pantry, I thought I might as
well have a bit iv discourse with him — when I seen, do ye
mind, there was no use in mortifyin' the chap with con-
tempt, for I did not spake to him, good, bad, or indifferent, for
more than a fortnight, an' he was so ignorant and unmannerly
he never noticed the differ. When I seen there was no use in
keepin' him at a distance, says I to him one day in the
panthry — ' Mr. Clout,' says I, ' your conduct in regard iv some
persons in this house,' says I, ' is iv a description that may be
shuitable to the English spalpeens,' says I, ' but is about as
like the conduct of a gintleman,' says I, * asblackin'is to plate
powder.' So he turns round, an' he looks at me as if I was a
Pollyphamius. ' Mind your work,' says I, ' young man, an*
don't be lookin' at me as if I was a hathian godess,' says I.
' It's Mr. Toole that's speakin' to you, an' you betther mind
•what he says. The long an' the short iv it is, I don't like
you to be hugger-muggering with a sartain delicate famale in
this establishment ; an' it' I catch you talkin' any more to
Misthress Betsy Carey, I give you i'air notice, it's at your
own apparel. Beware of me — for as sure as you don't behave
to my likin', you might as well be in the one panthry with a
hyania,' says J, an' it was thrue for me, an' it was the same
way with my father before me, an' all the Tooles up to the
time of Noah's ark. In pace I'm a turtle-dove all out; but
once I'm riz, I'm a rale tarin' vulture."

Here Mr. Toole paused to call up a look, and after a grim
shake of the head, he resumed.

"Things went on aisy enough for a day or two, antill I
happened to walk into the sarvants' hall, an' who should I see
but Mr. Clout sittin' on the same stool with Misthriss Betsy,
an' his arm round her waist — so when I see that, before any
iv them could come between us, with the fair madness 1 made
one jump at him, an' we both had one another by the windpipe
before yon'd have time to bless yourself. Well, round an'
round we went, rowlin' with our heads and backs agin the
•walls, an' divil a spot of us but was black an' blue, antill we

O'Connor's Moonlight Walk. . 27

kem to the chimney ; an' sure enough when we did, down we
rowled both together, glory be to God ! into the fire, an' upset
a kittle iv wather on top iv us ; an' with that there was sich a
screechin' among the women, an' maybe a small taste from
ourselves, that the masthur kem in, an' if he didn't lay on us
with his walkin' stick it's no matter ; but, at any rate, as soon
as we recovered from the scaldin' an' the bruises. /retired, an*
the English chap was turned away ; an' that's the whole story,
an' I tuk my oath that I'll never go into earvice in a family
again. I can't make any hand of women — they're made for
desthroyin' all sorts iv pace iv mind — they're etarnally triflin'
with the most sarious and sacred emotions. I'll never sarve
any but single gentlemen from this out, if I was to be sacri-
ficed for it — never a bit, by the hokey ! ''

So saying, Mr. Toole, haying, in the course of his harangue,
reproduced his pipe from his pocket, with a view to flourish it
in emphatic accompaniment with the cadences of his voice,
smote the bowl of it upon the edge of his cocked hat, which he
held in his hand, with so much passion, that the head of the
pipe flew across the road, and was for ever lost among the
docks and nettles. One glance he deigned to the stump which
remained in his hand, and then, with an air of romantic reck-
lessness which laughs at all sacrifices, he flung it disdainfully
from him, clapped his cocked hat upon his head with a
vehemence which brought it nearly to the bridge of his
nose, and, planting his hands in his breeches pockets, he
glanced at the stars with a scowl which, if they take any
note of things terrestrial, must have filled them with alarm.

Suddenly recollecting himself, Mr. Toole perceived that his
intended master, having walked on, had left him considerably
behind ; he therefore put himself into an. easy amble, which
speedily brought him up with the chase.

" Mr. O'Connor, plase your honour," he exclaimed, " sure
it's not possible it's groin' to lave me behind you are, an' me
so proud iv your company ; an', moreover, after axin' you for
a situation — that is, always supposin' you want the sarvices iv
a rale dashiu' young fellow, that's up to everything, an'
willing to sarve you in any incapacity. An' by gorra, sir,"
continued he, pathetically, " it's next door to a charity to take
me, for I've but one crown in the wide world left, an' I must
change it to-night ; an' once I change money, the shillin's makes
off with themselves like a hat full of sparrows into the elements,
the Lord knows where.''

With a desolate recklessness, he chucked the crown-piece into
the air, caught it in his palm, and walked silently on.

"Well, well,'' said O'Connor, "if you choose to make so
uncertain an engagement as for the term of my stay in,
Dublin, you are welcome to be my servant tor so long."

28 The " Cock and A nchorl '

"It's a bargain," shouted Mr. Toole— " a ^ bargain, plase
your honour, done and done on both, sides. I'm your man —
hurra ! "

They had already entered the suburbs, and before many
minutes were involved in the dark and narrow streets,
threading their way, as best they might, toward the genial
harbourage cf the '• Cock and Anchor."

CHAPTER VI.

THE SOLDIEK — TUB NIGHT RAMBLE — AND THE WINDOW THAT
LET IN MOKE THAN THE MOONLIGHT.

SHOUT as had been O'Connor's sojourn, it nevertheless had
b^en sufficiently long to satisfy mine host of the "Cock and
Anchor/' an acute observer in such particulars, that whatever
his object might have been in avoiding the more fashionably
frequented inns of the city, economy at least had no share in
his motive. O'Connor, therefore, had hardly entered the public
room of the inn, when a servant respectfully informed him
that a private chamber was prepared for his reception, if he
desired to occupy it. The proposition suited well with his
temper at the minute, and with all alacrity he followed the
waiter, who bowed him upstairs and through a dingy passage
into a room whose claims, if not to elegance, at least to com-
fort, could hardly have been equalled, certainly not excelled,
by the more luxurious pretensions of most modern hotels.

It was a large, capacious chamber, nearly square, wainscoted
with dark shining wood, and decorated with certain dingy old
pictures, which might have been, for anything to the contrary,
appearing in so uncertain a light, chef* d'ceuvre of the mighty
masters of the olden time : at all events, they looked as warm
and comfortable as if they were. The hearth was broad, deep,
and high enough to stable a Kerry pony, and was surmounted
by a massive stone mantelpiece, rudely but richly carved —
abundance of old furniture — tables, at which the saintly
Cromwell might have smoked and boozed, and chairs old
enough to have supported Sir Walter Raleigh himself, were
disposed about the room with a profuseness which argued no
niggard hospitality. A pair of wax-lights burned cheerily
upon a table beside the bright crackling fire which blazed in
the huge cavity of the hearth ; and O'Connor threw himself
into one of those cumbrous, tall-backed, and well-stuffed
chairs, which are in themselves more potent invitations to the

The Soldier. 29

sweet illusive visitings from the world of fancy and of dreams
than all the drugs or weeds of eastern climes. Thus suffering
all his material nature to rest in absolute repos<% he loosed at
once the reins of imagination and memory, and yielded up his
mind luxuriously to their mingled realities and illusions.

He may have been, perhaps, for two or three hours employed
thus listlessly in chewing the cud of sweet and bitter fancy,
when his meditations were interrupted by a brisk step upon
the passage leading to the apartment in which he sate,
instantly succeeded by as brisk a knocking at the chamber
door itself.

" Is this Mr. O'Connor's chamber ? " inquired a voice of
peculiar richness, intonated not unpleasingly with a certain
melodious modification of the brogue, bespeaking a sort of
passionate devil-may-carishness which they say in the good
old times wrought grievous havoc among womankind. The
summons was promptly answered by an invitation to enter ;
and forthwith the door opened, and a comely man stepped
into the room. The stranger might have seen some fifty or
sixty summers, or even more; for his was one of those joyous,
good-humoured, rubicund visages, upon which time vainly
tries to write a wrinkle. His frame was robust and upright,
his stature tall, and there was in his carriage something not
exactly a swagger (for with all his oddities, the stranger was
evidently a gentleman), but a certain rollicking carelessness,
which irresistibly conveyed the character of a reckless, head-
long good-humour and daring, to which nothing could come
amiss. In the hale and jolly features, which many would have
pronounced handsome, were written, in characters which none
could mistake, the prevailing qualities of the man — a gay and
sparkling eye, in which lived the very soul of convivial jollity,
harmonized right pleasantly with a smile, no less of archness
than bonhomie, and in the brow there was a certain inde-
scribable cock, which looked half pugnacious and half comic.
On the whole, the stranger, to judge by his outward man, was
precisely the person to take his share in a spree, be the same
in joke or earnest — to tell a good story— finish a good bottle —
share his last guinea with you — or blow your brains out, as
the occasion might require. He was arrayed in a full suit of
regimentals, and taken for all in all, one need hardly have
desired a better sample of the dashing, light-hearted, dare-
devil Irish soldier of more than a century since.

" Ah ! Major O'Leary," cried O'Connor, starting from hia
seat, and grasping the soldier's hand, " I am truly glad to
see you ; you are the very man of all others I most require
at this moment. I was just about to have a fit of the blue
devils."

''Blue devils!" exclaimed the major; "don't talk to a

30 The "Cock and Anchor''

youngster like me of any such infernal beings ; but tell me
how you are, every inch of you, and what brings you
here?"

"I never was better; and as to my business," replied
O'Connor, " it is too long and too dull a story to tell you just
now; but in the meantime, let us have a glass of Burgundy ;
mine host of the 'Cock and Anchor' boasts a very peculiar
cellar." So saying, O'Connor proceeded to issue the requisite
order.

" That does he, by my soul ! " replied the major, with
alacrity ; " and for that express reason I invariably make it a
point to renew my friendly intimacy with its contents when-
ever I visit the metropolis. But I can't stay more than five
minutes, so proceed to operations with all dispatch."

'•And why all this hurry?" inquired O'Connor. "Where
need you go at this hour ? "

" Faith, I don't precisely know myself," rejoined the soldier;
"but I've a strong impression that my evil genius has con-
trived a scheme to inveigle me into a cock-pit not a hundred
miles away."

"I'm sorry for it, with all my heart, Major," replied
O'Connor, *' since it robs me of your company."

" Nay, you must positively come along with me," resumed
the major ; " I sip my Burgundy on these express conditions.
Don't leave me at these years without a mentor. I rely upon
your prudence and experience; if you turn me loose upon
the town to-night, without a moral guide, upon my con-
science, you have a great deal to answer for. I may be fleeced
in a hell, or milled in a row ; and if I fall in with female
society, by the, powers of celibacy! I can't answer for the
consequences."

" Sooth to say, Major," rejoined O'Connor, " I'm in no mood
for mirth."

" Come, come ! never look so glum, insisted his visitor.
" Remember 1 have arrived at years of ^discretion, and must
be looked after. Man's life, my dear fellow, naturally divides
itself into three great stages ; the first is that in which the
youthful disciple is carefully instructing his mind, and pre-
paring his moral faculties, in silence, for all sorts of villainy—
this is the season of youth and innocence ; the second is that
in which he practises all kinds of rascality — and this is the
flower of manhood, or the prime of life ; the third and last is
that in which he strives to make his soul — and this is the
period of dotage. Now, you see, my dear O'Connor, I have
unfortunately arrived at the prime of life, while you are still
in the enjoyment of youth and innocence; I am practising
what you are plotting. You are, unfortunately for yourself,
a degree more sober than I ; you can therefore take care that

The Soldier. 3 1

I sin with due discretion — permit me to rob or murder, without
being robbed or murdered in return."

Ht-re the major filled and quaffed another glass, and then
continued, —

"In short, I am — to apeak in all solemnity and sobriety —
so drunk, that it's a miracle how I mounted these rascally
stairs without breaking my neck. I have no distinct recol-
lection of the passage, except that I kissed some old hunks
instead of the chamber-maid, and pulled his nose in revenge.
I solemnly declare I can neither walk nor think without
assistance ; my heels and head are inclined to change places,
and I can't tell the moment the body politic may be capsized.
I have no respect in the world for my intellectual or physical
endowments at this particular crisis ; my sight is so infernally
acute that I see all surrounding objects considerably augmented
in number ; my legs have asserted their independence, and
perform ' Sir .Roger de Coverley,' altogether unsolicited ;
jind my memory and other small mental faculties have retired
for the night. Under those melancholy circumstances, my
dear fellow, you surely won't refuse me the consolation of
your guidance.''

" Had not you better, my dear Major," said O'Connor,
" remain with me quietly here for the night, out of the reach of
sharks and sharpers, male and female? You shall have claret
or Burgundy, which you please — enough to fill a skin ! "

" I can't hold more than a bottle additional," replied the
major, regretfully, " if I can even do that ; so you see I'm
bereft of domestic resources, and must look abroad for occu-
pation. The fact is, I expect to meet one or two fellows whom
I want to see, at the place I've named ; so if you can come
along with me, and keep me from falling into the gutters, or
any other indiscretion by the way, upon my conscience, you
will confer a serious obligation on me."

O'Connor plainly perceived that although the major's state-
ment had been somewhat overcharged, yet that his admissions
were not altogether fanciful ; there were in the gallant
gentleman's face certain symptoms of recent conviviality
which were not to be mistaken — a perceptible roll of the eye,
and a slight screwing of the lips, which peculiarities, along
with the faintest possible approximation to a hiccough, and a
gentle see-saw vibration of his stalwart person, were indi-
cations highly corroborative of the general veracity of his
confessions. Seeing that, in good earnest, the major was
not precisely in a condition to be trusted with the manage-
ment of anything pertaining to himself or others, O'Connor
at once resolved to see him, if possible, safely through his
excursion, if after the discussion of the wine which was now
before them, he should persevere in his fancy for a night

32 The "Cock and Anchor"

ramble. They therefore sate down together in harmonious
fellowship, to discuss the flasks which stood upon the board.

O'Connor was about to fill his guest's glass for the tenth
or twelfth time, when the major suddenly ejaculated, —

" Halt ! ground arms ! I can no more. Why, you hardened
young reprobate, it's not to make me drank you're trying ? I
must keep senses enough to behave like a Christian at the
cock-fight ; and, upon my soul ! I've very little rationality to
spare at this minute. Put on your hat, and come without
delay, before I'm fairly extinguished."

O'Connor accordingly donned his hat and cloak, and
yielding the major the double support of his arm on the one
side, and of the banisters on the other, he conducted him
sat'ely down the stairs, and with wonderful steadiness, all
things considered, they entered the street, whence, under
the major's direction, they pursued their way. After a silence
of a few minutes, that military functionary exclaimed, with
much gravity, —

" I'm a great social philosopher, a great observer, and one
who looks quite through the deeds of men. My dear boy,
believe me, this country is in the process of a great moral
reformation ; hospitality — which I take to be the first, and the
last, and the only one of all the virtues of a bishop which is fit
for the practice of a gentleman — hospitality, my dear O'Connor,
is rapidly approaching to a climax in this country. I remem-
ber, when I was a little boy, a gentleman might pay a visit
of a week or so to another in the country, and be all the time
nothing more than tipsy — tipsy merely. However, matters
gradually improved, and that stage which philosophers techni-
cally term simple drunkenness, became the standard of hospi-
tality. This passed away, and the sense of the country, in its
silent but irresistible operation, has substituted blind drunken-
ness ; and in the prophetic spirit of sublime philosophy, I
foresee the arrival of that time when no man can escape the
fangs of hospitality upon any conditions short of brain fever
or delirium tremens."

As the major delivered this philosophic discourse, he led
O'Connor through several obscure streets and narrow lanes,
till at length he paused in one of the very narrowest and
darkest before a dingy brick house, whose lower windows were
secured with heavy bars of iron. The door, which was so
incrusted with dirt and dust that the original paint was hardly
anywhere discernible, stood ajar, and within burned a feeble
and ominous light, so faint and murky, that it seemed fearful
of disclosing the deeds and forms which itself was forced to
behold. Into this dim and suspicious-looking place the major
walked, closely followed by O'Connor. In the hall he was
encountered by a huge savage-looking fellow, who raised his

The Soldier. 33

squalid form lazily from a bench which rested against the wall
at the further end, and in a low, grutf' voice, like the incipient
growl ot a roused watch-dog, inquired what they wanted
there.

"Why, Mr. Creigan, dou't you know Major O'Leary?"
inquired that gentleman. "I and a friend have business
here."

The man muttered something in the way of apology, and
opening the dingy lantern in which burned the wretched
tallow candle which half lighted the place, he snuffed it
with his tinger and thumb, and while so doing, desired the
major to proceed. Accordingly, with the precision of one
who was familiar with every turn of the place, the gallant
officer led O'Connor through several rooms, lighted in the
same dim and shabby way, into a corridor leading directly
to the rearward of the house, and connecting it with gome
other detached building. As they threaded this long passage,
the major turned towards O'Connor, who followed him, and
whispered, —

"Did you mark that ill-looking fellow in the hall ? Poor
Creigan ! — a gentleman ! — would you think it? — a gentleman
by birth, and with a snug property, too — four hundred good
pounds a year, and more — all gone, like last year's snow,
chiefly here in backing mains of his own ! poor dog ! 1
remember him one of the best dressed men on town, and
now he's fain to pick up a few shillings by the week in the
place where he lott his thousands ; this is the state of
man ! "

As he spoke thus, they had reached the end of the passage.
The major opened the door which terminated the corridor, and
thus displayed a scene which, though commonplace enough in
its ingredients, was, nevertheless, in its coup d'oeil, sufficiently
striking. In the centre of a capacious and ill-n'nished cham-
ber stood a circular platform, with a high ledge running
round it. This arena, some fourteen feet in diameter, was
surrounded by circular benches, which rose one outside the
other, in parallel tiers, to the wall. Upon these seats were
crowded some hundreds of men — a strange mixture ; gentle-
men of birth and honour sate side by side with notorious
swindlers; noblemen withcoalheavers; simpletons with sharks;
the unkempt, greasy locks of squalid destitution mingled in
the curls of the patrician periwig; aristocratic lace and
embroidery were rubbed by the dusty shoulders of draymen
and potbovs ; — all these gross and glaring contrarieties recon-
ciled and bound together by one hellish sympathy. All sate
locked iu breathle>s suspense, every countenance fixed in the
hard lines of intense, excited anxiety and vigilance ; all
leaned forward to gaze upon the combat whose crisis was

D

34 The "Cock and Anchor!'

on the point of being determined. Those who occupied the
back seats had started up, and pressing forward, almost
crushed those iu front of them to death. Every aperture in
this living pile was occupied by some eager, haggard, or ruffian
face ; and, spite of all the pushing, and crowding, and bustling,
all were silent, as if the powers of voice and utterance were
unknown among them.

The effect of this scene, so suddenly presented — the crowd
of ill-looking and anxious faces, the startling glare of light,
and the unexpected rush of hot air from the place — all so
confounded him, that O'Connor did not for some moments
direct his attention to the object upon which the gaze of the
fascinated multitude was concentrated ; when he did so he
beheld a spectacle, abstractedly, very disproportioned in in-
terest to the passionate anxiety of which it was the subject.
Two game cocks, duly trimmed, and having the long and
formidable steel weapons with which the humane ingenuity of
"the fancy'' supplies the natural spur of the poor biped,
occupied the centre of the circular stage which we have de-
scribed ; one of the birds lay upon his back, beneath the other,
which had actually sent his spurs through and through his
opponent's neck. In this posture the wounded animal lay,
with his beak open, and the blood trickling copiously through
it upon the board. The victorious bird crowed loud and clear,
and a buzz began to spread through the spectators, as if the
battle were already determined, and suspense at an end.
The " law " had just expired, and the gentlemen whose
business it was to handle the birds were preparing to with-
draw them.

" Twenty to one on the grey cock," exclaimed a large, ill-
looking fellow, who sat close to the pit, clutching his arms
in his brawny hands, as if actually hugging himself with glee,
while he gazed with an exulting grin upon the rombat, whose
issue seemed now beyond the reach of chance. The challenge
was, of course, unaccepted.

"Fifty to one!" exclaimed the same person, still more
ecstatically. " One hundred to one — two hundred to one ! "

" I'll give you one guinea to two hundred." exclaimed per-
haps the coolest gambler in that select assembly, young Henry
Ashwoode, who sat also near the front.

" Done, Mr. Ashwoode — done with you\ it's a bet, sir," said
the same ill-looking fellow.

" Done, sir," replied Ashwoode.

Again the conqueror crowed the shrill note of victory, and
all seemed over, when, on a sudden, by one of those strange
vicissitudes of which the annals of the cock-pit afford so many
examples, the dying bird — it may be roused by the vaunting
challenge of his antagonist — with one convulsive spasm, struck

" Again the conqueror crowed the shrill note of victory."

To face page 34.

The Soldier. 35

both his spurs through and through the head of his opponent,
who dropped dead upon the table, while the wounded bird,
springing to his legs, Happed his wings, as if victory had never
hovered, and then as momentarily fell lifeless on the board, by
this last heroic feat winning a main on which many thousands
of pounds depended. A silence for a moment ensued, and
then there followed the loud exulting cheers of some, and
the hoarse, bitter blasphemies of others, clamorous expostula-
tion, hoarse laughter, curses, congratulations, and invectives —
all mingled with the noise occasioned by those who came in or
went out, the shuffling and pounding of feet, in one torrentaous
and stunning volume of sound.

Young Ashwoode having secured and settled all his bets,
shouldered his way through the crowd, and with some difficulty,
reached the door at which Major O'Leary and O'Connor were
standing.

" How do you do, uncl*1 ? Were you in the room when I took
v the two hundred to one? " inquired the young man.

" By my conscience, I was, Hal, and wish you joy with
all my heart. It was a sporting bet on both sides, and as
game a fight as the world ever saw."

" I must be off," continued the young man. " I promised
to look in at Lady Stukely's to-night; but before 1 go, you
must know they are all affronted with you at the manor. The
girls are positively outrageous, and desired me to command
your presence to-morrow on pain of excommunication."

"Give my tender regards to them both," replied the major,
" and assure them that I will be proud to obey them. But
dou't you know my friend O'Connor," he added, in a lower
tone, " you are old acquaintances, I believe ? "

"Unless my memory deceives me, I have had the honour of
meeting Mr. O'Connor before," said the young man, with a
cold bow, which was returned by O'Connor with more than
equal hauteur. " Recollect, uncle, no excuses," added young
Ashwoode, as he retreated from the chamber — %< you have
promised to give to-morrow to the girls. Adieu."

"There goes as finished a specimen of a mad-cnp, rake-
helly young devil as ever carried the name of Ashwoode or
the blood of the O'Leary X" observed the uncle; " but come,
wft must look to the sport."

So saying, the major, exerting his formidable strength, and
accompanying his turbulent progress with a large distribution
of apologetic and complimentary speeches of the most high-
flown kind, shoved and jostled his way to a vacant place near
the front of the benches, and, seating himself there, began
to give and take bets to a large amount upon the next main.
Tired of the noise, and nearly stifled with the heat of the
place, O'Connor, seeing that the major was resolved to act

D 2

3 6 The ' ' Cock and A nchor"

independently of him, thought that he might as well consult
his own convenience as stay there to be stunned and suffo-
cated without any prospect of expediting the major's retreat ;
he therefore turned about and retraced his steps through
the passage wl:ich we have mentioned. The grateful cool-
ness of the air, and the lassitude induced by the scene in
which he had t*ken a part, though no very prominent one,
induced him to pause in the first room to which the passage,
as we have said, gave access ; and happening to espy a bench
in one of the recesses of the windows, he threw himself upon
it, thoroughly to receive the visit ings of the cool, hovering
air. As he lay listless and silently upon this rude couch,
he was suddenly disturbed by a sound of someone treading
the yard beneath. A figure sprang across toward the window ;
and almost instantaneously Larry Toole— for the moonlight
clearly revealed the features of the intruder — was presented
at the aperture, and with an energetic sprinsr, accompanied
by a no less energetic, devotional ejaculation, that worthy
vaulted into the chamber, agitated, excited, and apparently
at his wits' end.

CHAPTER VII.

THREE GRIM FIGURES IN A LONELY LANE — TWO QUEER GUESTS
HIDING TO TO>Y BLIGH'S — THE WATCHER IN DANGER — AND
THE HIGHWAYMEN.

A LIBERAL and unsolicited attention to the a.ffairs of other
people, was one among the many amiable peculiarities of Mr.
Laurence Toole : he had hardly, therefore, seen the major and
O'Connor fairly beyond the threshold of the " Cock and
Anchor/' when he donned his cocked hat and followed their
steps, allowing, however, an interval sufficiently long to secure
himself against detection. Larry Toole well knew the pur-
poses to which the squalid mansion which we have described
was dedicated, and having listened for a few moments at the
door, to allow his master and his companion time to reach
the inner sanctuary of vice and brutality, whither it was the
will of Major O'Leary to lead his reluctant friend, this faithful
squire entered at the half -open door, and began to traverse
the passage which we have before mentioned. He was not,
however, permitted long to do so undisturbed. The grim sen-
tinel of these unhallowed regions on a sudden upreared his
towering propoitions, heaving his huge shoulders with a very

Three Grim Figures. 37

unpleasant appearance of preparation for an effort, and with
two or three formidable strides, brought himself up with the
presumptuous intruder.

" What do you want here — eh ! you. d d scarecrow ? ''

exclaimed the porter, in a tone which made the very walls to
vibrate.

Larry was too much astounded to reply— he therefore re-
mained mute and motionless.

'* See, my good cove," observed the gaunt porter, in the
same impressive accents of admonition — " make yourself scarce,
d'ye mind ; and if you want to see the pit, go round — we don t
let potboys and pickpockets in at this side — cut and run, or
I'll have to give you a lift."

Larry was no poltroon ; but another glance at the colossal
frame of the porter quelled effectually whatever pugnacious
movements might have agitated his soul ; and the little man,
having deigned one look of infinite contempt, which told his
antagonist, as plainly as any look could do, that he owed his
personal safety solely and exclusively to the sublime and un-
merited pity of Mr. Laurence Toole, that dignitied individual
turned on his heel, and withdrew somewhat precipitately
through the door which he had just entered.

The porter grinned, rolled his quid luxuriously till it made
the grand tour of his mouth, shrugged his square shoulders,
and burst into a harsh chuckle. Such triumphs as the one he
had just enjoyed, were the only sweet drops which mingltd in
the bitter cup of his savage existence. Meanwhile, our ro-
mantic friend, traversing one or two dark lanes, made his way
easily enough to the more public entrance of this temple of
fortune. The door which our friend Larry now approached
lay at the termination of a long and narrow lane, enclosed on
each side with dead walls of brick — at the far end towered the
dark outline of the building, and over the arched doorway
burned a faint and dingy light, without strength enough to
illuminate even the bricks against which it hung, and serving
only in nights of extraordinary 'darkness as a dim, solitary
star, by which the adventurous night rambler might shape
his course. The moon, however, was now shining broad and
clear into the broken lane, revealing every inequality and
pile of rubbish upon its surface, and throwing one side of
the enclosure into black, impenetrable shadow. Without
premeditation or choice, it happened that our friend Larry
was \valking at the dark side of the lane, and shrouded in the
deep obscurity he advanced leisurely toward the doorway.
As he proceeded, his attention was arrested by a figure which
presented itself at the entrance of the building, accompanied
by two others, as it appeared, about to pass forth into the lane
through which he himself was moving. They were engaged

38 The "Cock and Anchor."

in animated deV>ate as they approached — the conversation
•was conducted in low and earnest tones — their gestures were
passionate and sudden — their progress interrupted by many
halts — and the party evinced certain sinister indications of
uneasy vigilance and caution, which impressed our friend
with a dark suspicion of mischief, which was strengthened
by his recognition of two of the persons composing the little
group. His curiosity was irresistibly piqued, and he instinc-
tively paused, lest the sound of his advancing steps should
disturb the conference, and more than half in the undefined
hope that he might catch the substance of their conversation
before his presence should be detected. In this object he was
perfectly successful.

In the form which first offered itself, he instantly detected
the well-known proportions and features of young Ashwoode's
groom, who had attended his master into town ; and in com-
pany with this fellow stood a person whom Larry had just
as little difficulty in recognizing as a ruffian who had twice
escaped the galljws by the critical interposition of fortune —
once by a flaw in the indictment, and again through lack of
sufficient evidence in law — each time having stood his trial on.
a charge of murder. It was not very wonderful, then, that
this startling companionship between, his old fellow- servant
and Will Harris (or, as he was popularly termed, " Brimstone
Bill") should have piqued the curiosity of so inquisitive a
person as Larry Toole.

In company with these worthies was a third, wrapped in a
heavy riding-coat, and who now and then slightly took part
in the conversation. They all talked in low, earnest whispers,
casting many a stealthy glance backward as they advanced
through the dim avenue toward our curious friend.

As the party approached, Larry ensconced himself in the
recess formed by the projection of two dilapidated brick piers,
between which hung a crazy door, and in whose front there
stood a mound of rubbish some three feet in height. In
such a position he not unreasonably thought himself perfectly
secure.

" Why, what the devil ails you now, you cursed cowardly
ninny," whispered Brimstone Bill, through his set teeth —
" what can happen you, win or lose ?— turn up black, or turn
up red, is it not all one to you, you mouth, you ? Your carcase
is safe and sound — then what do you funk for now p Bouse

yourself, you d d idiot, or I'll drive a brace of lead pellets

through your brains — louse yourself ! "

Thus speaking, he shook the groom roughly by the collar.

" Stop, Bill — hands off," muttered the man, sulkily — " I'm
not funking — you know I'm not ; but 1 don't want to see him
finished — I don't want to see him murdered when there's no

Three Grim Figures. 39

occasion for it — there's no great harm in that ; we want his
ribben,not his blood ; there's no profit in taking his life.''

" Booby ! listen to me," replied the ruffian, in the same
tone of intense impatience. " What do / want with his life
any more than you do ? Nothing. Do not I wish to do the
thing genteelly as much as youF He shall not lose a drop of
blood, nor his skin have a scratch, if he knows how to behave
and be a good boy. Bah ! we need but show him the lead
towels, and the job's done. Look yon, I and Jack will sit in
the private room of the 'Bleeding Horse.' Old Tony's a
trump, and asks no questions ; so, as yon pass, give the
window a skelp of the whip, and we'll be out in the snapping
of a flint. Leave the rest to us. Yon have your instructions,
you kedger, so act up to them, and the devil himself can't
spoil our sport."

" You may look out for us, then," said the servant, " in less
than two hours. He never stays late at Lady Stukely's, and
he must be home before two o'clock."

" Do not forget to grease the hammers," suggested the
fellow in the heavy coat.

" He doesn't carry pistols to-night," replied the attendant.

" 80 much the better — all my luck," exclaimed Brimstone—
" I would not swap luck with the chancellor."

" The devil's children, they say," observed the gentleman in
the large coat, "have the devil's luck."

These were the last words Larry Toole could distinguish as
the party moved onward. He ventured, however, although
with grievous tremors, to peep out of his berth to ascertain
the movements of the party. They all stopped at a distance
of some twenty or thirty yards from the spot where he crouched,
and for a time appeared again absorbed in earnest debate.
On a sudden, however, the fellow in the riding-coat, having
frequently looked suspiciously up the lane in which they
stood, stooped down, and, picking up a large stone, hurled it
with his whole force in the direction of the embrasure in which
Larry was lurking. The missile struck the projecting pier
within a yard of that gentleman's head, with so much force
that the stone burst into fragments and descended in a shower
of splinters about his ears. This astounding salute was
instantly followed by an occurrence still more formidable —
for the ruffian, not satisfied with the test already applied,
strode up in person to the doorway in which Larry had placed
himself. It was well for that person that he was sheltered in
front by the mass of rubbish which we have mentioned : at
the foot of this he lay coiled, not daring even to breathe ;
every moment expecting to feel the cold point of the villain's
sword poking against his ribs, and half inclined to start upon
his feet and shout for help, although conscious that to do so

40 The " Cock and A nc/wr"

would scarcely leave him a chance for his life. The suspicions
of the wretch were, fortunately for Larry, ill-directed. He
planted one foot upon the heap of loose materials which, along
with the deep shadow, constituted poor Mr. Toole's only safe-
guard ; and while the stones which his weight dislo.Jged
rolled over that prostrate person, he pushed open the door and
gazed into the yard, lest any inquisitive ear or eye might have
witnessed more than was consistent with the safety of the
confederates of Brimstone Bill. The fellow was satisfied, and
returned whistling, with affected carelessness, towards his
comrades.

More dead than alive, Larry remained mute and motionless
for many minutes, not daring to peep forth from his hiding-
place ; when at length he mustered courage to do so, he saw
the two robbers still together, and again shrunk back into his
retreat. Luckily for the poor wight, the fellow who had
looked into the yard left the door unclosed, which, after a little
lime perceiving, Larry glided stealthily in on all fours, and in
u twinkling sprang into the window at which his master lay,
as we have already recorded.

CHAPTER VIII.

THE WARNING — SHOWING HOW LARRY TOOLE FARED — WHOM HE
SAW AND WHAT HE SAID — AND HOW MUCH GOOD AND HOW
LITTLE HE DID — AND MOREOVER RELATING HOW SOMEBODY
WAS LAID IN THE MIRE — AND HOW HENRY ASHWOODE PUT
HIS FOOT IN THE STIRRUP.

FLURRIED and frightened as Larry was, his agitation was not
strong enough to overcome m him the national, instinctive
abhorrence of the character of an informer. To the close in-
terrogatories of his master, he returned but vague and evasive
answers. A few dark hints he threw out as to the cause of
his alarm, but preserved an impenetrable silence respecting
alike its particular nature and the persons of whose partici-
pation in the scheme he was satisfied.

In language incoherent and nearly unintelligible from ex-
citement, he implored O'Connor to allow him to absent him-
self for about one hour, promising the most important results,
in case his request was complied with, and vowing upon his
return to tell him everything about the matter from beginning
to end.

Seeing the agonized earnestness of the man, though wholly
uuinformed of the cauae of his uneasiness, which Larry con-

The Warning. 41

stantly refused to divulge, O'Connor granted him the per-
mission which he desired, and both left the building together.
O'Connor pursued his way to the " Cock and Anchor,'' where,
restored to his chamber and to solitude, he abandoned himself
once more to the current of his wayward thoughts.

Our friend Larry, however, was no sooner disengaged from
his master, than he began, at his utmost speed, to thread the
narrow and complicated lanes and streets which lay between
the haunt of profligacy which we have just described, and the
eastern extremity of the city. After an interrupted run of
nearly half an hour through pitchy dark and narrow streets,
he emerged into Stephen's Green ; at the eastern side of which,
among other buildings of lesser note, there then stood, and
perhaps (with a new face, and some slight external changes)
still stands, a large and handsome mansion. Toward this
building, conspicuous in the distance by the red glare of
dozens of links and torches which flared and flashed outside,
and by the gay light streaming from its many windows, Larry
made his way. Too eager and hurried to pass along the sides
of the square by the common road, he clambered over the
broken wall which surrounded it, plunged through the broad
trench, and ran among the deep grass and rank weeds, now
heavy with the dews of night ; over the broad area he pur-
sued his way, startling the quiet cattle from their midnight
slumbers, and hastening rather than abating his speed, as he
drew near to the termination of his hurried mission. As he
approached, the long dark train of carriages, every here and
there lighted by some flaming link still unextinguished, and
surrounded by crowds of idle footmen, sufficiently indicated
the scene of Lady Stukely's hospitalities. In a moment
Larry had again crossed the fences which enclosed the square,
and passing the broad road among the carriages, chairs, and
lackeys, he sprang up the steps of the house, and thundered
lustily at the hall-door. It was opened by a gruff and corpu-
lent porter with a red face and majestic demeanour, who,
having learned from Larry that he had an important message
for Mr. Henry Ashwoode, desired him, in as few words as
possible, to step into the hall. The official then swung the
massive door to, rolled himself into his well-cushioned throne,
and having scanned Larry's proportions for a minute or two
with one eye, which he kept halt open for such purposes, he
ejaculated —

" Mr. Finley, I say, Mr. Finley, here's one with a message
upwards." Having thus delivered himself, he shut down his
open eye, screwed his eyebrows, and became absorbed in ab-
struse meditation. Meanwhile, Mr. Finley, in person arrayed
in a rich livery, advanced languidly toward Larry Toole,
throwing into his face a dreamy and supercilious expression,

42 The "Cock and A nchor."

while with one hand he faintly fanned himself with a white
pocket handkerchief.

" Your most obedient servant to command," drawled the
footman, as he advanced. " What can I do, my good soul, to
obleege you ? ''

" 1 only want to see the young master — that's young Mr.
Ashwoode,'' replied Larry, "for one minute, and that's all."

The footman gazed upon him for a moment with a languid
smile, and observed in the same sleepy tone, " Absolutely
impossible — amposseeble, as they say at the Pallais Royal."

"But, blur an' agers," exclaimed Larry, "it's a matther iv
life an' death, robbery an' murdher."

" Bloody murder ! " echoed the man in a sweet, low voice,
and with a stare of fashionable abstraction.

" Well, tear an' 'ounV cried Larry, almost beside himself
with impatience, "if you won't bring him down tome, will
you even as much as carry him a message ? "

"To say the truth, and upon my honour," replied the man,
" I can't engage to climb up stairs just now, they are so
devilish fatiguing. Don't you find them so ? "

The question was thrown out in that vacant, inattentive
way which seems to dispense with an answer.

" By my soul ! " rejoined Larry, almost crying with vexation,
"it's a hard case. Do you mane to tell me, you'll neither
bring him down to me nor carry him up a message ? "

"You have, my excellent fellow," replied the footman,
placidly, " precisely conveyed my meaning."

" By the hokey ! " cried Larry, "you're fairly breaking my
heart. In the divil's name, can you as much as let me stop
here till he's comin' down ? ''

" Absolutely impossible," replied the footman, in the same
dulcet and deliberate tone. " It is indeed amposseeble, as the
Parisians have it. You must be aware, my good old soul,
that you're in a positive pickle. You are, pardon me, my
excellent friend, very dirty and very disgusting. You must
therefore go out in a few moments into the fresh air.'' At
any other moment, such a speech would have infallibly pro-
voked Mr. Toole's righteous and most rigorous vengeance;
but he was now too completely absorbed in the mission which
he had undertaken to suffer personal considerations to have a
place in his bosom.

" Will you, then," he ejaculated desperately, " will you as
much, as give him a message yourselfj when he's comin'
down?"

" What message ? " drawled the lackey.

"Tell him, for the love of God, to take the old road home,
by the seven sallies," replied Larry. "Will you give him
that message, if it isn't too long ? "

The Warning. 43

"I have a wretched memory for messages," observed the
footman, as he leisurely opened the door — u a perfect sieve :
but should he catch my eye as he passes, I'll endeavour, upon
my honour ; good night — adieu ! "

As he thus spoke, Larry had reached the threshold of the
door, which observing, the polished footman, with a non-
chalant and easy air, slammed the hall-door, thereby ad-
ministering upon Larry's back, shoulders, and elbows, such
a bang as to cause Mr. Toole to descend the night of steps at
a pace much more marvellous to the spectators than agreeable
to himself. Muttering a bitter curse upon his exquisite
acquaintance, Larry took his stand among the expectants in
the street ; there resolved to wait and watch for young Ash-
woode, and to give him the warning which so nearly concerned
his safety.

.Meanwhile, Lady Stukely's drawing-rooms were crowded by
the gay, the fashionable, and the frivolous, of all ages. Young
Ashwoode stood behind his wealthy hostess's chair, while she
played quadrille, scarce knowing whether she won or lost, for
Henry Ashwoode had never been so fascinating before. Lady
Stukely was a delicate, die-away lady, not very far from sixty ;
the natural blush upon her nose outblazoned the rouge upon
her cheeks ; several very long teeth — " ivory and ebon alter-
nately " — peeped roguishly from beneath her upper lip, which
her ladyship had a playful trick of screwing down, to conceal
them— a trick which made her ladyship's smile rather a sur-
prising than an attractive exhibition. It is but justice, how-
ever, to admit that she had a pair of very tolerable eyes, with
which she executed the most masterly evolutions. For the
rest, there having existed a very considerable disparity in
years between herself and her dear deceased, Sir Charles
Stukely, who had expired at the mature age of ninety, more
than a year before, she conceived herself still a very young,
artless, and interesting girl ; and under this happy halluci-
nation she was more than half inclined to return in good
earnest the disinterested affection of Henry Ashwoode.

There, too, was old Lord Aspenly, who had, but two days
before, solicited and received Sir Richard A^hwoode's per-
mission to pay his court to his beautiful daughter, Mary.
There, jerking and shrugging and grimacing, he hobbled
through the rooms, all wrinkles and rappee ; bandying com-
pliments and repartees, flirting and tooling, and beyond
measure enchanted with himself, while every interval in
frivolity and noise was filled up with images of his approaching
nuptials and intended bride, while she, poor girl, happily
unconscious of all their plans, was spared, for that night, the
pangs and struggles which weie hereafter but too severely to
try her heart.

44 The "Cock and Anchor."

'Twere needless to enumerate noble peers, whose very titles
are now unknown — poets, who alas ! were mortal — men of
promise, who performed nothing — clever young men, who grew
into stupid old ones — and millionaires, whose money perished
with them ; we shall not, therefore, weary the reader by de-
scribing Lady Stukely's guests ; let it suffice to mention that
Henry Ashwoode left the rooms with young Pigwiggynne, of
Bolton's regiment of dragoons, and one of Lord Wharton's
aides-de-camp. This circumstance is here recorded because it
had an effect in producing the occurrences which we have to
relate by-and-by ; for young Pigwigjjynne having partaken
somewhat freely of Lady Stukely's wines, and being unusually
exhilarated, came forth from the hall-door to assist Ashwoode
in procuring a chair, which he did with a good deal more
noise and blasphemy than was strictly necessary. Our friend
Larry Toole, who had patiently waited the egress of his
quondam young master, no sooner beheld him than he hastened
to accost him, but Pigwiggynne being, as we have said, in high
spirits and unusual good humour, cut short poor Larry's
address by jocularly knocking him on the head with a heavy
walking-cane — a pleasantry which laid that person senseless
upon the pavement. The humorist passed on with an ex-
hilarating crow, after the manner of a cock ; and had not a
matter-of-fact chairman drawn Mr. Toole from among the
coach-wheels where the joke had happened to lay him, we
might have been saved the trouble of recording the subsequent
history of that very active member of society. Meanwhile,
young Ashwoode was conveyed in a chair to a neighbouring
fashionable hotel, where, having changed his suit, and again
equipped himself for the road, he mounted his horse, and
followed by his treacherous groom, set out at a brisk pace
upon his hazardous, and as it turned out, eventful night-ride
toward the manor of Morley Court.

CHAPTEE IX.

THE "BLEEDING HORSE'' — HOLLANDS AND PIPES FOR TWO —
EVERY BULLET HAS ITS BILLET.

AT the time in which the events that we have undertaken
to record took place, there stood at the southern extremity of
the city, near the point at which Camden Street now ter-
minates, a small, old-fashioned building, something between
an ale-house and an inn. It occupied the roadside by no
means unpicturesquely ; one gable jutted into the road, with a

The "Bleeding Horse" 4 5

projecting window, which stood out from the building like a
glass box held together by a massive frame of wood ; and
commanded by this projecting gable, and a few yards in re-
treat, but facing the road, was the inn door, over which hung
a painted panel, representing a white horse, out of whose neck
there spouted a crimson cascade, and underneath, in large
letters, the traveller was informed that this was the genuine old
" Bleeding Horse." Old enough, in all conscience, it appeared
to be, for the tiled roof, except where the ivy clustered over it,
was crowded with weeds of many kinds, and the boughs of the
huge trees which embowered it had cracked and shattered
one of the cumbrous chimney-stacks, and in many places it
was evident that but for the timely interposition of the saw
and the axe, the giant limbs of the old timber would, in the
gradual increase of years, have forced their way through the
roof and the masonry itself — a tendency su fficiently indicated by
sundry indentures and rude repairs in those parts of the
building most exposed to such casualties. Upon the night in
which the events that are recorded in the immediately pre-
ceding chapters occurred, two horsemen rode up to this inn,
and leisurely entering the stable yard, dismounted, and gave
their horses in charge to a ragged boy who acted as hostler,
directing him with a few very impressive figures of rhetoric,
on no account 1o loosen girth or bridle, or to suffer the beasts
to stir one yard from the spot where they stood. This matter
settled, they entered the house. Both were muffled; the one
— a large, shambling fellow — wore a capacious riding-coat;
the other — a small, wiry man — was wrapped in a cloak ; both
wore their hats pressed down over their brows, and had drawn
their mufflers up, so as to conceal the lower part of the face.
The lesser of the two men, leaving his companion in the
passage, opened a door, within which were a few fellows
drowsily toping, and one or two asleep. In a chair by the
fire sat Tony Bligh, the proprietor of the " Bleeding Horse,''
a middle-aged man, rather corpulent, as pale as tallow, and
with a sly, ugly squint. The little man in the cloak merely
introduced his head and shoulders, and beckoned with his
thumb. The signal, though scarcely observed by one other of
the occupants of the room, was instantly and in silence obeyed
by the landlord, who, casting one uneasy glance round, glided
across the floor, and was in the passage almost as soon as the
gentleman in the cloak.

" Here, Tony, boy," whispered the man, as the innkeeper
approached, "fetch us a pint of Hollands, a couple of pipes,
and a glim ; but first turn the key in this door here, and come
yourself, do ye mind?"

Tony squeezed the speaker's arm in token of acquiescence,
and turning a key gently in the lock, he noiselessly opened

46 The "Cock and A nckor"

the door which Brimstone Bill had indicated, and the two
cavaliers strode into the dark and vacant chamber. Brim-
stone walked to the window, pushed open the casement, and
leaned out. The beautiful moon was shining above the old
and tnfted trees which lined the quiet road ; he looked up and
down the shaded avenue, but nothing was moving upon it,
save the varying shadows as the night wind swung the
branches to and fro. He listened, but no sound reached his
ears, excepting the rustling and moaning of the boughs,
through which the breeze was fitfully soughing.

Scarcely had he drawn back again into the room, when Tony
returned with the refreshments which the gentleman had
ordered, and with a dark lantern enclosing a lighted candle.

" Eight, old cove,'3 said Bill. " I see you hav'n't forgot the
trick of the trade. Who are jour pals inside ? "

" Three of them sleep here to-night,'; replied Tony. " They're
all quiet coves enough, such as doesn't hear nor see any more
than they ought."

The two fellows filled a pipe each, and lighted them at the
lantern.

" What mischief are you after now, Bill? " inquired the host,
with a peculiar leer.

" Why should I be after any mischief," replied Brimstone
jocularly, " any more than a sucking dove, eh ? Do I look
like mischief to-night, old tickle-pitcher — do I ? "

He accompanied the question with a peculiar grin, which
mine host answered by a prolonged wink ot no less peculiar
significance.

*' Well, Tony boy," rejoined Bill, "maybe I am and maybe
I aint — that's the way : but mind, you did not see a stim of
me, nor of him, to-night (yrlancing at his comrade), nor ever,
for that matter. But you did see two ill-looking fellows not
a bit like us ; and 1 have a notion that these two chaps will
manage to get into a sort of shindy before an hour's over, and
then mizzle at once; and if all goes well, your hand shall be
crossed with gold to-night."

" Bill, Bill," said the landlord, with a smile of exquisite
relish, and drawing his hand coaxingly over the man's fore-
head, so as to smooth the curls of his periwig nearly into his
eyes, " you're just the same old dodger — you are the devil's
own bird — you have not cast a feather."

It is hard to say how long this tender scene might have
continued, had not the other ruffian knocked his knuckles
sharply on the table, and cried —

"Hist! brother— ch ise it — enough fooling — I hear a horse-
shoe on the road."

All held their breath, and remained motionless for a time.
The fellow was, however, mistaken. Bill again advanced to
the window, and gazed intently through the long vista of trees.

The "B/eeding Horse." 47

" There's not a bat stirring," said he, returning to the table,
and rilling out successively two glasses of spirits, he emptied
them both. "Meanwhile, Tony," continued he, "get back to
your company. Some of the fellows may be poking their
noses into this place. If you don't hear from me, at all events
you'll hear of me before an hour. Hop the twig, boy, and
keep all hard in for a bit — skip/'

With a roguish grin and a shake of the fist, honest Tony,
not caring to dispute the commands of his friend, of whose
temper he happened to know something, stealthily withdrew
from the room, where we, too, shall for a time leave these
worthy gentlemen of the road vigilantly awaiting the approach
of their victim.

Larry Toole had no sooner recovered his senses — which was
in less than a minute — than he at once betook himself to the
" Cock and Anchor,'3 resolved, as the last resource, to inform
O'Connor of the fact that an attack was meditated. Accord-
ingly, he hastened with very little ceremony into the presence
of his master, told him that young Ashwoode was to be way-
laid upon the road, near the " Bleeding Horse," and im-
plored him, without the loss of a moment, to ride in that
direction, with a view, if indeed it might not already be too
late, to intercept his passage, and forewarn him of the danger
which awaited him.

Without waiting to ask one useless question, O'Connor,
before five minutes were passed, was mounted on his trusty
horse, and riding at a hard pace through the dark streets
towards the point of danger.

Meanwhile, young Ashwoode, followed by his mounted
attendant, proceeded at a brisk trot in the direction of the
manor; his brain filled with a thousand busy thoughts and
schemes, among which, not the least important, were sundry
floating calculations as to the probable and possible amount
of Lady Stukely's jointure, as well as some conjectures respect-
ing the maximum duration of her ladyship's life. Involved in
these pleasing ruminations, sometimes crossed by no less
agreeable recollections, in which the triumphs of vanity and
the successes of the gaming-table had their share, he had now
reached that shadowy and silent part of the road at which
stood the little inn, embowered in the great old trees, and
peeping forth with a sort of humble and friendly aspect,
bnt ill-according wilh the dangerous designs it served to
shelter.

Here the servant, falling Fomewhat further behind, brought
his horse close under the projecting window of the inn as he
passed, and with a sharp cut of his whip gave the concerted
signal. Before sixty seconds had elapsed, two well-mounted
cavaliers were riding at a hard gallop in their wake. At this

48 The " Cock and A nchcr"

headlong pace, the foremost of the two horsemen had passed
Ashwoode by some dozen yards, when, checking his horse so
suddenly as to throw him back upon his haunches, he wheeled
him round, and plunging the spurs deep into his flanks, with
two headlong springs, he dashed him madly upon the young
man's steed, hurling the beast and his rider to the earth.
Tremendous as was the fall, young Ashwoode, remarkable
alike for personal courage and activity, was in a moment upon
his feet, with his sword drawn, ready to receive the assault of
the ruffian.

" Let go your skiver— drop it, you greenhorn," cried the
fellow, hoarsely, as he wheeled round his plunging horse, and

drew a pistol from the holster, " or, by the eternal , I'll

blow your head into dust ! "

Young Ashwoode attempted to seize the reins of the fellow's
horse, and made a desperate pass at the rider.

" Take it, then,'' cried the fellow, thrusting the muzzle of the
pistol into Ashwoode's face and drawing the trigger. Fortu-
nately for Ashwoode, the pistol missed fire, and almost at the
same moment the rapid clang of a horse's hoofs, accompanied
by the loud shout of menace, broke startlingly upon his ear.
Happy was this interruption for Henry Ashwoode, for, stunned
and dizzy from the shock, he at that moment tottered, and in

the next was prostrate upon the ground. " Blowed, by ! "

cried the villain, furiously, as the unwelcome sounds reached
his ears, and dashing the spurs into his horse, he rode at a
furious gallop down the road towards the country. This scene
occupied scarce six seconds in the acting. Brimstone Bill, who
had but a moment before come up to the succour of his com-
rade, also heard the rapid approach of the galloping hoofs
upon the road ; he knew that before he could count fifty seconds
the new comer would have arrived. A few moments, however,
he thought he could spare — important moments th^y turned
out to be to one of the party. Bill kept his eye steadily fixed
upon the point some three or four hundred yards distant at
which he knew the horseman whose approach was announced
must first appear.

In that brief moment, the cool-headed villain had rapidly
calculated the danger of the groom's committing his accom-
plices through want of coolness and presence of mind, should
he himself, as was not unlikely, become suspected. The groom's
pistols were still loaded, and he had taken no part in the
conflict. Brimstone Bill fixed a stern glance upon his com-
panion while all these and other thoughts flashed like
lightning across his brain.

'• Darby," said he, hurriedly, to the man who sat half-
stupen'ed in the saddle close beside him, " blaze off the lead
towels— crack them off, 1 say."

The "Bleeding Horse."

49

Bill impatiently leaned forward, and himself drew the pistols
from the groom's saddle-bow ; he fired one of them in the air
— he cocked the other. " This dolt will play the devil with us
all," thought he, looking with a peculiar expression at the
bewildered servant. With one hand he grasped him by the
collar to steady his aim, and with the other, suddenly thrusting

<

the pistol to his ear, and drawing the trigger, he blew the
wretched man's head into fragments like a potsherd ; and
wheeling his horse's head about, he followed his comrade pell-
mell, beating the sparks in showers from the stony road at
every plunge.

All this occurred in fewer moments than it has taken us lines

5O The "Cock and Anchor"

to describe it ; and before our friend Brimstone Bill had
secured the odds which his safety required, O'Connor was
thundering at a furious gallop within less than a hundred
yards of him. Bill saw that his pursuer was better mounted
than he — to escape, therefore, by a fair race was out of the
question. His resolution was quickly taken. By a suddeii
and powerful effort he reined in his horse at a single pull, and,
with one rearing wheel, brought him round upon his antagonist ;
at the same time, drawing one of the large pistols from the
saddle-bow, he rested it deliberately upon his bridle-arm, and
tired at his pursuer, now within twenty yards of him. The
ball passed so close to O'Connor's head that his ear rang shrilly
with the sound of it for hours after. They had now closed ;
the highwayman drew his second pistol from the holster, and
each fired at the same instant. O'Connor's shot was well
directed — it struck his opponent in the bridle-arm, a little
below the shoulder, shattering the bone to splinters. With a
hoarse shriek of agony, the fellow, scarce knowing what he did,
forced the spurs into his horse's si<les; and the animal reared,
wheeled, and bore its rider at a reckless speed in the direction
which his companion had followed.

It was well for him that the shot, which at the same moment
he had discharged, had not been altogether misdirected.
O'Connor, indeed, escaped unscathed, but the ball struck nig
horse between the eyes, and piercing the brain, the poor beast
reared upright and fell dead upon the road. Extricating him-
self from the saddle, O'Connor returned to the spot where
young Ashwoode and the servant still lay. Stunned and
dizzy with the fall which he had had, the excitement of actual
conflict was no sooner over, than Ashwoode sank back into a
state of insensibility. In this condition O'Connor found him,
pale as death, and apparently lifeless. Raising him against
the grassy bank at the roadside, and having cast some water
from a pool close by into his face, he saw him speedily recover.

"Mr. O'Connor," said Ashwoode, as soon as he was suffi-
ciently 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 kaow_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 waut no

The Master of Morley Court. 5 1

vows of friendship, which to-morrow you may regret. Act
with regard to me henceforward as it' 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 to-night
for you ; and once more I pray you tell me, are you much
hurt?"

"Nothing, iioth;ng," 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 fow 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 Ashwonde/at the same
time pressing the prostrate figure with his boot. It had been
lying with the back uppermost, and in a half-kneeling atti-
tude; 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 ou his respective way.

CHAPTER X.

THE MASTER OF MORLEY COURT AND THR 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. lu 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, neverthe-
less, 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

E 2

52 The "Cock and Anchor"

by hungry adventurers, who had lost everything in the revolu-
tionary ware — 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 p re- eminently the
jscene 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 acoompmy 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, arraved in a flowered silk dressinsr-
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 pliei their appointed
task, her soft, dark even 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 o]d man's temper
might not, perhaps, have brooked an interruptioa of his
ruminations, although, if the sour and spited expression of his
face might be trusted, his thoughts wefe 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 E/ichard, 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

The Master of M or ley Court. 5 3

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 pleape you, sir," replied the man, deferentially, "it
comes from Lord Aspenly.

"Eh! oh! ah!" exclaimed Sir Eichard, raising himself
upon the sofa, and extending his hand with alacrity. " Here,
give it to me ; 8O 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 to< k 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 unusuil gratih'cation, 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 to-morrow, of my old, or rather, my most^ar-
ticular 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 awav, 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 unconscious-
ness 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 him>elf.

"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 lite ; I know nothing about him — nothing — and
care as little. Pray what is he pestering about ? — what does
he want here ?''

the

"what does he look Tike? — is he well or ill-dressed? — old or

young? "

54 The "Cock and Anchor"

"A middle-aged man, sir ; rather well-dressed,'3 answered
the servant.

" He did not mention his business? " asked 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 im-
portant and pleasant business," muttered the baronet,
musingly — " important and pleasant ! — Can my old, cross-
grained brother-in-law have mflde 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 good -humour was largely blended with self-import-
tance. 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 busi-
ness has relation to my brother ; is he — is he ill ?"

" Faith, sir," replied the little man bluntly, u 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 in-
debted for the singular good fortune of making your acquain-
tance— in short, sir, I would fain learn the object of your
visit."

" That you shall, sir — that you shall, in a trice," replied

The Master of Morley Court. 5 5

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 layiag 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 unsatis-
factory listener to a narrative of half-an-hour's length," ob-
served Sir Richard, drily ; " m 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,'1
replied the little gentleman, wiping his face witn his hand-
kerchief, 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 tete-a-tete — when I hope we shall
meet upon a pleasanter/oo^wgr — 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 gentle-
man. " 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 gamingtable,
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 1 kept hammering at
the funds, winning twice for every once I lost. In fact, sir,
1 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,

56 The "Cock and A nchor"

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 matrimooy
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 ho, 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 — jou 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.
"1 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 ;
lor 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 till
any place in all the world — a high-spirited, good-hearted,
dashing young rascal — you know something of him, iSir
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

The Master of M or ley Court. 57

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—

" 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 something 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 J — cunning little J— 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
email 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 res-idence for a noble-
man."

"Are these chateaux in Spain?" inquired Sir Richard,
sneeringly.

"No, no, sir," replied the little man, with perfect guileless-
ness ; " both in Flanders."

" VVell, air," 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
latiguing, 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, con-
sequently, 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 in-
clination 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

5 8 The " Cock and A nchor"

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 mar-
riage to a gentleman of exalted rank and great fortune, and
•who is, in all respects, an unexceptionable connection. 1 have
the honour, sir, to wish you good-morning."

" The devil ! " exclaimed the little gentleman, as soon as
his utter amazement allowed him to take breath. A long
pause ensued, during which he twice inflated his cheeks to
their utmost tension, and puffed the air forth with a prolonged
whistle of desolate wonder. Recollecting himself, however,
he hastily arose, wished Sir Richard good-day, and walked
down staird, and out of the house, all the way muttering,
" God bless my body and soul — a thousand pounds a year —
the devil — can it be? — body o' me — refuse a thousand a year
— what the deuce is he looking for?" — and such other ejacu-
lations ; stamping all the while emphatically upon every stair
as he descended, to give vent to his indignation, as well as
impressiveness to his remarks.

Something like a smile for a moment lit up the withered
features of the old baronet ; he leaned back luxuriously upon
his sofa, and while he listened with delighted attention to the
stormy descent of his visitor, he administered to its proper
receptacle, with prolonged relish, two several pinches of
rappee.

" So, so," murmured he, complacently, " I suspect I have
seen the last of honest Mr. Audley — a little surprised and a
little angry he does appear to be — dear me ! — he stamps fear-
fully— what a very strange creature it is.''

Having made this reflection, Sir Richard continued to
listen pleasantly until the sounds were lost in the distance;
he then rang a small hand-bell which lay upon the table, and
a servant entered.

" Tell Mistress Mary," said the baronet, " that I shall not
want her just now, and desire Mr. Henry to come hither
instantly — begone, sirrah."

The servant disappeared, and in a few moments young
Ashwoode, looking unusually pale and haggard, and dressed
in a morning suit, entered the chamber. Having saluted his
father with the formality which the usages of the time pre-
scribed, and having surveyed himself for a moment at the
large mirror which stood in the room, and having adjusted
thereat the tie of his lace cravat, he inquired, —

" Pray, sir, who was that piece of ' too, too solid flesh '
that passed me scarce a minute since upon the stairs, pound-
ing all the way with the emphasis of a battering ram ? As
far as I could judge, the thing had just been discharged from
your room."

The Master of M or ley Court. 59

"You have happened, for once in your life, to talk with
relation to the subject to which I would call your attention,"
said Sir Richard. " The person whom you describe with your
wonted facetiousness, has just been talking with me; his name
is Audley ; I never saw him till this morning, and he came
coolly to make proposals, in young O'Connor's name, for your
sister's hand, promising to settle some scurvy chateaux, heaven
knows where, upon the happy pair."
" Well, sir, and what followed ? " asked the young man.
"Why simply, sir," replied his father, "that I gave him
the answer which sent him stamping down stairs, as you saw
him. I laughed in his face, and desired him to go about his
business."

" Very good, indeed, sir,'' observed yonng Ashwoode.
"There is no occasion for commentary, sir," continued Sir
Richard. <- Attend to what I have to say: a nobleman of
large fortune has requested my permission to make his suit to
your sister — that I have, of course, granted; he will arrive
here to-morrow, to make a stay of some days. I am resolved
the thing shall be concluded. I ought to mention that the
nobleman in question is Lord Aspenly."

The young man looked for a moment or two the very im-
personation of astonishment, and then burst into an uncon-
trollable tit of laughter.

" Either l>e silent, sir, or this moment quit the room," said
Sir Richard, in a tone which few would have liked to disobey
— " how dare you — you — you insolent, dependent coxcomb —
how dare you, sir, treat me with this audacious disrespect? ''

The young man hastened to avert the storm, whose violence
he had more than once bitterly felt, by a timely submission.

" I assure you, sir, nothing was further from my intention
than to offend you," said he — " I am fully alive — as a man of
the world, I could not be otherwise — to the immense advan-
tages of the connection; but Lord Aspenly I have known so
long, and always looked upon as a confirmed old bachelor,
that on hearing his name thus suddenly, something of incon-
gruity, and — and — and J don't exactly know what — struck me
so very forcibly, that I involuntarily and very thoughtlessly
began to laugh. I assure you, sir, I regret it very much, if it
has offended you."

" You are a weak fool, sir, I am afraid," replied his father,
shortly : '* but that conviction has not come upon me by sur-
prise ; you can, however, be of some use in this matter, and
I am determined you shall be. Now, sir, mark me : I
suspect that this young fellow — this O'Connor, is not so in-
different to Mary as he should be to a daughter of mine, and
it is more than possible that he may endeavour to maintain,
his interest in her affections, imaginary or real, by writing

60 The "Cock and Anchor?

letters, sending messages, and such manoeuvring. Now, you
must call upon the young man, wherever he is to be found,
and either procure from him a distinct pledge to the effect
that he will think no more of her (the young fellow has a
sense of honour, and I would rely upon his promise), or else
you must have him out — in short, make him fight you — you
attend, sir — if you get hurt, we can eaeily make the country
too hot to hold him ; and if, on the other hand, ynu poke him
through the body, there's an end of the whole difficulty. This
step, sir, you must take— you understand me — I am very much
in earnest."

This was delivered with a cold deliberateness, which young
Ashwoode well understood, when his father used it to imply a
fixity of purpose, such as brooked no question, and halted at
no obstacle.

" Sir," replied Henry Ashwoode, after an embarrassed pause
of a few minutes, " you are not aware of one particular con-
nected with last night's affray — you have heard that poor
Darby, who rode with me, was actually brained, and that I
escaped a like fate by the interposition of one who, at his own
personal risk, saved my life — that one was the very Edmond
O'Connor of whom we speak."

" What you allude to," observed Sir Richard, with very
edifying coolness, "is, no doubt, very shocking and very horri-
ble. I regret the destruction of the man, although I neither
saw nor knew much about him ; and for your eminently provi-
dential escape, I trust I am fully as thankful as I ought to
be ; and now, granting all you have said to be perfectly accu-
rate— which I take it to be — what conclusion do you wish me
to draw from it P "

" Why, sir, without pretending to any very extraordinary
proclivity to gratitude," replied the young man— " for O'Connor
told me plainly that he did not expect any — T must consider
what the world will say, if I return what it will be pleased to
regard as an obligation, by challenging the person who con-
ferred it."

"Good, sir — good," said the baronet, calmly: and gazing
upon the ceiling with elevated eyebrows and a bitter smile, lie
added, reflectively, "he's afraid — afraid — afraid — ay, afraid —
afraid."

" You wrong me very much, sir," rejoined young Ashwoode,
" if you imagine that fear has anything to do with my reluc-
tance to act as you would have me ; and no less do you wrong
me, if you think I would allow any school-boy sentimentalism
to stand in the way of my family's interests. My real ob-
jection to the thing is this — first, that I cannot see any satis-
factory answer to the question, What will the world say of my
conduct, in case I force a duel upon him the day after he has

The Master of M or ley Court. 6 1

saved my life? — and again, T think it inevitably damages any
young woman in the matrimonial market, to have low duels
fought about her."

Sir Richard screwed his eyebrows reflectively, and remained
silent.

" But at the same time, sir/' continued his son, " I see as
clearly as you could wish me to do, the importance, under
present circumstances — or rather the absolute necessity — of
putting a stop to O'Connor's suit ; and, in short, to all com-
munication between him and my sister, and I will undertake
to do this effectually."

" And how, sir, pray ? '' inquired the baronet.

" I shall, as a matter of course, wait upon the young man,"
replied Henry Ashwoode — " his services of last night demand
that I should do so. I will explain to him, in a friendly way,
the hopelessness of his suit. I should not hesitate either to
throw a little colouring of my own over the matter. If I can
induce O'Connor once to regard me as his friend — and after
all, it is but the part of a friend to put a stop to this foolish
affair — I will stake my existence that the matter shall be
broken off for ever and a day. If, however, the young fellow
turn out foolish and pig-headed, I can easily pick a quarrel
with him upon some other subject, and get him out of the way
as you propose; but without mixing up my sister's name in
the dispute, or giving occasion for gossip. However, I half
suspect that it will require neither crafty stratagem nor shrewd
blows to bring this absurd business to an end. I daresay the
parties are beginning to tire heartily of waiting, and perhaps
a little even of one another ; and, for my part, I really do not
know that the girl ever cared for him, or gave him the smallest
encouragement.''

" But J know that she did," replied Sir Richard. "Carey
has shown me letters from her to him, and from him to her,
not six months since. Carey is a very useful woman, and
may do us important service. I did not choose to mention
that I had seen these letters; but I sounded Miry somewhat
sternly, and left her with a caution which I think must have
produced a salutary effect — in short, I told her plainly, that
it' I had reason to suspect any correspondence or understand-
ing between her and O'Connor, I should not scruple to resort
to the sternest and most rigorous interposition of parental
authority, to put an end to it peremptorily. I confess, how-
ever, that I have misgivings about this. I regard it as a very
serious obstacle — one, however, which, so sure as I live, I will
entirely annihilate."

There was a pause for a little while, and Sir Richard con-
tinued,—

" There is a good deal of sense in what you have suggested.

62 The "Cock and Anchor."

We will talk it over and arrange operations systematically
this evening. I presume you intend calling upon the fellow
to-day ; it might not be amiss if you had him to dine with
you once or twice in town : you must get up a kind of confi-
dential acquaintance with him, a thing which you can easily
terminate, as soon as its object is answered. He is, I believe,
what they call a frank, honest sort of fellow, an«l is, of course,
very easily led ; and— and, in short — made & fool of: as for
the girl, I think I know something of the sex, and very few of
them are so romantic as not to understand the value of a title
and ten thousand a year! Depend upon it, in spite of all
her sighs, and vapours, and romance, the girl will be dazzled
so effectually before three weeks, as to be blind to every other
object in the world ; but if not, and f-hould she dare to oppose
my wishes, I'll make her cross-grained folly more terrible to
her than she dreams of — but she knows me too well — she dares
not."

Both parties remained silent and abstracted for a time, and
then Sir Richard, turning sharply to his son, exclaimed, with
his usual tart manner, —

"And now, sir, I must admit that T am a good deal tired of
your very agreeable company. Go about your business, if you
please, and he in this room this evening at half-past six o'clock.
You had better not forget to be punctual; and, for the present,
get out of my sight."

With this very affectionate leave-taking, Sir Richard put
an end to the family consultation, and the young man, relieved
of the presence of the only person on earth whom he really
feared, gladly closed the door behind him.

CHAPTER XT.

THE OLD BEECH-TREE WALK AND THE IVY-GBOWN GATEWAY —
THE TRYSTE AND THE CRUTCH-HANDLED CANE.

IN the snug old " Cock and Anchor,'" the morning after the
exciting scenes in which O'Connor had taken so active a part,
that gentleman was pacing the floor of his sitting-room in no
email agitation. On the result of that interview, which he
had resolved no longer to postpone, depended his happiness
for years — it might be for life. Again and again he applied
himself to the task of arranging clearly and concisely, and
withal adroitly and with tact, the substance of what he had
to say to Sir Richard Ashwoode. But, spite of all, his mind

The Old Beech-Tree Walk. 63

would wander to the pleasant hours he had passed with Mary
Ashwoode in the quiet green wood and by the dark well's side,
and through the moss-grown rocks, and by the chiming current
of the wayward brook, long before the cold and worldly had
suspected and repulsed that love which he knew could never
die but when his heart had ceased to beat for ever. Again
would he, banishing with a stoical effort these unbiddeji
visions of memory, seek to accomplish the important task
which he had proposed to himself; but still all in vain. There
was she once more — there was the p->le, pensive, lovely face
— there the long, dark, silken tresses — there the deep, beautiful
eyes — and there the smile — the artless, melancholy, enchant-
ing smile.

" It boots not trying," exclaimed O'Connor. " I cannot
collect my thoughts; and yet what use in conning over the
order and the words of what, after all, will be judged merely
by its meaning ? Perhaps it is better that I should yield my-
self wholly up to the impulse of the moment, and so speak but
the more directly and the more boldly. No ; even in such a
cause I will not accommodate myself to his cramp and crooked
habits of thought and feeling. If I let him know all, it
matters little how he learns it."

As O'Connor finished this sentence, his meditations were
dispelled by certain sounds, which issued from the passage
leading to his room.

" A young man," exclaimed a voice, interrupted by a good
deal of puffing and blowing, probably caused by the steep
ascent, "and a good-looking, eh ?— (puff) — dark eyes, eh ? —
(puff, puff)— black hair and straight nose, eh? — (puff, puff) —
long-limbed, tall, eh ?— (puff)."

The answers to the.se interrogatories, whatever they may
have been, were, where O'Connor stood, wholly inaudible ;
but the cross-examination was accompanied throughout by a
stout, firm, stumping tread upon the old floor, which, along
with the increasing clearness with which the noise made its
way to O'Connor's door, sufficiently indicated that the speaker
was approaching. The accents were familiar to him. He
ran to his door, opened it ; and in an instant Hugh Audley,
Esquire, very hot and very much out of breath, pitched him-
self, wilh a good deal of precision, shoulders foremost, against
the pit of the young man's stomach, and, embracing him a
little above the hips, hugged him for some time in silence,
swaying him to and fro with extraordinary energy, as if pre-
paratory to tripping him up, and taking him off his feet
altogether — then giving him a shove straight from him, and
holding him at arm's length, he looked with brimful eyes,
and a countenance beaming with delight, full in O'Connor's
face.

64 The "Cock and Anchor"

"Confound the dog, how well he looks," exclaimed the old
gentleman, vehemently — " devilish well, curse him ! " and he
gave O'Connor a shove with his knuckles, and succeeded in
staggering himself — " never saw you look better in my life,
nor anyone else for that matter ; and how is every inch of you,
and what have you been doing with yourself ? Cotne, you
young dog, account for yourself.''

' O'Connor had now, for the first time, an opportunity of
bidding the kind old gentleman welcome, which he did to the
full as cordially, if not so boisterously.

" Let me sit down and rest myself : I must take breath for
a minute,'5 exclaimed the old gentleman. " Give me a chair,
you nndutiful rascal. What a devil of a staircase that is, to
be sure. Well, and what do you intend doing with yourself
to-day?"

" To say the truth," said the young man, while a swarthier
glow crossed his dark features. "I was just about to start for
Morley Court, to see Sir Eichard Ashwoode."

k' About his daughter, I take it ? " inquired the old gentle-
man.

"Just so, sir," replied the younger man.
"Then you may spare yourself the pains," rejoined the old
gentleman, briskly. " You are better at home. You have
been forestalled."

" What — how, sir ? What do you mean ? " asked O'Connor,
in great perplexity and alarm.

" Just what [ say, my boy. You have been forestalled."
"By whom, sir?"
" By me."
" By you ? "
" Ay."

The old gentleman screwed his brows and pursed up his
mouth until it became a Gordian involution of knots and
•wriukles, threw a fierce and determined expression into his
eyes, and wagged his head slightly from side to side — looking
altogether very like a " Cromwell guiltless of his country's
blood." At length he said, —

"I'm an old fellow, and ought to know something by this
time— -think I do, for that matter ; and I say deliberately —
cut the whole concern and blow them all."

Having thus delivered himself, the old gentleman resumed
his sternest expression of countenance, and continued in
silence to wag his head from time to time with an air of infi-
nite defiance, leaving his young companion, if possible, more
perplexed and bewildered than ever.

" And have you, then, seen Sir Eichard Ashwoode ? " in-
quired O'Connor.

'• Have I seen him ? " rejoined the old gentleman. " To be

The Old Beech-Tree Walk. 65

snre I have. The moment the boat touched the quay, and I
fairly felt terra firma, I drove to the ' Fox in Breeches,' and
donned a handsome suit" — (here the gentleman glanced
cursorily at his bottle-green habiliments) — "I ordered a
hack-coach — got safely to Morley Court — saw Sir Kichard,
laid up with the gout, looking just like an old, dried-up, cross-
grained monkey. There was, of course, a long explanation,
and all that sort of thing — a good deal of tact and diplomacy
on my side, doubling about, neat fencing, and circumbendi-
bus ; but all would not do — an infernal smash. Sir Richard
was all but downright uncivil — would not hear of it — said
plump and plain he would never consent. The fact is, he's a
sour, hard, insolent old scoundrel, and a bitter pill ; and I
congratulate you heartily on having escaped all connection
with him and his. Don't look so down in the mouth about
the matter ; there's as good fish in the sea as ever was caught ;
and if the young woman is half such a shrew as her father is a
tartar, you have had ail escape to be thankful for the longest
day you live."

We shall not attempt to describe the feelings with which
O'Connor received this somewhat eccentric communication.
He folded his arms upon tbe table, and for many minutes
leaned his head upon them, without motion, and without
uttering one word. At length he said, —

" After all, I ought to have expected this. Sir Eichard is a
bigoted man in his own faith — an ambitious and a worldly
man, too. It was folly, mere folly, knowing all this, to look
for any other answer from him. He may indeed delay our
union for a little, but he cannot bar it — he shall not bar it. I
could more easily doubt myself than Mary's constancy ; and
if she be but firm and true — and she is all loyalty and all
truth — the world cannot part us two. Our separation cannot
outlast his life ; nor shall it last so long. I will overcome her
scruples, combat all her doubts, satisfy her reason. She will
consent — she will be mine — my own — through life and until
death. No hand shall sunder us for ever,'' — he turned to the
old man, and grasped his hand — " My dear, kind, true friend,
how can I ever thank you for all your generous acts of kind-
ness. I cannot."

" Never mind, never mind, my dear boy," said the old
gentleman, blubbering in spite of himself — "never mind —

what a d d old fool I am, to be sure. Come, come, you

shall take a turn with me towards the country, and get an
appetite for dinner. You'll be as well as ever in half an hour.
When all's done, you stand no worse than you did yesterday ;
and if the girl's a good girl, as I make no doubt she is, why,
you are sure of her constancy — and the devil himself shall not
part you. Confound me if L don't run away with the girl for

66 The "Cock and Anchor" ,

you myself if you make a pother about the matter. Come
along, you dog— come along. I say."

"Nay, sir," replied O'Connor/" forgive me. I am keenly
pained. I am agitated— confounded at the suddenness of this
— this dreadful blow. I will go alone, pardon me, my kind
and dear friend, I must go alone. I may chance to see the
lady. I am sure she will not fail me — she will meet me.
Oh ! heart and brain, be still — be steady — I need your best
counsels now. Farewell, sir — for a little time, farewell."

** Well, be it so — since so it must be," said Mr. Audley,
who did not care to combat a resolution, announced with all
the wild energy of despairing passion, "by all means, my
dear boy, alone it shall be, though I scarce think you would
be the worse of a staid old fellow's company in your ramble
— but no matter, boys wJl be boys while the world goes
round."

The conclusion of this sentence was a soliloquy, for O'Con-
nor had already descended to the inn yard, where he procured
a horse, and was soon, with troubled mind and swelling heart,
making rapid way toward Morley Court. It was now tue
afternoon — the sun had made nearly half his downward
course — the air was soft and fresh, and the birds sang sweetly
in the dark nooks and bowers of the tall trees : it seemed
almost as if summer had turned like a departing beauty, with
one last look of loveliness to gladden the scene which she was
regretfully leaving. So sweet and still the air — so full and
mellow the thrilling chorus of merry birds among the rustling
leaves, flitting from bough to bough in the clear and lofty
shadow — so cloudless the golden flood, of sunlight. Such was
the day — so gladsome the sounds — so serene the aspect of all
nature— as O'Connor, dismounting under the shadow of a tall,
straggling hawthorn hedge, and knotting the bridle in one of
its twisted branches, crossed a low stile, and thus entered the
grounds of Morley Court. He threaded a winding path
which led through a neglected wood of thorn and oak, and
found himself after a few minutes in the spot he sousrht. The
old beech walk had been once the mnia avenue to the house.
Huge beech-trees flung their mighty boughs high in air across
its long perspective — and bright as was the day, the long laue
lay in shadow deep and solemn as that of some old Gothic
aisle. Down this dim vista did O'Connor pace with hurried
steps toward the spot where, about midway in its length,
there stood the half-ruined piers and low walls of what had
once been a gateway.

" Can it be tiiat she shrinks from this meeting ? * thought
O'Connor, as his eye in vain sought the wished-for form of
Mary Ashwoode, " will she disappoint me ? — snrely she who
has walked with me so many lonely hours in guileless trust

The Old Beech-Tree Walk. 67

mvl not have feared ti meet me here. It was not generous
to deny me this boon — to her so easy — to me so rich — yet
perchance she judges wisely. What boots it that I should see
her? Why see again that matchless beauty — that touching
smile — those eyes that looked so fondly on me ? Why see her
more — since mayhap we shall never meet again ? She means
it kindly. Her nature is all nobleness — all generosity ; and
yet— and yet to see her no more — to hear her voice no more —
have we — have we then parted at last for evei ? But no — by
heavens — 'tis she — Mary ! "

It was indeed Mary Ashwoode, blushing and beautiful as
ever. In an instant O'Connor stood by her side.

" My own — my true-hearted Mary."

"Oh! Edmond," said she, after a brief silence,"! fear I
have done wrong — have I P — in meeting you thus. I ought
not — indeed I know 1 ought not to have come."

" Nay, Mary, do not speak thus. Dear Mary, have we
not been companions in many a pleasant ramble: in those
times — the times, Mary, that will never come again P Why,
then, should you deny me a few minutes' mournful converse,
where in other days we two have passed so many pleasant
hours P "

There was in the tone in which he spoke something so un-
utterably melancholy— and in the recollections which his few
simple words called crowding to her mind, something at once
so touching, so dearly cherished, and so bitterly regretted —
that the tears gathered in her full dark eyes, and fell one by
one fast and unheeded.

" You do not grieve, then, Mary," said he, " that you have
come here — that we have met once more : do you, Mary ? "

"No, no, Edmond — no, indeed," answered she, sobbing.
" God knows I do not, Edmond — no, no."

" Well, Mary," said he, " I am happy in the belief that you
feel toward me just as you used to do — as happy as one so
wretched can hope to be."

"Edmond, your words affright me," said she, fixing her
eyes full upon him with imploring earnestness: "you look
sadder — paler than you did yesterday ; something has
happened since then. What — what is it, Edmond ? tell me —
ah, tell me!"

"Yes, Mary, much has happened," answered he, taking her
hand between both of his, and meeting her gaze with a look
of passionate sorrow and tenderness — "yes, Mary, without my
knowledge, the friend of whom I told you had arrived, and
this morning saw your father, told him all, and was repulsed
with sternness — almost with insult. Sir Richard has resolved
that it shall never be ; there is no more hope of bending him
— none — none — none."

p 2

68 The "Cock and Anchor?'

While O'Connor spoke, the colour in Mary's cheeks came
and fled in turn with quick alternations, in answer to every
throb and flutter of the poor heart within.

" See him — speak to him — yourself, Edmond, yourself. Oh !
do not despair — see him — speak to him," she almost whispered,
for agitation had well-nigh deprived her of voice — " see him,
Edmond — yourself — for God's sake, dear Edmond — yourself —
yourself" — and she grasped his arm in her tiny hand, and
gazed in his pale face with such a look of agonized entreaty
as cut him to the very heart.

" Yes, Mary, if it seems good to you, I will speak to him
myself," said O'Connor, with deep melancholy. " 1 will, Mary,
though my own heart — my reason — tells me it is all — all
utterly in vain ; but, Mary," continued he, suddenly changing
his tone to one of more alacrity, " if he should still reject me
— if he shall forbid our ever meeting more — -if he shall declare
himself unalterably resolved against our union — Mary, in
'such a case, would you, too, tell me to see you no more —
would you, too, tell me to depart without hope, and never
come again ? or would you, Mary — could you — dare you—-
dear, dear Mary, for once — once only — disobey your stern and
haughty father — dare you trust yourself with me — fly with me
to France, and be at last, and after all, my own — my bride ? "

" ISTo, Edmond," said she, solemnly and sadly, while her eyes
again tilled with tears ; and though she trembled like the leaf
on the tree, yet he knew by the sound of her sad voice that
her purpose could not alter— •" that can never be — never,
Edmond — no — no."

" Then, Mary, can it be,5' he answered, with an accent so
desolate that despair itself seemed breathing in its tone —
" can it be, after all — all we have passed and proved — all our
love and constancy, and all our bright hopes, so long and
fondly cherished — cherished in the midst of grief and diffi-
culty—when we had no other stay but hope alone — are we,
after all— at last, to part for ever ?— is it, indeed, Mary, all— all
over ? "

As the two lovers stood thus in deep and melancholy con-
verse by the ivy-grown and ruined gateway, beneath the airy
shadow of the old beech-trees, they were recalled to other
thoughts by the hurried patter of footsteps, and the rustling
of the branches among the underwood which skirted the
avenue. As fortune willed it, however, the intruder was no
other than the honest dog, Rover, Mary's companion in many
a silent and melancholy ramble ; he came sniffing and bound-
ing with boisterous greeting to hail his young mistress and
her companion. The interruption, harmless as it was, startled
Mary Ashwoode.

" Were my father to find us here, Edmond," said she, " it

The Old Beech-Tree Walk. 69

were fatal to all our hopes. You know his temper well. Let
us then part here. Follow the by-path leading to the house.
Go and see him — speak with him for my sake — for my sake,
Edmond — and so — and so— farewell."

" And farewell, Mary, since it must be," said O'Connor,
with a bitter struggle. " Farewell, but only for a time — only
for a little time, Mary ; and whatever befalls, remember —
remember me. Farewell, Mary."

As he thus spoke, he raised her hand to his lips, and kissed
it for the first time, it might be for the last, in his life. For a
moment he stood, and gazed with sad devotion upon the loved
face. Then, with an effort, he turned abruptly away, and
strode rapidly in the direction she had indicated ; and when he
turned to look again, she was gone.

O'Connor followed the narrow path, which, diverging a
little from the broad grass lane, led with many a wayward
turn among the tall trees toward the house. As he thus
pursued his way, a few moments of reflection satisfied him of
the desperate nature of the enterprise which he had under-
taken. But if lovers are often upon unreal grounds despond-
ing, it is likewise true that they are sometimes sanguine when
others would despair ; and, spite of all his misgivings — of all
the irresistible conclusions of stern reason — hope still beckoned
him on. Thus agitated, he pursued his way, until, on turning
an abrupt angle, he beheld, scarcely more than a dozen paces
in advance, and moving slowly toward him in the shadowy
pathway, a figure, at sight of which, thus suddenly presented,
he recoiled, and stood for a moment fixed as a statue. He
had encountered the object of his search. The form was that
of Sir Richard Ashwoode himself, who, wrapped in his scarlet
roqnelaure, and leaning upon the shoulder of his Italian valet,
while he limped forward slowly and painfully, appeared full
before him.

" So, so, so, so," repeated the baronet, at first with unaffected
astonishment, which speedily, however, deepened into intense
but constrained anger — his dark, prominent eyes peering
fiercely upon tho young man, while, stooping forward, and
clutching his crutch-handled cane hard in his lean fingers, he
limped first one and then another step nearer.

" Mr. O'Connor ! or my eyes deceive me."

" Yes, Sir Richard," replied O'Connor, with a haughty bow,
and advancing a little toward him in turn. " I am that
Edmond O'Connor whom you once knew well, and whom it
would seem you still know. I ought, doubtless — "

" Nay, sir, no flowers of rhetoric, if you please," interrupted
Sir Richard, bitterly— "no fustian speeches — to the point — to
the point, sir. If you have ought to say to me, deliver it in
six words. Your business, sir. Be brief."

70 The "Cock and Anchor."

"I will not indeed waste words, Sir Eichard Ashwoode,"
replied O'Connor, firmly. " There is but one subject on
which I would seek a conference with you, and that subject
you well may guess."

" I do guess it," retorted Sir Eichard. " You would renew
an absurd proposal — one opened three years since, and re-
peated this morning by the old booby, your elected spokesman.
To that proposal I have ever given one answer — no. I have
not changed my mind, nor ever shall. Am I understood, sir ?
And least of all should I think of changing my purpose now,"

continued hp, more pointedly, as a suspicion crossed his mind —
" now, sir, that you have forfeited by your own act whatever
regard you once seemed to me to merit. You did not seek me
here, sir. I'm not to be fooled, sir. You did not seek me —
don't assert it. I understand your purpose. You came here
clandestinely to tamper like a schemer with my child. Yes,
sir, a schemer ! " repeated Sir Eichard, with bitter emphasis,
while his sharp sallow features grew sharper and more sallow
still ; and he struck the point of his cane at every emphatic
word deep into the sod — " a mean, interested, cowardly
schemer. How dare you steal into my place, you thrice-
rejected, dishonourable, spiritless adventurer ? "

The Old Beech-Tree Walk. 71

The blood rushed to O'Connor's brow as the old man uttered
this insulting invective. The tiery impulse which under other
circumstances would have been uncontrollable, was, however,
speedily, though with difficulty, mastered ; and O'Connor
replied bitterly, —

" You are an old man, Sir Richard, and her father — you are
safe, sir. How much of chivalry or courage is shown in heap-
ing insult upon one who will not retort upon you, judge lor
yourself. Alter what has passed, I feel that I were, indeed,
the vile thing you have described, if I were again to subject
myself to your unprovoked insolence : be assured, I shall never
place foot of mine within your boundaries again : relieve your-
self, sir, of all fears upon that score ; and for your language,
you know you can appreciate the respect that makes me leave
you thus unanswered and unpunished."

So saying, he turned, and with long and rapid strides retraced
his steps, his heart swelling with a thousand struggling emo-
tions. Scarce knowing what he did, O'Connor rode rapidly to the
" Cock and Anchor," and too much stunned and confounded
by the scenes in which he had just borne a part to exchange a
word with Mr. Audley, whom he found still established in his
chamber, he threw himself dejectedly into a chair, and sank
into gloomy and obstinate abstraction. The good-natured old
gentleman did not care to interrupt his young friend's rumina-
tions, and hours might have passed away and found them still
undisturbed, were it not that the door was suddenly thrown
open, and the waiter announced Mr. Ashwoode. There was a
spell in the name which instantly recalled O'Connor to the
scene before him. Had a viper sprung up at his feet, he could
not have recoiled with a stronger antipathy. With a mixture
of feelings scarcely tolerable, he awaited his arrival, and after
a moment or two of suspense, Henry Ashwoode entered the
room.

Mr. Audley, having heard the name, scowled fearfully from
the centre of the room upon the young gentleman as he entered,
stuffed his hands half-way to the elbows in his breeches pockets,
and turning briskly upon his heel, marched emphatically to
the window, and gazed out into the inn yard with remarkable
perseverance. The obvious coldness with which he was re-
ceived did not embarrass young Ashwoode in the least. With
perfect ease and a graceful frankness of demeanour, he advanced
to O'Connor, and after a greeting of extraordinary warmth, in-
quired how he had gotten home, and whether he had suffered
since any inconvenience from the fall which he had. He then
went on to renew his protestations of gratitude for O'Connor's
services, with so much ardour and apparent heartiness, that
spite of his prejudices, the old man was moved in his favour;
and when Ashwoode expressed in a low voice to O'Connor his

; 2 The " Cock and A nchor?

wish to be introduced to his friend, honest Mr. Audley felt his
heart quite softened, and instead of merely bowing to him,
absolutely shook him by the hand. The young man then, spite
of O'Connor's evident reluctance, proceeded to relate to his new
acquaintance the details of the adventures of the preceding
night, in doing which, he took occasion to dwell, in the most
glowing terms, upon his obligations to O'Connor. After
sitting with them for nearly half an hour, young Ashwoode
took his leave in the most affectionate manner possible, and
withdrew.

" Well, that is a good-looking young fellow, and a warm-
hearted," exclaimed the old gentleman, as soon as the visitor
had disappeared — "what a pity he should be cursed with such
a confounded old father.''

CHAPTER XII.

THE APPOINTED HOUR — THE SCHEMEES AND THE PLOT.

" AND here comes my dear brother," exclaimed Mary Ash-
woode, joyously, as she ran to welcome the young man, now
entering her father's room, in which, for more than an hour
previously, she had been sitting. Throwing her arm round
his neck, and looking sweetly in his face, she continued — " You
will stay with us this evening, dear Harry — do, for my sake —
you won't refuse — it is so long since we have had you ; " and
though she spoke with a gay look and a gladsome voice, a
sense of real solitariness called a tear to her dark eye.

" No, Mary — not this evening,'3 said the young man coldly ;
" I must be in town again to-night, and before I go must have
some conversation upon business with my father, so that I may
not see you again till morning."

" But, dear Henry," said she, still clinging affectionately to
his arm, " you have been in such danger, and I knew nothing
of it until after you went out this morning : are you quite
well, Henry ? — you were not hurt — were you ? "

" No, no— nothing — nothing — I never was better,'' said he,
impatiently.

" Well, brother — dear brother," she continued imploringly,
" come early home to-night — do not be upon the road late —
won't you promise P "

" There, there, there," said he rudely, " run away — take
your work, or your book, or whatever it may be, down stairs ;
your father wants to speak with me alone," and so saying, he
turned pettishly from her.

The Appointed Hour. 7 3

His habitual coldness and carelessness of manner had
never before seemed so ungracious. The poor girl felt her
heart swell within her, as though it would burst. She had
never felt so keenly that in all this world there lived but one
being upon whose love she might rely, and he sepirated, it
might be for ever, from her : she gathered up her work, and
ran quickly from the room, to hide the tears which she could
not restrain.

Young Ashwoode was to the full as worldly and as un-
principled a man as was his father ; and whatever reluctance
he may have felt as to adopting Sir Richard's plans re-
specting O'Connor, the reader would grievously wrong him
in attributing his unwillingness to any visitings of gratitude,
or, indeed, to any other feeling than that which he had him-
self avowed. A few hours' reflection had satisfied the young
man of the transcendent importance of securing Lord
Aspenly ; and by a corresponding induction he had arrived
at the conclusion to which his father had already come-
namely, that it was imperatively necessary by all means to
put an end effectually to his sister's correspondence with
O'Connor. To effect this object both were equally resolved ;
and with respect to the means to be employed both were
equally unscrupulous. With Henry Ashwoode courage was
constitutional, and art habitual. If" therefore, either duplicity
or daring could ensure success, he felt that he must triumph ;
and, at all events, he was sufficiently impressed with the
importance of the object, to resolve to leave nothing untried
for its achievement.

" You are punctual, sir," said Sir Richard, glancing at his
richly-chased watch; "sit down; I have considered your
suggestions of this morning, and I am inclined to adopt
them ; it is most probable that Mary, like the rest of her sex,
will be taken by the splendour of the proposal — fascinated —
in bhort, as I said this morning — dazzled. Now, whether she
be or not — observe me, it shall be onr object to make
O'Connor believe that she is so. You will have his ear, and
through her maid, Carey, I can manage their correspondence;
not a letter from either can reach the other, without first
meeting my eye. I am very certain that the young fellow
will lose no time in writing to her some more of those
passionate epistles, of which, as I told you, 1 have seen a
sample. I shall take care to have their letters re-written for
the future, before they come to hand ; and it shall go hard, or
between us we shall manage to give each a very moderate
opinion of the other's constancy ; thus the affair will — or
rather must — die a natural death — after all, the most effectual
kind of mortality in such cases."

" I called to-day upon the fellow," said the young man. " I

74 The " Cock and A nchor. "

made him out, and without approaching the point of nearest
interest, I have, nevertheless, opened operations successfully
— so far as a most auspicious re-commencement of our
acquaintance may be so accounted."

"And, stranger still to say," rejoined the baronet, "I also
encountered him to-day ; but only for some dozen seconds."

" How ! — saw O'Connor! " exclaimeH young Ashwoode.

"Yes, sir, O'Connor — EJmond O'Connor," repeated Sir
Richard. " He was coolly walking up to the house to see me,
as it would seem ; and I do believe the fellow speaks truth —
he did see me, and that is all. I fancy he will scarcely come
here again uninvited ; he said so pretty plainly-, and I believe
the fellow has spirit enough to feel an affront."

" He did not see Mary ? " inquired Henry.

" I did not ask him, and don't choose to ask her; I don't
mean to allude to the subject in her presence," replied Sir
Richard, quickly. " I think — indeed I know — I can mar their
plans better by appearing never once to apprehend anything
from O'Connor's pretensions. I have reasons, too, for not
wishing to deal harshly with Mary at present ; we must have
no scenes, if possible. Were I to appear suspicious and un-
easy, it would put them on their guard. And now, upon the
other point, did you speak to Craven about the possibilitv of
raising ten thousand pounds on the Glenvarlogh property ? "

" He says it can be done very easily, if Mary joins you,"
replied the young man ; " but I have been thinking that if
you ask her to sign any deed, it might as well be one assign-
ing over her interest absolutely to you. Aspenly does not.
want a penny with her — in fact, from what fell from him to-
day, when I met him in town, I'm inclined to think he believes
that she has not a penny in the world ; so she may as well
make it over to you, and then we can turn it all into money
when and how we please. I desired Craven to work night
and day at the deeds, and have them over by ten o'clock
to-morrow morning."

" You did quite rightly," rejoined the old gentleman. " I
hardly expect any opposition from the girl — at least no more
than I can easily frighten her out of. Should she prove sulky,
however, I do not well know where to turn : as to asking my
brother Oliver, I might as well, or better, ask a Jew broker ;
he hates me and mine with his whole heart ; and to say the
truth, there is not much love lost between us. No, no, there's
nothing to be looked for in that quarter. I daresay we'll
manage one way or another — lead or drive to get Mary to sign
the deed, and if so, the ship rights again. Craven come?, you
say, at ten to-morrow ? "

" He engaged to be here at that hour with the deeds,"
tepeated the young man.

The Interview. 75

" Well," said his father, yawning, " you have nothing more
to say, nor I neither — oblige me by withdrawing." So parted
these congenial relations.

The past day had been an agitating one to Mary Ashwoode.
Still suspense was to be her doom, and the same alternations
of hope and of despair were again to rob her pillow of repose ;
yet even thus, happy was she in comparison with what tjhe
must have been, had she but known the schemes of which she
was the unconscious subject. At this juncture we shall leave
the actors in this true tale, and conclude the chapter with the
close of day.

CHAPTER XIII.

THE INTERVIEW — THE PARCHMENT — AND THE NOBLEMAN'S

COACH.

SIR RICHARD ASHWOODE had never in the whole course of his
life denied himself the indulgence of any passion or of any
whim. From his childhood upward he had never considered
the feelings or comforts of any living being but himself alone.
As he advanced in life, this selfishness had improved to a
degree of hardness and coldness so intense, that if ever he had
felt a kindly impulse at any moment in his existence, the very
remembrance of it had entirely faded from his mind: so that
generosity, compassion, and natural affection were to him not
only unknown, but incredible. To him mankind seemed all
either fools, or such as he himself was. Without one particle
of principle of any kind, he had uniformly maintained in the
world the character of an honourable man. The ordinary
rules of honesty and morality he regarded as so many con-
ventional sentiments, to which every gentleman subscribed,
as a matter of course, in public, but which in private he had
an unquestionable right to dispense with at his own con-
venience. He was imperious, fiery, and unforgiving to the
uttermost ; but when he conceived it advantageous to do so,
he could practise as well as any man the convenient art of
masking malignity, hatred, and inveteracy behind the
pleasantest of all pleasant smiles. Capable of any secret
meanness for the sake of the smallest advantage to be gained
by it, he was yet full of fierce and overbearing pride; and
although this world was all in all to him, yet there never
breathed a man who could on the slightest provocation risk
his life in mortal combat with more alacrity and absolute
sangfroid than Sir Richard Ashwoode. In his habits he was

76 The "Cock and Anchor?

unboundedly luxurious — in his expenditure prodigal to
recklessness. His own and his son's extravagance, which
he hid indulged from a kind of pride, was now, however,
beginning to make itself sorely felt in formidable and rapidly
accumulating pecuniary embarrassments. These had served
to embitter and exasperate a temper which at the best had
never been a very sweet one, and of whose ordinary pitch the
reader may form an estimate, when he hears that in the short
glimpses which he has had of Sir Kichard, the baronet
happened to be, owing to the circumstances with which we
have acquainted him, in extraordinarily good humour.

Sir Eichard had not married young ; and when he did marry
it was to pay his debts. The lady of his choice was beautiful,
accomplished, and an heiress; and, won by his agreeability,
and by his well-assumed devotedness and passion, she yielded
to the pressure of his suit. They were married, and she gave
birth successively to a son and a daughter. Sir Richard's
temper, as we have hinted, was not very placid, nor his habits
very domestic; nevertheless, the world thought the match
(putting his money difficulties out of the question) a very
suitable and a very desirable one, and took it for granted that
the gay baronet and his lady were just as happy as a fashion-
able man and wife ought to be — and perhaps they were so ;
but, for all that, it happened that at the end of some four
years the young wife died of a broken heart. Some strange
scenes, it is said, followed between Sir Richard and the
brother of the deceased lady, Oliver French. It is believed
that this gentleman suspected the cause of Lady Ashwoode's
death — at all events he had ascertained that she had not been
kindly used, and after one or two interviews with the baronet,
in which bitter words were exchanged, the matter ended in a
fierce and bloodily contested duel, in which the baronet
received three desperate wounds. His recovery was long
doubtful; but life burns strongly in some breasts; and,
contrary to the desponding predictions of his surgeons, the
valuable life of Sir Richard Ashwoode was prolonged to his
family and friends.

Since then, Sir Richard had by different agencies sought to
bring about a reconciliation with his brother-in-law, but
without the smallest success. Oliver French was a bachelor,
and a very wealthy one. Moreover, he had it in his power to
dispose of his lands and money jnst as he pleased. These
circumstances had strongly impressed Sir Richard with a con-
viction that quarrels among relations are not only unseemly,
l>ut un-Christian. He was never in a more forgiving and
forgetting mood. He was willing even to make concessions —
anything that could be reasonably asked of him, and even
more, he was ready to do — but all in vain. Oliver was

The Interview. 77

obdurate. He knew his man well. He saw and appreciated
the baronet's motives, and hated and despised him ten thousand
times more than ever.

Repulsed in his first attempt, Sir Eichard resolved to give
his adversary time to cool a little ; and accordingly, after a
lapse of twelve or fourteen years, his son Henry being then a
handsome lad, he wrote to his brother-in-law a very long and
touching epistle, in which he proposed to send bis son down
to Ardgillagh, the place where the alienated relative resided,
with a portrait of his deceased lady, which, of course, with no
object less sacred, and to no relative less near and respected,
could he have induced himself to part. This, too, was a total
failure. Oliver French, Esquire, wrote back a very succinct
epistle, but one very full of unpleasant meaning. He said
that the portrait would be odious to him, inasmuch as it would
be necessarily associated in his mind with a marriage which had
killed his sister, and with persons whom heabhorred — that there-
fore he would not allow it into his house. He stated, that to
the motives which prompted his attention he was wide awake —
that he was, however, perfectly determined that no person
bearing the name or the blood of Sir Richard Ashwoode
should ever have one penny of his ; adding, that the baronet
could leave his son, Mr. Henry Ashwoode, quite enough for a
gentleman to live upon respectably ; and that, at all events,
in his father's virtues the young gentleman would inherit a
legacy such as would insure him universal respect, and a
general welcome wherever he might happen to go, excepting
only one locality, called Ardgillagh.

With the failure of this last attempt, of course, disappeared
every hope of success with the rich old bachelor ; and the
forgiving baronet was forced to content himself, in the
absence of all more substantial rewards, with the consciousness
of having done what was, under all the circumstances, the
most Christian thing he could have done, as well as played
the most knowing game, though unsuccessful, which he could
have played.

Sir Richard Ashwoode limped downstairs to receive his
intended son-in-law, Lord Aspenly, on the day following the
events which we have detailed in our last and the preceding
chapters. That nobleman had intimated his intention to be
with Sir Richard about noon. It was now little more than
ten, and the baronet was, nevertheless, restless and fidgety.
The room he occupied was a large parlour, commanding a
view of the approach to the house. Again and again he con-
sulted his watch, and as often hobbled over, as well as he
could, to the window, where he gazed in evident discontent
down the long, straight avenue, with its double row of fine old
giant lime-trees.

;8 . The "Cock and Anchor."

" Nearly half-past ten," muttered Sir Richard, to himself,
for at his desire he had been left absolutely alone— "ay, fully
half-past, and the fellow not come yet. No less than two
notes since eight this morning, both of them with gratuitous
mendacity renewing the appointment for ten o'clock ; and ten
o'clock comes and goes, and halt'-an-hour more along with it,
and still no sign of Mr. Craven. If I had fixed ten o'clock to
pay his accursed, unconscionable bill of costs, he'd have been
prowling about the grounds from sunrise, and pounced upon me
before the last stroke of the clock had sounded."

While thus the baronet was engaged in muttering his dis-
content, and venting secret imprecations on the whole race of
attorneys, a vehicle rolled up to the hall-door. The bell
pealed, and the knocker thundered, and in a moment a servant
entered, and announced Mr. Craven — a square-built man of
low stature, wearing his own long, grizzled hair instead of a
wig — having a florid complexion, hooked nose, beetle brows,
and long-cut, Jewish, black eyes, set close under the bridge
of his nose — who stepped with a velvet tread into the room.
An unvarying smile sate upon his thin lips, and about his whole
air and manner there was a certain indescribable sancti-

The Interview. 79

moniousness, which was rather enhanced by the puritanical
plainness of his attire.

" Sir Richard, I beg pardon — rather late, I fear," said he, in
a dulcet, insinuating tone — " hard work, nevertheless, I do
assure you — ninety-seven skins— splendidly engrossed— quite
a treat — five of my young men up all night — I have got one
of them outside to witness it along with me. Some reading in
the thing, I promise you ; but I hope — I do hope, I am not
very late ? "

"Not at all — not at all, my dear Mr. Craven," said Sir
Richard, with his most engaging smile ; for, as we have
hinted, " dear Mr. Craven " had not made the science of con-
veyancing peculiarly cheap in practice to the baronet, who
accordingly owed him more costs than it wouLl have been
quite convenient to pay upon a short notice — " I'll just, with
your assistance, glance through these parchments, though to
do so be but a matter of form. Pray take a chair beside me —
there. Now then to business."

Accordingly to business they went. Practice, they say,
makes perfect, and the baronet had had, unfortunately for
himself, a great deal of it in such matters during the course of
his life. He knew how to read a deed as well as the most
experienced counsel at the Irish bar, and was able consequently
to detect with wonderfully little rummaging and fumbling in
the ninety-seven skins of closely written verbiage, the seven
lines of sense which they enveloped. Little more than half-
an-hour had therefore satisfied Sir Richard that the mass of
parchment before him, after reciting with very considerable
accuracy the deeds and process by which the lands of
Glenvarlogh were settled upon his daughter, went on to
state that for and in consideration of the sum of five shillings,
good and lawful money, she, being past the age of twenty-one,
in every possible phrase and by every word which tautology
could accumulate, handed over the said lands, absolutely to
her father, Sir Richard Ashwoode, Bart., of Morley Court, in
the county of Dublin, to have, and to hold, and to make 'ducks
and drakes of, to the end of time, constantly affirming at the
end of every sentence that she was led to do all this for and
in consideration of the sum of five shillings, good and lawful
money. As soon as Sir Richard had seen all this, which was,
as we have said, in little more than half-an-hour, he pulled
the bell, and courteously informing Mr. Craven, the immortal
author of the interesting document which he had just perused,
that he would find chocolate and other refreshments in the
library, and intimating that he would perhaps disturb him
in about ten minutes, he consigned that gentleman to the
guidance of the servant, whom he also directed to summon
Miss Ashwoode to his presence.

8o The "Cock and A nchor"

"Her signing this deed,7' thought he, as he awaited her
arrival, " will make her absolutely dependent upon me — it
will make rebellion, resistance, murmuring, impossible; she
then must do as I would have her, or — Ah ? my dear child,"
exclaimed the baronet, as his daughter entered the room,
addressing her in the sweetest imaginable voice, and instanta-
neously dismissing the sinister menace which had sat upon,
his countenance, and clothing it instead as suddenly with an
absolute radiance of affection, " come here and kiss me and
sit down by my side — are you well to-day ? you look pale —
you smile — well, well ! it cannot be anything very bad. You
shall run out just now with Emily. Bat first, I must talk
with you for a little, and, strange enough, on business too."
The old gentleman paused for an instant to arrange the order
of his address, and then continued. " Mary, 1 will tell you
frankly more of my affairs than I have told to almost any
person breatiiing. In my early days, and indeed after my
marriage, I was far, far too careless in money matters. I
involved myself considerably, and owing to various circum-
stances, tiresome now to dwell upon, I have never btxen able
to extricate myself from these difficulties. Henry too, your
brother, is fearfully prodigal — fearfully ; and has within the
last three or four years enormously aggravated my embarrass-
ments, and of course multiplied my anxieties most grievously,
most distractingly. I feel that my spirits are gone, my
health declining, and, worse than all, my temper, yes — my
temper soured. You do not know, you. cannot know, how
bitterly I feel, with what intense pain, and sorrow, ancTcon-
trition, and — and remorse, I reflect upon those bursts of ill-
tcmper, of acrimony, of passion, to which, spite of every
resistance, I am becoming every day more and more prone."
Here the baronet paused to call up a look of compunctious
anguish, an effort in which he was considerably assisted by an
acute twinge in his great toe.

" Yes," he continued, when the pain had subsided, " I am
now growing old, I am breaking very fast, sinking, I feel it — [
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 con-
tinually 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 been, he turned his heai away, while he

The Intemiew. 8 1

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 1 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 ? — 1 ! " 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 gentle-
man," 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

G

82 The "Cock and Anchor''

could not have done so much for the deed as she had done ;
and the one-eyed young gentleman held his nose contem-
platively between his finger and thumb, and reviewed the
signatures with his solitary optic.

Miss Ashwoode then withdrew, and Mr. Craven and the
"voung 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
rearly.

"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 com-
pleted— " 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 art-
lessly— 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 Grlenvarlogh 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.

About a Certain Garden and a Damsel. 83

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 in-
variably 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 gentle-
men of seventy, or thereabout, will sometimes indulge them-
selves. 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, under-
going 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

G 2

84 The "Cock and Anchor."

turkey-cock, and was, morover, extremely hard of hearing,
and, witha], a raan of few words; he was, however, hale,
upright, and burly — perfectly 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
rampnrt, 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
good-humoured, and pleasant, and fresh-like. Oh, dear, but
1 would like to be a gardener."

" Not an old one, howsomever," growled Mr, Potts.

" Yes, but I would though, I declare and purtest to good-
ness 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

About a Certain Garden and a Damsel. 85

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 tho 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 — eo 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

86 The ' ' Cock and A nchor."

ymng 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 im-
pittence 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 him-
self 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,5' 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 some-
thing to himself, and then inquired when he should come for
an answer.

"I'll have an answer to-morrow 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

About a Certain Garden and a Damsel. 87

tenderest aspirations daring the delivery of this address, was
at its termination so far transported by his feelings, as abso-
lutely 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 dinner, 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, u 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.

" Give me the letter," said Sir Richard, drily.

The damsel handed it to him ; and he, having glanced at
the seal and the address, deposited the document safely in a
small leathern box which stood upon his toilet, and having
locked it safely therein, he turned to the maid, and patting her
on the cheek with a smile, he remarked,—

" Be a good girl, Carey, and you shall find you have con-
sulted your interest best."

Here Mistress Carey was about to do justice to her own
disinterestedness in a very strong protestation, but the
baronet checked her with an impatient wave of the hand, and
continued, —

88 The "Cock and Anchor."

" Say not on any account one word to any person touching
this letter, until you have your directions irom me. Stay —
this will buy you' a ribbon. Good-bye—be a good girl."

So saying, the baronet placed a guinea in the girl's hand,
which, with a courtesy, having transferred to her pocket, she
withdrew rather hurriedly, for she heard the valet in the next
room.

CHAPTER XY.

THE TEAITOR.

UPON the day following, O'Connor had not yet received any
answer to his letter. He was, however, not a little surprised
instead to receive a second visit from young Ashwoode.

" I am very glad, my dear O'Connor," said the young man
as he entered, " to have found you alone. I have been
wishing very much for this opportunity, and was half afraid
as I came upstairs that I should again have been disappointed.
The fact is, I wish much to speak to you upon a subject of
great difficulty and delicacy — one in which, however, I
naturally feel so strong an interest, that I may speak to you
upon it, and freely, too, without impertinence. I allude to

SDur attachment to my sister. Do not imagine, my dear
'Connor, that I am going to lecture you on prudence and all
that ; and above all, my dear fellow, do not think I want to
tax your confidence more deeply than you are willing I
should ; I know quite enough for all I would suggest; I know
the plain fact that you love my sister — I have long known
it, and this is enough."

" Well, sir, what follows ? " said O'Connor, dejectedly.

" Do not call me sir — call me friend — fellow — fool — anything
you please but that,5' replied Ashwoode, kindly ; and after a
brief pause, he continued : " I need not, and cannot disguise
it from you, that I was much opposed to this, and vexed
extremely at the girl's encouragement of what I considered a
most imprudent suit. I have, however, learned to think
differently — very differently. After all my littlenesses and
pettishness, for which you must have, if not abhorred, at least
despised me from your very heart — after all this, I say, your
noble conduct in risking your own life to save my worthless
blood is what I never can enough admire, and honour, and
thank." Here he grasped O'Connor's hand, and shook it
warmly. "After this, I tell you, O'Connor, that were there
offered to me, on my sister's behoof, on the one side the most
brilliant alliance in wealth and rank that ever ambition
dreamed of, and upon the other side this hand of yours, I

The Traitor. 89

would, so heaven is my witness, forego every allurement of
titles, rank, and riches, and give my sister to you. I have
come here, O'Connor, frankly to offer you my aid and advice
— to prove to you my sincerity, and, if possible, to realize your
wishes."

O'Connor could hardly believe his senses. Here was the
man who, scarcely six days since, he felt assured, would more
readily have suffered him to thrust him through the body
than consent to his marriage with Mary Ashwoode, now not
merely consenting to it, but ottering cordially and spontaneously
all the assistance in his power towards effecting that very
object. Had he heard him aright ? One look at his expressive
face — the kindly pressure of his hand — everything assured him
that he had justly comprehended all that Ashwoode had
j-poken, and a glow of hope, warmer than had visited him for
years, cheered his heart.

" In the meantime," continued Ashwoode, "I must tell you
exactly how matters stand at Morley Court. The Earl of
Aspenly, of whom you may have heard, is paying his addresses
to my sister."

" The Earl of Aspenly," echoed O'Connor, slightly colouring.
"I had not heard of this before — she did not name him."

"Yet she has known it a good while," returned Ashwoode,
with well-affected surprise — "a month, I believe, or more.
He's now at Morley Court, and means to make some stay —
are you sure she never mentioned him ? "

"Titled, and, of course, rich," said O'Connor, scarce hearing
the question. "Why should I have heard of this by chance,
and from another — why this reserve — this silence ? "

"Nay, nay," replied Henry, "you must not run away with
the matter thus. Mary may have forgotten it, or — or not
liked to tell you — not cared to give you needless uneasiness."

" I wish she had — I wish she had — I am — I am, indeed,
Ashwoode, very, very unhappy," said O'Connor, with extreme
dejection. " Forgive me — forgive my folly, since folly it seems
— I fear I weary you."

" Well, well, since it seems you have not heard of it," rejoined
Henry, carelessly throwing himself back in his chair, " you
may as well learn it now — not that there is any real cause of
alarm in the matter, as I shall presently show you, but simply
that you may understand the position of the enemy. Lord
Aspenly, then, is at present at Morley Court, where he is
received as Mary's lover — observe me, only as her lover — not
yet, and I trust never as her accepted lover."

" G-o on — pray go on," said O'Connor, with suppressed but
agonized anxiety.

" Now, though my father is very hot about the match,"
resumed his visitor, " it may appear strange enough to you

90 The "Cock and Anchor''

that I never was. There are a few — a very few — advantages
in the matter, cf course, viewing it merely in its worldly aspect.
But Lord Aspenly's property is a good deal embarrassed, and
he is of violently Whig politics and connections, the very
thing most hated by my old Tory uncle, Oliver French,
whom my father has been anxious to cultivate ; besides, the
disparity in years is so very great that it is ridiculous — I
might almost say indecent — and this even in point of family
standing, and indeed of reputation, putting aside every better
consideration, is objectionable. I have urged all these things
upon my father, and perhaps we should not find any insur-
mountable obstacle there; but the fact is, there is another
difficulty, one of which until this morning I never dreamed —
the most whimsical difficulty imaginable.'' Here the young
man raised his eyebrows, and laughed faintly, while he looked
upon the floor, and O'Connor, with increasing earnestness,
implored him to proceed. " It appears so very absurd and
perverse an obstacle," continued Ashwoode, with a very
quizzical expression, " that one does not exactly know how to
encounter it — to say the truth, I think that the girl is a little —
perhaps the least imaginable degree — taken — dazzled — caught
by the notion of being a countess ; it's very natural, you know,
but then I would have expected better from her."

" By heavens, it is impossible ! " exclaimed O'Connor,
starting to his feet ; " I cannot believe it ; you must, indeed,
my dear Ashwoode, you must have been deceived."

" Well, then," rejoined the young man, " I have lost my skill
in reading young ladies' minds — that's all ; but even though I
should be right — and never believe me if I am not right — it
does not follow that the giddy whim won't pass away just as
suddenly as it came ; her most lasting impressions — with, I
should hope, one exception — were never very enduring. I
have been talking to her for nearly half an hour this morning
— laughing with her about Lord Aspenly's suit, and building
castles in the air about what she will and wnat she won't do
when she's a countess. But, by the way, how did you let her
know that you intend returning to France at the end of this
month, only, as she told me, however, for a few weeks ? She
mentioned it yesterday incidentally. Well, it is a comfort that
I hear your secrets, though you won't entrust them to me.
But do not, my dear fellow — do not look so very black — you very
much overrate the firmness of women's minds, and greatly
indeed exaggerate that of my sister's character if you believe
that this vexatious whim which has entered her giddy pate
will remain there longer than a week. The simple fact is that
the excitement and bustle of all this has produced an unusual
flow of high spirits, which will, of course, subside with the
novelty of the occasion. Pshaw ! why so cast down ? — there is

The Traitor. 91

nothing in the matter to surprise one — the caprice of women
knows DO rule. I tell you 1 would almost stake my reputation
as a prophet, that when this giddy excitement passes away,
her feelings will return to their old channel." O'Connor
still paced the room in silence. " Meanwhile," continued the
young man, " if anything occur to you — if I can be useful to
you in any way, command me absolutely, and till you see me
next, take heart of grace." He grasped O'Connor's hand — it
was cold as clay ; and bidding him farewell, once more took
his departure."

" Well," thought he, as he threw his leg across his high-bred
gelding at the inn door, " [ have shot the first shaft home."

And so he had, for the heart at which it was directed, un-
fenced by suspicion, lay open to his traitorous practices.
O'Connor's letter, an urgent and a touching one, was still
unanswered ; it never for a moment crossed his mind that it
had not reached the hand for which it was intended. The
maid who had faithfully delivered all the letters which had
passed between them had herself received it ; and young Ash-
woode had but the moment before mentioned, from his sister's
lips, the subject on which it was written — his meditated depar-
ture for France. This, too, it appeared, she had spoken of in
the midst of gay and light-hearted trifling, and projects of
approaching magnificence and dissipation with his rich and
noble rival. Twice since the delivery of that letter had his
servant seen Miss Ashwoode's maid ; and in the communica-
tive colloquy which had ensued she had told — no doubt
according to well- planned instructions — how gay and unusually
merry her mistress was, and how she passed whole hours at
her toilet, and the rest of her time in the companionship of
Lord Aspenly — so that between his lordship's society, and her
own preparations for it, she had scarcely allowed herself time
to read the letter in question, much less to answer it.

All these things served to fill O'Connor's mind with, vague
but agonizing doubts — doubts which he vainly strove to
combat ; fears which had not their birth in an alarmed
imagination, but which, alas ! were but too surely approved
by reason. The notion of a systematic plot, embracing so
many agents, and conducted with such deep and hellish
hypocrisy, with the sole purpose of destroying affections the
most beautiful, and of alienating hearts the truest, was a
thought so monstrous and unnatural that it never for a second
flashed upon his mind; still his heart struggled strongly
against despair. Spite of all that looked gloomy in what he
saw — spite of the boding suggestions of his worst fears, he
would not believe her false to him — that she who had so long
and so well loved and trusted him — she whose gentle heart
he knew unchanged and unchilled by years, and distance, and

92 The "Cock and A nckor"

misfortune?— that she should, after all, have fallen away from
him, and given up that heart, which once was his, to vanity
and the hollow glitter of the world — this he could hardly bring
himself to believe, yet what was he to think ? alas ! what ?

CHAPTER XVI.

SHOWING SIGNOR, PARUCCI ALONE WITH THE WIG-BLOCKS — THE
BARONET'S HAND-BELL AND THE ITALIAN'S TASK.

MORLEY COURT was a queer old building — very large and very
irregular. The main part of the dwelling, and what appeared
to be the original nucleus, upon which after- additions had
grown like fantastic incrustations, was built of deep-red
brick, with many recesses and projections and gables, and
tall and grotesquely-shaped chimneys, and having broad,
jutting, heavily- sashed windows, such as belonged to Henry
the Eighth's time, to which period tLe orisrin of the building
was, with sufficient probability, referred. The great avenue,
which extended in a direct line to more than the long half of
an Irish mile, led through double rows of splendid old lime
trees, some thirty paces apart, and arching in a vast and
shadowy groining overhead, to the front of the building. To
the rearward extended the rambling additions which necessity
or caprice had from time to time suggested, as the place, in
the lapse of years, passed into the hands of different masters.
One of these excrescences, a quaint little prominence, with a
fanciful gable and chimney of its own, jutted pleasantly out
upon the green sward, courting the friendly shelter of the
wild and graceful trees, and from its casement commanding
through the parting boughs no views but those of quiet fields,
distant woodlands, and the far-off blue hills. This portion of
the building contained in the upper story one small room, to
the full as oddly shaped as the outer casing of fantastic
masonry in which it was inclosed — the door opened upon a
back staircase which led from the lower apartments to Sir
Eichard's dressing-room ; and partly owing to this convenient
arrangement, and partly perhaps to the comfort and seclusion
of the chamber itself, it had been long appropriated to the
exclusive occupation of Signor Jacopo Parucci, Sir Eichard's
valet and confidential servant. This man was, as his name
would imply, an Italian. Sir Eichard had picked him up,
pome thirty years before the period at which we have dated
our story, in Naples, where it was said the baronet had received
from him very important instructions in the inner mysteries

Signor Panicci Alone. 93

of that golden science which converts chance into certainty —
a science in which Sir Kichard was said to have become a
masterly proficient; and indeed so loudly had fame begun to
bruit his excellence therein, that he found it at last necessary,
or at least highly advisable, to forego the fascinations of the
gaming-table, and to bid to the worship of fortune an eternal
farewell, just at the moment when the fickle goddess promised
with golden profusion to reward his devotion.

Whatever his reason was, Sir Richard had been to this man
a good master; he had, it was said, and not without reason,
enriched him ; and, moreover, it was a strange fact, that in all
his capricious and savage moods, from whose consequences
not only his servants but his own children had no exemption,
he had never once treated this person otherwise than with the
most marked civility. What the man's services had actually
been, and to what secret influence he owed the close and con-
fidential terms upon which he unquestionably stood with Sir
Richard, these things were mysteries, and, of course, furnished
inexhaustible matter of scandalous speculation among the
baronet's dependents and most intimate friends.

The room of which we speak was Parucci's snuggery. It
contained in a recess behind the door that gentleman's bed —
a plain, low, uncurtained couch ; and variously disposed about
the apartment an abundance of furniture of much better kind ;
the recess of the window was filled by a kind of squat press,
which was constructed in the lower part, and which contained,
as certain adventurous chambermaids averred, having peeped
into its dim recesses when some precious opportunity pre-
sented itself, among other shadowy shapes, the forms of
certain flasks and bottles with long necks, and several tall
glasses of different dimensions. Two or three tables of
various sizes of dark shining wood, with legs after the fashion
of the nether limbs of hippogriffs and fauns, seemed about to
walk from their places, and to stamp and claw at random
about the floor. A large, old press of polished oak, with spiral
pillars of the same flanking it in front, contained the more
precious articles of Signor Parucci's wardrobe. Close beside
it, in a small recess, stood a set of shelves, on which were
piled various matters, literary and otherwise, among which
perhaps none were disturbed twice in the year, with the
exception of six or eight packs of cards, with which, for old
associations' sake, Signor Jacopo used to amuse himself now
and again in his solitary hours.

On one of the tables stood two blocks supporting each a
flowing black peruke, which it was almost the only duty of the
tenant of this interesting sanctuary to tend, and trim, and
curl. Upon the dusky tapestry were pinned several coloured
prints, somewhat dimmed by time, but evidently of very

94 The "Cock and Anchor '."

equivocal morality. A birding-piece and a fragment of a
fishing-rod covered with dust, neither of which Signer Parucci
had ever touched for the last twenty years, were suspended
over the mantelpiece ; and upon the side of the recess, and
fully lighted by the window, in attestation of his gentler and
more refined pursuits, hung a dingy old guitar apparently
still in use, for the strings, though a good deal cobbled and
knotted, were perfect in number A huge, high-backed, well-
stuffed chair, in which a man might lie as snugly as a kernel
in its shell, was placed at the window, and in it reclined the
presiding genius of the place himself, with his legs elevated
so as to rest upon the broad window-sill, formed by the roof
of the mysterious press which we have already mentioned.
The Italian was a little man, very slight, with long hair, a
good deal grizzled, flowing upon his shoulders ; he had a sallow
complexion and thin hooked nose, piercing black eyes, lean
cheeks, and sharp chin — and altogether a lank, attentuated,
and somewhat intellectual cast of face, with, however, a certain
expression of malice and cunning about the leer of his eye, as
well as in the character of his thin and colourless lip, which
made him by no means a very pleasant object to look upon.

"Fine weather — almost Italy," said the little man, lazily
pushing open the casement with his foot. " I am surprise,
good, dear, sweet Sir Richard, his bell is stop so long quiet.
Why is it not go ding, ding, dingeri, dingeri, ding-a-ding, ding,
as usual. Damnation ! what do I care he ring de bell and I
leesten. We are not always young, and I must be allow to be
a leetle deaf when he is allow to be a leetle gouty. Gode blace
my body, how hot is de sun. Corne down here, leer of Apollo
— come to my arm, meestress of my heart — Orpheus' leer,
come queekly." This was addressed to the ancient instru-
ment of music which we have already mentioned, and the
invitation was accompanied by an appropriate elevation of his
two little legs, which he raised until he gently closed his feet
upon the sides of the "leer of Apollo," which, with a good
deal of dexterity, he unhung from its peg, and conveyed within
reach of his hand. He cast a look of fond admiration at its
dingy and time-dried face, and forthwith, his heels still
resting upon the window-sill, he was soon thrumming a
tinkling symphony, none of the most harmonious, and then,
with uncommon zeal, he began, to his own accompaniment, to
sing some ditty of Italian love. While engaged in this refined
and touching employment, he espied, with unutterable indig-
nation, a, young urchin, who, attracted by the sounds of his
amorous minstrelsy, and with a view to torment the performer,
who was an extremely unpopular personage, had stationed
himself at a little distance before the casement, and accom-
panied the vocal performance of the Italian with the most

Stg nor Panted A lone. .9 5

hideous grimaces, and the most absurd and insulting gesticula-
tions.

Signor Parucci would have given a good round sum to have
had the engaging boy by the ears ; but this he knew was out
of the question ; he therefore (for he was a philosopher) played
and sung on without evincing the smallest consciousness of
what was going forward. His plans of vengeance were, how-
ever, speedily devised and no less quickly executed. There
lay upon the window-sill a fragment of biscuit, which in the
course of an. ecstatic flourish the little man kicked "carelessly
over. The bait had hardly touched the ground beneath the
casement when Jacopo, continuing to play and sing the while,
and apparently unconscious of anything but his own music,
to his infinite delight beheld the boy first abate his exertions,
and finally put an end to his affronting pantomime altogether,
and begin to manoeuvre in the direction of the treacherous
windfall. The youth gradually approached it, and just at the
moment when it was within his grasp, Signor Parucci, with
another careless touch of his foot, sent over a large bow-pot
well stored with clay, which stood upon the window-block.
The descent of this ponderous missile was followed by a most
heart- stirring acclamation from below; and good Mr. Parucci,
clambering along the window-sill, and gazing downward, was
regaled by the spectacle of the gesticulating youth stamping
about the grass among what appeared to be the fragments of
a hundred flower-pots, writhing and bellowing in transports
of indignation and bodily torment.

" Povero ragazzo — Carissimo figlio," exclaimed the valet,
looking out with an expression of infinite sweetness, "my
dear child and charming boy, how 'av you broke my flower-
pote, and when 'av you come here. Ah ! per Bacco, I think I
'av see you before. Ah ! yees, you are that sweetest leetel boy
that was leestening at my music — so charming just now.
How much clay is on your back ! a cielo! amiable child, you
might 'av keel yourself. Sacro numine, what an escape ! Say
your prayer, and thank heaven you are safe, my beautiful,
sweetest, leetel boy. God blace you. Now rone away very
fast, for fear you pool the other two flower-potes on your back,
sweetest child. G-ode bless you, amiable boy — they are very
large and very heavy."

The youth took the hint, and having had quite enough of
Mr. Parucci's music for the evening, withdrew under the com-
bined influences of fury and lumbago. The little man threw
himself back in his chair, and hugged his shins in sheer
delight, grinning and chattering like a delirious monkey, and
rolling himself about, and laughing with the most exquisite
relish. At length, after this had gone on tor some time, with
the air of a man who has had enough of trifling, and must now

96 The "Cock and Anchor:'

apply himself to matters of graver importance, he arose, hung
up his guitar, sent his chair, which was upon casters, rolling
to the far end of the room, and proceeded to arrange the curls
of one of the two magnificent perukes, on which it was his
privilege to operate. After having applied himself with un-
common attention to this labour of taste for some time in
silence, he retired a few paces to contemplate the effect of his
performance — whereupon he fell into a musing mood, and
began after his fashion to soliloquize with a good deal of
energy and volubility in that dialect which had become more
easy to him than his mother tongue.

" Corpo di Bacco I what thing is life ! who would believe
thirty years ago I should be here now in a barbaroose island
to curl the wig of an old gouty blackguard — but what matter.
I am a philosopher — damnation — it is very well as it is — per
Bacco ! I can go way when I like. I am reech leetle fellow,
and with Sir Richard, good Sir Richard, I do always whatever
I may choose. Good Sir Richard,'' he continued, addressing
the block on which hung the object of his tasteful labours, as
it' it had been the baronet in person — -" good Sir Richard, why
are you so kind to me, when you are so cross as the old devil
in hell with all the rest of the world? — why, why, why?
Shall I say to you the reason, good, kind Sir Richard ? Well,
I weel. It is because you dare not— dare not — dare not —
da-a-a-are not vaix me. I am, you know, dear Sir Richard, a
poor, leetle foreigner, who is depending on your goodness. I
'ave nothing but your great pity and good charity-— oh, no ! I
am nothing at all ; but still you dare not vaix me — you moste
not be angry — note at all — but very quiet — you moste not go
in a passion — oh ! never — weeth me— even if I was to make
game of you, and to insult you, and to pool your nose."

Here the Italian seized, with the tongs which he had in his
hand, upon that prominence in the wooden block which cor-
responded in position with the nose, which at other times the
pernke overshadowed, and with a grin of infinite glee pinched
and twisted the iron instrument until the requirements of his
dramatic fancy were satisfied, when he delivered two or three
sharp knocks on the smooth face of the block, and resumed
his address.

" No, no — you moste not be angry, fore it would be great
misfortune— oh, it would — if you and I should quarrel to-
gether ; but tell me now, old truffatore — tell me, I say, am I
not very quiet, good-nature, merciful, peetying faylow ? Ah,
yees — very, very — Madre di Dio — very mocbe; and dear, good
Sir Richard, shall I tell you why I am so very good-nature ?
It is because I love you joste as moche as you love me — it is
because, most charitable patron, it is my convenience to go
on weeth you quietly and 5av no fighting yet— bote you are

Signor Panted Alone.

97

going to get money. Oh! so coning you are, you think I
know nothing — you think I am asleep — bote I know it — I
know it quite well. You think I know nothing about the
land you take from Miss Mary. Ah ! you are very coning
— oh! very ; but I 'av hear it all, and I tell you — and I sweaT-

per sangue di D , when you get that money I shall, and

will, and moste — mo-ooste 'av a very large, comfortable, beeg
handful — do you hear me ? Oh, you very coning old rascal ;
and if you weel not geeve it, oh, my dear Sir Richard, echellent
master, I am so moche afaid we will 'av a fight between us —
a quarrel — that will spoil our love and friendship, and maybe,
helas ! horte your reputation — shoking — make the gentlemen

J

spit on you, and avoid you, and call you all the ogly names —
oh ! shoking.''

Here he was interrupted by a loud ringing in Sir Richard's
chamber.

" There he is to pool his leetle bell— damnation, what noise.
I weel go up joste now — time enough, dear, good, patient Sir
Richard — time enough — oh, plainty, plainty."

The little man then leisurely fumbled in his pocket until
he brought forth a bunch of keys, from which, having selected
one, he applied it to the lock of the little press which we have
already mentioned, whence he deliberately produced one of
the flasks which we have hinted at, along with a tall glnss with

98 The "Cock and Anchor?

a spiral stem, and filling himself a bumper of the liquor therein
contained, he coolly sipped it to the bottom, accompanied
throughout the performance by the incessant tinkling of Sir
Richard's hand-bell.

"Ah, very good, most echellent — thank you, Sir Richard,
you 'av give me so moche time and so moche music, I 'av drunk
your very good health."

So saying, he locked up the flask and glass again, and
taking the block which had just represented Sir Richard in
the imaginary colloquy in his hand, he left his own chamber,
and ran upstairs to the baronet's dressing-room. He found
his master alone.

" Ah, Jacopo," exclaimed the baronet, looking somewhat
flushed, but speaking, nevertheless, in a dulcet tone enough,
" I have been ringing for nearly ten minutes ; but I suppose
you did not hear me."

" Jbfte so as you 'av say," replied the man. " Your signoria
is very seJdom wrong. I was so charmed with my work I
could not hear nothing."

" Parucci,'3 rejoined Sir Richard, after a slight pause, " you
know I keep no secrets from you."

" Ah, you flatter me, Signer — yon flatter me — indeed you
do," said the valet, with ironical humility.

His master well understood the tone in which the fellow-
spoke, but did not care to notice it.

" The fact is, Jacopo," continued Sir Richard, " you already
know so many of my secrets, that I have now no motive in
excluding you from any."

" Goode, kind — oh, very kind," ejaculated the valet.

" In short," continued his master, who felt a little uneasy
under the praises of his attendant — "in short, to speak plainly,
I want your assistance. I know your talents well. You
can imitate any handwriting you please to copy with perfect
accuracy. You must copy, in the handwriting of this manu-
script, the draft of a letter which I will hand you this
evening. You require some little time to study the character ;
so take the letter with you, and be in my room at ten to-night.
I will then hand you the draft of what I want written.
You understand ? "

" Understand ! To be sure — most certilly I weel do it,"
replied the Italian, "so that the great devil himself will not
tell the writing of the two, I'un dall' altro, one from the other.
Never fear — geeve me the letter. I must learn the writing.
I weel be here to-night before you are arrive, and I weel do it
very fast, and so like — bpte you know how well I can copy.
Ah ! yees ; you know it, Signer. I need not tell."

" No more at present," said the baronet, with a gesture of
caution. " Assist me to dress."

Dublin Castle by Night. 99

The Italian accordingly was soon deep in the mysteries of
his elaborate functions, where we shall leave him and his
master for the present.

CE AFTER XVII.

DUBLIN CASTLE BY NIGHT — THE DRAWING-ROOM — LORD WHARTON
AND HIS COUKT.

SIR RICHARD ASHWOODE had set his heart upon having Lord
Aspenly for his son-in-law; and all things considered, his
lordship was, perhaps, according to the standard by which the
baronet measured merit, as good a son-in-law as he had any
right to hope for. It was true, Lord Aspenly was neither very
young nor very beautiful. Spite of all the ingenious arts by
which he reinforced his declining graces, it was clear as the
light that his lordship was not very far from seventy ; and it
was just as apparent that it was not to any extraordinary
supply of bone, muscle, or flesh that his vitality was attribu-
table. His lordship was a little, spindle-shanked gentleman,
with the complexion of a consumptive frog, aud features as
sharp as edged tools. He condescended to borrow from the
artistic talents of his valet the exquisite pencilling of his eye-
brows, as well as the fine black line which gave effect to
a set of imaginary eyelashes, and depth and brilliancy to a
pair of eyes which, although naturally not very singularly
effective, had, nevertheless, nearly as much vivacity in them
as they had ever had. His smiles were perennial and un-
ceasing, very winning and rather ghastly. He used much
gesticulation, and his shrug was absolutely Parisian. To all
these perfections he added a wonderful facility in rounding
the periods of a compliment, and an inexhaustible affluence
of something which passed for conversation. Thus endowed,
and having, moreover, the additional recommendation of a
handsome income, a peerage, and an unencumbered celibacy,
it is hardly wonderful that his lordship was unanimously
voted by all prudent and discriminating persons, without ex-
ception, the most fascinating man in all Ireland. Sir Richard
Ashwoode was not one whit more in earnest in desiring the
match than was Lord Aspenly himself. His lordship had
for some time begun to suspect that he had nearly sown his
wild oats — that it was time for him to reform — that he was
ripe for the domestic virtues, and ought to renounce scamp-
hood. He therefore, in the laboratory of his secret soul, com-
pounded a virtuous passion, which he resolved to expend

H 2

1 00 The "Cock and Anchor. ' '

npon the first eligible object who might present herself. Mary
Ashwoode was the fortunate damsel who first happened to
come within the scope and range of his lordship's premedi-
tated love; and he forthwith in a matrimonial paroxysm
applied, according to the good old custom, not to the lady
herself, but to Sir Bichard Ashwoode, and was received with
open arms.

The baronet indeed, as the reader is aware, anticipated many
difficulties in bringing the match about ; for he well knew
how deeply his daughter's heart was engaged, and his mis-
givings were more sombre and frequent than he cared to
acknowledge even to himself. He resolved, however, that the
thing should be ; and he was convinced, that if his lordship
only were firm, spite of fate he would effect it. In order then
to inspire Lord Aspenly with this desirable firmness, he not
unwisely believed that his best course was to exhibit him as
much as possible in public places, in the character of the
avowed lover of Mary Ashwoode ; a position which, when once
unequivocally assumed, afforded no creditable retreat, except
through the gates of matrimony. It was arranged, therefore,
that the young lady, under the protection of Lady Stukely,
and accompanied by Lord Aspenly and Henry Ashwoode,
should attend the first drawing-room at the Castle, a ceremo-
nial which had been fixed to take place a few days subse-
quently to the arrival of Lord Aspenly at Morley Court.
Those who have seen the Castle of Dublin only as it now
stands, have beheld but the creation of the last sixty or
seventy years, with the exception only of the wardrobe tower,
an old grey cylinder of masonry, very dingy and dirty, which
appears to have gone into half mourning for its departed com-
panions, and presents something of the imposing character of
an overgrown, mouldy band-box. At the beginning of the
last century, however, matters were very different. The trim
brick buildings, with their spacious windows and symmetrical
regularity of structure, which now complete the quadrangles
of the castle, had not yet appeared; but in their stead masses
of building, constructed with very little attention to archi-
tectural precision, either in their individual formation or in
their relative position, stood ranged together, so as to form
two irregular and gloomy squares. That portion of the build-
ing which was set apart for state occasions and the vice-regal
residence, had undergone so many repairs and modifications,
that very little if any of it could have been recognized by its
original builder. Not so, however, with other portions of the
pile : the ponderous old towers, which have since disappeared,
with their narrow loop-holes and iron-studded doors looming
darkly over the less massive fabrics of the place with stern and
gloomy aspect, reminded the passer every moment, that the

Dublin Castle by Night. 101

building whose courts he trod was not merely the theatre of
stately ceremonies, but a fortress and a prison.

The viceroyalty of the Earl of Wharton was within a few
weeks of its abrupt termination ; the approaching discomfiture
of the Whigs was not, however, sufficiently clearly revealed,
to thin the levees and drawing-rooms of the Whig lord-lieu-
tenant. The castle yards were, therefore, upon the occasion
in question, crowded to excess with the gorgeous equipages
in which the Irish aristocracy of the time delighted. The
night had closed in unusual darkness, and the massive build-
ings, whose summits were buried in dense and black obscurity,
were lighted only by the red reflected glow of crowded flam-
beaux and links — which, as the respective footmen, who at-
tended the crowding chairs and coaches flourished them
according to the approved fashion, scattered their wide showers
ot sparks into the eddying air, and illumined in a broad and
ruddy glare, like that of a bonfire, the gorgeous equipages
with whioh the square was now thronged, and the splendid
figures which they successively discharged. There were
coaches-and-four — out-riders — running footmen and hanging
footmen — crushing and rushing — jostling and swearing — and
burly coachmen, with inflamed visages, lashing one another's
horses and their own. Lackeys collaring and throttling one
another, all " for their master's honour,'' in the hot and dis-
orderly dispute for precedence, and some even threateningan ap-
peal to the swords — which, according to the barbarous fashion
of the day, thev carried, to the no small peril of the public and
themselves. Others dragging the reins of strangers' horses,
and backing them to make way for their own — a proceeding
which, of course, involved no small expenditure of blasphemy
and vociferation. On the whole, it would not be easy to ex-
aggerate the scene of riot and confusion which, under the very
eye of the civil and military executive of the country, was
perpetually recurring, and that, too, ostensibly in honour of
the supreme head of the Irish Government.

Through all this crash, and clatter, and brawling, and
vociferation, the party whom we are bound to follow made
their way with some difficulty and considerable delay.

The Earl of Wharton with his countess, surrounded by a
brilliant statf, and amid all the pomp and state of vice-regal
dignity, received the distinguished courtiers who thronged the
castle chambers. At the time of which we write, Lord Wharton
was in his seventieth year. Few, however, would have guessed
his age at more than sixty, though many might have supposed
it under that. He was lather a spare figure, with an erect
and dignified bearing, and a countenance which combined
vivacity, good-humour, and boldness in an eminent degree.
His manners were, to those who did not know how unreal was

102 The " Cock and A nchor. ' '

everything in them that bore the promise of good, singularly
engaging, and that in spite of a very strong spice of coarse-
ness, and a very determined addiction to profane swearing.
He had, however, in his whole air and address a kind of
rollicking, good-humoured familiarity, which was very gene-
rally mistaken for the quintessence of candour and good-
fellowship, and which consequently rendered him unboundedly
popular among those who were not aware of the fact that his
complimentary speeches meant just nothing, and were very
often followed, the moment the object of them had withdrawn,
by the coarsest ridicule, and even by the grossest abuse. For
the rest, he was undoubtedly an able statesman, and had
clearly discerned and adroitly steered his way through the
straits and perils of troublous and eventful times. He was,
moreover, a stead}7 and uncompromising Whig, upon whom,
throughout a long and active life, the stain of inconsistency
had never rested; a thorough partisan, a quick and ready
debater, and an unscrupulous and daring political intriguer.
In private, however, entirely profligate — a sensualist and an
infidel, and in both characters equally without shame.

Through the rooms there wandered a very wild, madcap boy
of some ten or eleven years, venting his turbulent spirits in
all kinds of mischievous pranks — sometimes planting himself
behind Lord Wharton, and mimicking, with ludicrous exaggera-
tion, which the courtly spectators had enough to do to resist,
the ceremonious gestures and gracious nods of the viceroy ; at
other times assuming a staid and manly carriage, and chatting
with his elders with the air of perfect equality, and upon
subjects which one would have thought immeasurably beyond
his years, and this with a sound sense, suavity, and precision
which would have done honour to many grey heads in the
room. This strange, bold, precocious boy of eleven was Philip,
afterwards Duke of Wharton, the wonder and the disgrace of
the British peerage.

" Ah ! Mr. Morris," exclaimed his excellency, as a middle-
aged gentleman, with a fluttered air, a round face, and vacant
smile, approached, "I am delighted to see you — by Al-
mighty i am — give me your hand. I have written across
about the matter we wot of: but for these cursed contrary
winds, I make no doubt 1 should have had a letter before now.
Is the young gentleman himself here ? "

" A — a — not quite, your excellency. That is, not at — all,"
stammered the gentleman, in mingled delight and alarm. " He
is, my lord, a — a — laid up. He — a — it is a sore throat. Your
excellency is most gracious."

" Tell him from me," rejoined Wharton, " that he must get
well as quickly as may be. We dcn't know the moment he
may le wanted. You understand me ? "

Dublin Castle by Night. 103

" I — a — do indeed," replied Mr. Morris, retiring in graceful
confusion.

" A d d impudent booby," whispered Wharton to Addi-

son, who stood beside him, uttering the remark without the
change of a single muscle. " He has made some cursed un-
conscionable request about his son. I'gad, I forget what ; but
we want his vote on Tuesday ; and civility, you know, costa no
coin."

Addison smiled faintly, and shook his head.

" May the Lord pardon us all," exclaimed a country clergy-
man in a rusty gown and ill-dressed wig, with a pale,
attenuated, eager face, which told mournful tales of short
commons and hard work ; he had been for some time an in-
tense and a grieved listener to the lord-lieutenant's conversa-
tion, and was now slowly retiring with a companion as humble
as himself from the circle which surrounded his excellency,
with simple horror impressed upon his pale features — " may
the Lord preserve us all, how awful it is to hear one so
highly trusted by Him, take His name thus momentarily in
vain. Lord Wharton is, I fear me much, an habitual profane
swearer."

" Believe me, sir, you are very simple," rejoined a young
clergyman who stood close to the position which the speaker
now occupied. " His excellency's object in swearing by the
different persons of the Trinity is to show that he believes
in revealed religion — a fact which else were doubtful ; and
this being his main object, it is manifestly a secondary con-
sideration to what particular asseveration or promises his
excellency happens to tack his oaths."

The lank, pale-faced prebendary looked suddenly and
earnestly round upon the person who had accosted him, with
an expression of curiosity and wonder, evidently in some
doubt as to the spirit in which the observation had been made.
He beheld a tall, stalwart man, arrayed in a clerical costume
as rich as that of a churchman who has not attained to the
rank of a dignitary in his profession could well be, and in all
points equipped with the most perfect neatness. In the face
he looked in vain for any indication of jocularity. It was a
striking countenance — striking for the extreme severity of its
expression, and for its stern and handsome outline. The eye
which encountered the inquiring glance of the elder man was
of the clearest blue, singularly penetrating and commanding
— the eyebrow dark and shaggy — the lips full and finely
formed, but in their habitual expression bearing a character
of haughty and indomitable determination — the complexion of
the face was dark ; and as the country prebendary gazed upon
the countenance, full, as it seemed, of a scoruful, stern, merci-
less energy and decision, something told him that he looked

104 'The "Cock and Anchor."

upon one born to lead and to command the people. All this
he took in at a glance : and while he looked, Addison, who
had detached himself from the vice-regal coterie, laid his
hand upon the shoulder of the stern -featured young clergy-
man.

" Swift," said he, drawing him aside, "we see you too seldom
here. His excellency begins to think and to hope you have
reconsidered what I spoke about when last we met. Believe
me, you wrong yourself in not rendering what service you can
to men who are not ungrateful, and who have the power to
reward. You were always a Whig, and a pamphlet were with
you but the work of a few days."

" Were I to write a pamphlet," rejoined Swift, " it is odds
his excellency would not like it."

" Have you not always been a Whig ? " urged Addison.
" Sir, I am not to be taken by nicknames," rejoined Swift.
"I know Godolphin, and I know Lord Wharton. I have long
distrusted the government of each. I am no courtier, Mr.
Secretary. What I suspect I will not seem to trust — what I
hate I hate entirely, and renounce openly. I have heard of
my Lord Wharton's doing?, too. When I refused before to
understand your overtures to me to write a pamphlet for his
friends, he was pleased to say I refused because he would not
make me his chaplain — in saying which he knowingly and
malignantly lied ; and to this lie he, after his accustomed
fashion, tacked .a blasphemous < ath. He is therefore a perjured
liar. I renounce him as heartily as I renounce the devil. I
am come here, Mr. Secretary, not to do reverence to Lord
Wharton — God forbid ! — but to offer my homage to the
majesty of England, whose brightness is reflected even in that
cracked and battered piece of pinchbeck yonder. Believe me,
should his excellency be rash enough to engage me in talk
to-night, I shall take care to let him know what opinion I have
of him."

" Come, come, you must not be so dogged," rejoined
Addison. " You know Lord Wharton's ways. He says a good
deal more than he cares to be believed — everybody knows that
— and all take his lordship's asseverations with a grain of
allowance ; besides, you ought to consider that when a man
unused to contradiction is crossed by disappointment, he is
apt to be choleric, and to forget his discretion. We all know
his faults ; but even you will not deny his merits."

Thus speaking, he led Swift toward the vice-regal circle,
which they had no sooner reached than Wharton, with his
most good-humoured smile, advanced to meet the young
clergyman, exclaiming, —

" Swift ! so it is, by ! I am glad to see you — by I

am."

Dublin Castle by Night. 105

" I am glad, my lord,'5 replied Swift, gravely, "that you take
such frequent occasion to remind this godless company of the
presence of the Almighty."

" Well, you know," rejoined Wharton, good-humouredly,
" the Scripture saith that the righteous man sweareth to his
neighbour."

"And disappointeth him not," rejoined Swift.

"And disappointeth him not," repeated Wharton; "and by

," continued he, with marked earnestness, and drawing

the young politician aside as he spoke, "in whatsoever I swear
to thee there shall be no disappointment."

He paused, but Swift remained silent. The lord-lieutenant
well knew that an English preferment was the nearest
object of the young churchman's ambition. He therefore
continued, —

" On my soul, we want you in England — this is no stage

for you. By you cannot hope to serve either yourself or

your friends in this place."

"Very few thrive here but scoundrels, my lord," rejoined
Swift.

"Even so," replied Wharton, with perfect equanimity — "it
is a nation of scoundrels — dissent on the one side and popery
on the other. The upper order harpies, and the lower a mere
prey — and all equally liars, rogues, rebels, slaves, and robbers.

By some fine day the devil will carry off the island

bodily. For very safety you must get out of it. By he'll

have it."

" I am not enough in the devil's confidence to speak of his
designs with so much authority as your lordship," rejoined
Swift; "but I incline to think that under your excellency's
administration it will answer his end as well to leave the
island where it is."

"Ah! Swift, you are a wag," rejoined the viceroy; "but

by I honour and respect your spirit. I know we shall

agree yet — by 1 know it. I respect your independence

and honesty all the more that they are seldom met with in a

presence-chamber. By I respect and love you more and

more every day."

" If your lordship will forego your professions of love, and
graciously conHne yourself to the backbiting which must
follow, you will do for me to the full as much as I either
expect or desire," rejoined Swift, with a grave reverence.

" Well, well," rejoined the viceroy, with the most unruffled
good-humour, "I see, Swift, you are in no mood to play the
courtier just now. Nevertheless, bear in mind what Addison
advised you to attempt ; and though we part thus for the
present, believe me, 1 love you all the better for your honest
humour."

1 06 The "Cock and A ncfior."

" Farewell, my lord," repeated Swift, abruptly, and with a
formal bow he retired among the common throng.

" A hungry, ill-conditioned dog," said Wharton, turning to
the person next him, " who, having never a bone to gnaw,
whets his teeth on the shins of the company."

Having vented this little criticism, the viceroy resumed
once more the formal routine of state hospitality.

" It is time we were going," suggested Mary Ashwoode to
Emily Copland. " My lord,'3 she continued, turning to Lord
Aspenly, whose attentions had been just as conspicuous and
incessant as Sir Richard Ashwoode could have wished them,
" Do you know where Lady Stukely is ? "

Lord Aspenly professed his ignorance.

" Have you seen her ladyship ? " inquired Emily Copland
of the gallant Major O'Leary, who stood ne*r her.

" Upon my conscience, I have," rejoined the major. "I'm
not considered a poltroon ; but I plead guilty to one weak-
ness. I am bothered if I can stand fire when it appears in
the nose of a gentlewoman ; so as soon as I saw her I beat a
retreat, and left my valorous young nephew to stand or fall
under the blaze of her artillery. She is at the far end of the
room."

The major was easily persuaded to undertake the mission,
and a word to young Ashwoode settled the matter. The
party accordingly left the rooms, having, however, previously
to their doing so, arranged that Major O'Leary should pass
the next day at Morley Court, and afterwards accompany
them in tbe evening to the theatre, whither Sir Richard, in
pursuance of his plans, had arranged that they should all
repair.

CHAPTER XVIII.

THE TWO COUSINS — THE NEGLECTED JEWELS AND THE
BROKEN SEAL.

IT was drawing toward evening when Emily Copland, in high
spirits, and richly and becomingly dressed, ran lightly to the
d->or of her cousin's chamber. She knocked, but no answer
was returned. She knocked again, but still without any
reply. Then opening the door, she entered the room, and
beheld her cousin Mary seated at a small work-table, at which
it was her wont to read. There she lay motionless — her small
head leaned upon her graceful arms, over which flowed all
negligently the dark luxuriant hair. An open letter was on

The Two Cousins. 107

the table before her, and two or three rich ornaments lay un-
heeded on the floor beside her, as if they had fallen from her
hand. There was in her attitude snch a passionate abandon-
ment of grief, that she seemed the breathing image of despair.
Spite of all her levity, the young lady was touched at the sight.
She approached her gently, and laying her hand npon her
shoulder, she stooped down and kissed her.

"Mary, dear Mary, what grieves you?" she said. "Tell
me. It's I, dear — your cousin Emily. There's a good girl —
what has happened to vex you ? "

Mary raised her head, and looked in her cousin's face. Her
eye was wild — she was pale as marble, and in her beautiful face
was an expression so utterly woeful and piteous, that E oaily
was almost moved.

" Oh ! I have lost him — for ever and ever I have lost him,"
said she, despairingly. " Oh ! cousin, dear cousin, he is gone
from me. God pity me — I am forsaken."

"Nay, cousin, do not say so — be cheerful — it cannot be —
there, there ;' and Emily Copland kissed the poor girl's pale
lip*.

" Forsaken — forsaken," continued Mary, for she heard not
and heeded not the voice of vain consolation. " He has thrown
me off for ever — for ever — quite — quite. God pity me, where
shall I look for hope ? "

" Mary, dear Mary," said her cousin, " you are ill — do not
give way thus. Be assured it is not as you think. You must
be in error."

" In error ! Oh ! that I could think so. God knows how
gladly I would give my poor life to think so. No, no — it is
real — all real. Oh ! cousin, he has forsaken me."

" I cannot believe it — I can not," said Emily Copland.
" Such folly can hardly exist. I will not believe it. What
reason have you for thinking him changed ? "

" Read — oh, read it, cousin," replied the girl, motioning
toward the letter, which lay open on the table — "read it once,
and you will not bid me hope any more. Oh ! cousin, dear
cousin, there is no more joy for me in this world, turn where I
will, do what I may — I am heart-broken."

Emily Copland glanced through the latter, shook her head,
and dropped the note again where it had been lying.

" You know, cousin Emily, how I loved him," continued
Mary, while for the first time the tears flowed fast — " you know
that day after day, among all that happened to grieve me, my
heart found rest in his love — in the nope and trust that he
would never grow cold ; and — and — oh ! God pity me — now
where is it all? You see — you know his love is gone from me
— for evermore — gone from me. Oh ! how I used to count the
days and hours till the time would come round when I could

108 The "Cock and Anchor:1

see him and speak to him — but this has all gone. Hereafter
all days are to be the same — morning or evening, summer time
or winter — no change of seasons or of hours can bring to me
any more hope or gladness, but ever the same — sorrow and
desolite loneliness — for oh ! cousin, I am very desolate, and
hopeless, and heart-broken."

The poor girl threw her arras round her cousin's neck, and
sobbed and wept, and wept and sobbed again, as though
her heart would break. Long and bitterly she wept upon,
her cousin's neck in silence, unbroken, except by her sobs.
After a time, however, Emily Copland exclaimed, —

"Well, Mary, to say the truth, I never much liked the
matter ; and as he is a fool, and an ungrateful fool to boot,
1 am rot sorrv that he has shown his character as he has done.
Believe me, painful as such discoveries are when made thus
early, they are incomparably more agonizing when made too
late. A little — a very little — time will enable you quite to
forget him."

" No, cousin, ' replied Mary — " no, I never will forget him.
He is changed indeed — greatly changed from what he was —
bitterly has he disappointed and betrayed me; but I cannot
forget him. There shall indeed never more pass word or look
between us ; he shall be to me as one that is dead, whom I
shall hear and see no more ; but the memory of what he was —
the memory of what 1 vainly thought him — shall remain with
me while my poor heart beats."

"Well, Mary, time will show," said Emily.

"Yes, time will show — time will show," replied she, mourn-
fully ; " be the time long or short, it will show."

'• You must forget him — you will forget him ; a few weeks,
and you will thank your stars you found him out so soon."

" Ah, cousin," replied Mar}7, " you do not know bow »11 my
thoughts, and hopes, and recollections — everything I liked to
remember, and to look forward to; you cannot know how all
that was happy in my life — but what boots it, I will keep
my troth with him ; I will love no other, and wed with no
other; and while this sorrowful life remains I will never — never
— forget him."

" I can only say, that were the case my own," rejoined
Emily, " I would show the fellow how lightly I held him and
his worthless heart, and marry within a month ; but every one
has her own way of doing things. Remember it is nearly
time to start for the theatre ; the coach will be at the door in
half-an-hour. Surely you will come ; it would seem so very
strange were you to change your mind thus suddenly ; and
you may be very sure that, by some means or other, the
impudent fellow — about whom, I car not see why, you care
so much — would hear of all your grieving, and piaing, and

The Two Cousins. 109

love-sickness. Pah ! I'd rather die than please the hollow,
worthless creature by letting him think he had caused ine a
moment's uneasiness; and then, above all, Sir Richard would
be so outrageously angry — why, you would never, hear the
end of it. Come, come, be a good girl. After all, it is only
holding up your head, and looking pretty, which you can't
help, for an hour or two. You must come to silence gossip
abroad, as well as for the sake of peace at home — you must
come."

" I would fain stay here at home," said the poor girl ; " heart
and head are sick : but if you think my father would be angry
with me for staying at home, I will go. It is indeed, as you
say, a small matter to me where I pass an hour or two ; all
times, all places — crowds or solitudes — are henceforward in-
different to me. What care I where thev bring me ! Cousin
Emily, I will do whatever you think best."

The jw or girl spoke with a voice and look of such utter
wretchedness, that even her light-hearted, worldly, selfish
cousin was touched with pity.

" Come, then ; I will assist you," said she, kissing the pale
cheek of the heart-stricken girl. " Come, Mary, cheer up, you
must call up yonr good looks it would never do to be seen
thus." And so talking on, she assisted her to dress.

Gaily and richly arrayed in the gorgeous and by no means
unbecoming style of the times, and sparkling with brilliant
jewels, poor Mary Ashwoode — a changed and stricken creature,
scarcely conscious of what was going on around her — took her
place in her father's carriage, and was borne rapidly toward
the theatre.

The p^rty consisted of the two young ladies, who were
respectively under the protection of Lord Aspenly, who sate
beside Mary Ashwoode, happily too much pleased with his own
voluble frivolity to require anything more from her than her
appearing to hear it, and young Ashwoode, who chatted gaily
with his pretty cousin.

" What has become of my venerable true-love, Major
O'Leary ? " inquired Miss Copland.

"He will follow on horseback," replied Ashwoode. "I
beheld him, as I passed downstairs, admiring himself before
the looking-glass in his new regimentals. He designs tre-
mendous havoc to-night. His coat is a perfect phenomenon —
the investment of a year's pay at least — with more gold about
it than I thought the country could afford, and scarlet enough
to make a whole wardrobe for the lady of Babylon — a coat
which, if left to itself, would storm the hearts of nine girls out
of ten, and which, even with an officer in it, will enthral half
the sex."

"And here comes the coat itself," exclaimed the young lady,

1 10 The "Cock and Anchor:"

as the major rode up to the coach-window — " I'm half in love
with it myself already."

"Ladies, your demoted slave: gentlemen, your most
obedient," said the major, raising his three-cornered hat. " I
hope to see you before half-an-hour, under circumstances more
favourable to conversation. Miss Copland, depend upon it,
with your permission, I'll pay my homage to you before half-
an-hour, the more especially as 1 have a scandalous story to
tell you. Meanwhile, I wish you all a safe journey, and a
pleasant one." So saying, the major rode on, at a brisk pace,
to the " Cock and Anchor," there intending to put up his horse,
and to exchange a few words with young O'Connor.

In the meantime the huge old coach, which contained the
rest of the party, jolted and rumbled on, until at length, amid
the confusion and clatter of crowded vehicles, restive horses,
and vociferous coachmen, with all their accompaniments of
swenring and whipping, the clank of scrambling hoofs, the
bumping and hustling of carriages, and the desperate rushing
of chairmen, bolting this way or that, with their living loads
of foppery and fashion — the coach-door was thrown open at ttie
box-entrance of the Theatre Eoyal, in Smock Alley.

CHAPTER XIX.

THE THEATRE — THE RUFFIAN — THE ASSAULT, AND THE
RENCONTRE.

MAJOR O'LEARY had hardly dismounted in the quadrangle of
the " Cock and Anchor," when O'Connor rode slowly into the
inn-yard.

" How are you, my dear fellow?" exclaimed the man of scarlet
and gold; "I was just asking where you were. Come down,
off that beast, I want to have a word in your ear — a bit of news
• — some fun. Descend, I say, descend."

O'Connor accordingly dismounted.

" Now then — a hearty shake — so. I have great news, and
only a minute to tell it. Jack, run like a shot, and get me a
chair. Here, Tim, take a napkin and an oyster-knife, and do
not leave a bit of mud, or the sign of it, upon my back : take
a general survey of the coat and breeches, and a particular
review of the wig. And, Jem, do you give my boots a harum-
scarum shot of a superficial scrub, and touch up the hat — gently,
do you mind — and take care of the lace. So while the f jllows
are finishing my toilet, I may as well tell you my morsel

The Theatre. 1 1 1

of news. Do you know who is to be at the playhouse to-
night?"

O'Connor expressed his ignorance.

" Well, then, I'll tell you, and make what use you like of
it," resumed the major. " Miss Mary Ashwoode ! There's
for you. Take my advice, get into a decent coat and breeches,
and run down to the theatre — it is not five minutes' walk from
this ; you'll easily find us, and I'll take care to make room for
you. Why, you do not seem half pleased : what more can you
wish for, unless you expect the girl to put up for the evening at
the " Cock and Anchor " ? Rouse yourself. If you feel modest,
there is nothing like a pint or two of Madeira : don't try
brandy — it's the father and mother of all sorts of indiscretions.
Now, mind, you have the hint; it is an opportunity you ought
to improve. By the powers, if I was in your place — but no
matter. You may not have an opportunity of seeing her again
these six months ; and unless I'm completely mistaken, you
are as much in love with the girl as I am with — several
that shall be nameless. Heigho ! next after Burgundy, and the
cock-pit, and the fox-hounde, and two or three more frailties of
the kind, there is nothing in the world I prefer to flirtation,
without much minding whether I'm the principal or the second
in the affair. But here comes the vehicle."

Accordingly, without waiting to say any more, the major
took his seat in the chair, and was borne by the lusty chair-
men, at a swinging pace, through the narrow streets, and,
without let or accident, safely deposited within the principal
entrance of the theatre.

The theatre of Smock Alley (or, as it was then called,
Orange Street) was not quite what theatres are nowadays.
It was a large building of the kind, as theatres were then
rated, and contained three galleries, one above the other,
supported by heavy wooden caryatides, and richly gilded and
painted. The curtain, instead of rising and falling, opened,
according to the old fashion, in the middle, and was drawu
sideways apart, disclosing no triumphs of illusive colouring
and perspective, but a succession of plain tapestry-covered
screens, which, from early habit, the audience accommoda-
tingly accepted for town or country, dry land or sea, or, in
short, for any locality whatsoever, according to the manager's
good will and pleasure. This docility and good faith on the
part of the audience were, perhaps, the more praiseworthy,
inasmuch as a very considerable number of the aristocratic
spectators actually sate in long lines down either side of the
stage — a circumstance involving, by the continuous presence
of the same perukes, and the same embroidered waistcoats,
the same set of countenances, and the same set of legs, in
every variety of clime and situation through which the way-

I r 2 The "Cock and Anchor?'

ward invention of the playwright hurried his action, a very
severe additional tax upon the imaginative faculties of the
audience. But perhaps the most striking peculiarities of the
place were exhibited in the grim persons of two bond fide
sentries, in genuine cocked hats and scarlet coat?, with their
enormous muskets shouldered, and the ball-cartridges dang-
ling in ostentatious rows from their bandoleers, planted at
the front, and facing the audience, one at each side of the
stage — a vivid evidence of the stern vicissitudes and in-
security of the times. For the rest, the audience of those
days, in the brilliant colours, and glittering lace, and profuse
ornament, which the gorgeous fashion of the time allowed,
presented a spectacle of rich and dazzling magnificence, such
as no modern assembly of the kind can even faintly
approach.

The major had hardly made his way to the box where his
party were seated, when his attention was caught by an
object which had for him all but irresistible attractions :
this was the buxom person of Mistress Jannet Rumble, a
plump, good-looking, young widow of five- and- forty, with a
jolly smile, a hearty laugh, and a killing acquaintance with
the language of the eyes. These perfections — for of course
her jointure, which, by the way, was very considerable, could
ruive had nothing to do with it— were too much for Major
O'Leary. He met the widow accidentally, made a few careless
inquiries about her finances, and fell over head and ears in
love with her upon the shortest possible notice. Our friend
had, therefore, hardly caught a glimpse of her, when Miss
Copland, beside whom, he was seated, observed that he be-
came unusually meditative, and at length, after two or three
attempts to enter again into conversation — all resulting in
total and incoherent failure, the major made some blundering
excuse, took his departure, and in a, moment had planted
himself beside the fascinating Mistress Bumble — where we
shall allow him the protection of a generous concealment,
and suffer him to read the lady's eyes, and insinuate his sott
nonsense, without intruding for a moment upon the sanctity
of lovers' mutual confidences.

Emily Copland having watched and enjoyed the manoeuvres
of her military friend till she was fairly tired of the amuse-
ment, and having in vain sought to engage Henry Ashwoode,
who was unusually moody and absent, in conversation, at
length, as a last desperate resource, turned her attention to
what was passing upon the stage.

While all this was going forward, young Ashwoode was a
good deal disconcerted at observing among the crowd in the
pit. a personage with whom, in the vicious haunts which he
irequented, he had made a sort of ambiguous acquaintance.

The Theatre. 1 1 3

The man was a bulky, broad-shouldered, ill-looking fellow,
with a large, vulgar, red face, and a coarse, sensual mouth,
whose blue, swollen lips indicated habitual intemperance, and
the nauseous ugliness of which was further enhanced by the
loss of two front teeth, probably by some violent agency, as
was testified by a deep scar across the mouth ; the eyes of
the man carried that uncertain expression, half of shame
and half of defiance, which belongs to the coward, bully, and
ruffian. The Vackness of habitually-indulged and ferocious
passion was upon his countenance ; and the revolting char-
acter of the face was the more unequivocally marked by a sort
of smile, or rather sneer, which had in it neither intellectuality
nor gladness — an odious libel on the human smile, with
nothing but brute insolence and scorn, and a sardonic glee in
its baleful light — a smile from which every human sympathy
recoiled abashed and affrighted. Let not the reader imagine
that the man and the character are but the dreams of fiction ;
the wretch, whose outward seeming we have imperfectly
sketched, lived and moved in the scenes where we have fixed
our narrative— there grew rich — there rioted in the indul-
gence of every passion which hell can inspire or to which
wealth can pander — there ministered to his insatiate avarice,
by the destruction and beggary of thousands of the young
and thoughtless — and there at length, in the fulness of his
time, died — in the midst of splendour and infamy : with
malignant and triumphant perseverance having persisted to
his latest hour in the prosecution of his Satanic mission ;
luring the unwary into the toils of crime and inextricable mad-
ness, and thence into the pit of temporal and eternal ruin.
This man, Nicholas Blavden, Esquire, was the proprietor of
one of those places where fortunes are squandered, time sunk,
habits, temper, character, morals, all, corrupted, blaste«l,
destroyed— one of those places which are set apart as the
especial temples of avarice, in which, year after year, are for
ever recurring the same perennial scenes of mad excess, of
caculating, merciless fraud, of bleak, brain-stricken despair —
places to which hap been assigned, in a spirit of fearful truth,
the appellative of " hell."

The man whom we have mentioned, it had never been young
Ashwoode's misfortune to meet, except in those scenes where
his acquaintance was useful, without being actually discredit-
able ; for it was the fellow's habit, with the instinctive caution
which marks such gentlemen, to court public observation as
little as possible, and to skulk systematically from the eye of
popular scrutiny — seldom embarrassing bis aristocratic acquain-
tances by claiming the privilege of recognition at unseasonable
times ; and confining himself, for the most part, exclusively
to his own coterie. Independently of his unpleasant natural

I

1 1 4 The "Cock and A nchor?

peculiarities there were other circumstances which tended to
make him a conspicuous object in the crowd — the fellow was
extravagantly over-dressed, and had planted himself in a
standing posture upon a bench, and from this elevated position
was, with steady effrontery, gazing into the box in which
young Ashwoode'iE party were seated, exchanging whispers
and horse-laughs with three or four men who looked scarcely
less villainous than himself, and, as soon becime apparent,
directing his marked and exclusive attention to Miss Ash-
woode, who was too deeply absorbed in her own sorrowful
reflections to heed what was passing around her. The
young man felt his choler mount, as he beheld the insolent
conduct of the fellow — he saw, however, that Blarden was
evidently not perfectly sober, and hesitated what course he
should take. Strongly as he was tempted to spring at once
into the pit, and put an end to the impertinence by caning
the fellow within an inch of his life, he yet felt that a dis-
reputable conflict of the kind had better be avoided, and
could not well be justified except as a last resource ; he, there-
fore, made up his mind to bear it as long as human endurance
could.

Whatever hopes he entertained of escaping a collision with
this man were, however, destined to be disappointed. Nicky
Ularden (as his friends endearingly called him), to the great
comfort of that part of the audience in his immediate neigh-
bourhood, at length descended from his elevated stand, but
not to conceal himself among the. less obtrusive spectators.
With an insolent swagger the fellow shouldered his way
among the crowd towards the box where the object of his
grize was seated ; and, having planted himself directly beneath
it, he stared impudently up at young Ashwoode, exclaiming at
the same time, —
"I say, Ashwoode, how does the world wag with yon? —

why ain't you rattling the bones this evening? d n me, you

may as well be off, and let me take care of the dimber mot up
there ? "

"Do you speak to me, sir?" inquired young Ashwoode,
turning almost livid with passion, and speaking in that sub-
dued tone, and with that constrained coolness, which precedes
some ungovernable outburst of fury.

" Why, me, how great we've srot all at once — I sav,

you don't know me — Eh! don't you?" exclaimed the fellow,
with vulgar scorn, at the same time rather roughly poking
A^hwoode's hand with the hilt of his sword.

"I shall show you, sir, when your drunken folly has passed
away, by very sore proofs, that I do know you," replied the
young man, clutching his cane with such a grip as threatened
to force his fingers into it—" be assured, sir, I shall know

The Theatre. 1 1 5

yon, and you me, as long as you have tlie power to re-
member."

" Whieu, d it, don't frighten us," said the fellow, look-
ing round for the approbation of his companions. " I say,

d n it, don't frighten the people— come, come, no gammon.

I say, Ashwoode, you must introduce me, or present me, or
whatever's the word, to your sister up there — I say you

" Quit this part of the house this instant, sir, or nothing
shall prevent me flogging you until I leave not a whole bone
in your body— this warning is the last— prodt by it," rejoined
Ashwoode, in a low tone of bitter rage.

"Oh, ho! it's there you are — is it?" rejoined the fellow,
with a wink at his comrades, "so you're going to beat the

people — why, d n it, you're enough to make a horse laugh.

1 say I want to know your sister, or your miss, or whatever
she ie, with the black hair up there, and if you won't introduce
me, d n it, I must only introduce myself."

So saying, the fellow made a spring and caught the ledge
of the front of the box, with the intention of vaulting into the
place. Lord Aspenly and the young ladies had arisen in some
alarm.

" My lord," said young Ashwoode, " have the goodness to
conduct the ladies to the lobby — I will join you in a moment."

This direction was promptly obeyed, and at the same
moment the young man caught the fellow, already half into
the box, by the neckcloth, dragged his body across the
wooden parapet, and while he struggled helplessly to dis-
engage himself — half strangled, and without the power to get
either up or down — with his heavy cane, the young gentle-
man— every nerve, sinew, and muscle being strung to tenfold
power by fury — inflicted upon his back and ribs a castigition
so prolonged and tremendous, that before it had ended, the
scoundrel was perfectly insensible, in which state Henry Ash-
woode flung him down again into the pit, amid the obstre-
perous acclamations of all parts of the house — an uproar of
applause in which the spectators in the pit joined with such
hearty enthusiam, that at length, touched with a kindred
heroism, they turned upon the associates of the fallen cham-
pion, and fairly kicked and cuffed ihem out of the house.

This feat accomplished, the young gentleman went down
the stairs to the street-entrance, and, after considerable delay,
succeeded, with the assistance of the footman who had
attended him into the house, in finding out their carriage,
and having it brought to the door — not judging it expedient
that the ladies should return to their places, where they
would, of course, be exposed to the gazing curiosity of the
multitude. He found the party in the lobby quite recovered

i 2

1 1 6 The "Cock and A nchor?

from whatever was unpleasant in the excitement of the scene,
the more violent part of which they had not witnessed. Lord
Aspenly and Emily Copland were laughing over the adventure ;
and Mary, flashed and agitated, was looking better than she
had before upon that night. Taking his cousin under his own
protection, and consigning his sister to that of Lord Aspenly,
young Ashwoode led the way to the carriage As they passed
slowly along the lobby, the quick eye of Mary Ashwoode
discerned a form, at sight of which her heart swelled and
throbbed as though it would burst — the colour fled from her
cheeks, and she felt tor a moment on the point of swooning ;
the pride of her sex, however, sustained ber ; the tingling
blood again mounted warmly to her cheeks, her eye brightened,
and she listened, with more apparent interest than perhaps she
ever did before, to Lord Aspenly's remarks — the form was
O'Connor's. As she paseed him, she retarned his salute with
a slight and haughty bow, and saw, and felt the stern, cold,
proud expression which nurked his pale and handsome
features. In another moment she was seated in the carriage ;
the doors were closed, crack went the whip, and clatter go the
iron hoofs on the pavement — but before they had traversed a
hundred yards on their homeward way, poor Mary Ashwoode
sunk back in her place, and fainted away.

CHAPTER XX.

THE LODGING — YOUNG MELANCHOLY AND OLD REMEMBRANCES —
AN ADVENTURE AMONG THE YEW HEDGES OF MORLEY COURT.

" THERE is no more doubt — no more hope " — said O'Connor,
as, wrapt in his cloak, he slowly pursued his way homeward—
"the worst is true— she is quite estranged from me — how
deceived — how utterly blind I have been — yet who could have
thought it ? Light-hearted, vain, worthless — it is all, all true
— my own eyes have seen it. Well, even this must be borne —
borne as best it may, and with a manly spirit. I have been,
indeed, miserably cheated " — he continued, with bitter vehe-
mence— "and what remains for me? I've been infatuated— a
self-flattered fool, and waken thus to find all lost— but grief
avails not — there lie before me many paths of honourable toil,
and many avenues to honourable death — the ambition of my
life is over— henceforth the world has nothing to offer me. I
will leave this, the country of my ill-fated birth — leave it for
ever, and end my days honourably, and Grod grant soon, far

The Lodging. 1 17

away from the only one I ever loved — from her who has betrayed
me."

Such were the thoughts which darkly and vaguely hurried
through O'Connor's mind as he retraced his steps. Before he
had arrived, however, at the " Cock and Anchor," whitherward
he had mechanically directed his course, he bethought himself,
and turned in a different direction towards the house in which
his worthy friend, Mr. Audley — having an inveterate prejudice
against all inns, which, without exception, he averred to be the
especial sanctuaries of damp sheets, bugs, thieves, andrheumatic
fevers — had already established himself as a weekly lodger.

" Pooh, pooh ! you foolish boy," ejaculated the old bachelor,
with considerable energy, in reply to O'Connor's gloomy and
passionate language ; " nonsense, sir, and folly, and absurdity
— you'll give me the vapours if you go on this way— what the
devil do you want of foreign service and foreign graves — do
you think, booby, it was for that I came over here — tilly vally,
tilly vally — I know as well as you, or any other jackanapes,
what love is. I tell you, sirrah, I have been in love, and 1 have
been jilted— jilted, sir! and when I was jilted, I thought the
jilting itself quite enough, without improving the matter by
getting myself buried, dead or alive." Here the little gentle-
man knocked the table recklessly with his knuckles, buried his
hands in his breeches pockets, and rising from his chair, paced
the room with an impressive tread. " Had you ever seen Letty
Bodkin you might, indeed, have known what love is" — he con-
tinued, breathing very hard — " Letty Bodkin jilted me, and I
got over it. I did not ask for razors, or cannon balls, or foreign
interment, sir ; but I vented my indignation like a man. of
business, in totting up the books, and running up a heavy
arrear in the office accounts — yes, sir, I did more good in the
way of arithmetic and book-keeping during that three weeks
of Jove-sick agony, than an ordinary man, without the stimulus,
would do in a year" — there was another pause here, and he
resumed in a softened tone — " but Letty Bodkin was no ordi-
nary woman. Oh ! you scoundrel, had you seen her, you'd
have been neither to hold nor to bind — there was nothing she
could not do — she embroidered a waistcoat for me — heigho !
scarlet geraniums and parsley sprigs — and she danced like —
like a — a spring board — she'd sail through a minuet like a duck
in a pond, and hop and bounce through * Sir Roger de Coverley '
like a hot chestnut on a griddle ; — and then she sang — oh, her
singing ! — I've heard turtle-doves and thrushes, and, in fact,
most kind of fowls of all sorts and sizes ; but no nightingale
ever came up to her in ' The Captain endearing and tall,' and
' The Shepherdess dying for love ' — there never lived a man "
— continued he, with increasing vehemence — " I don't care
when or where, who could have stood, sate, or walked in her

1 1 8 The "Cock and A nchor?

company for half-an-hour, without making an old fool of him-
self— she was just my age, perhaps a year or two more — I
wonder whether she is much changed — heigho ! "

Having thus delivered himself, Mr. Audley lapsed into
meditation, and thence into a faint and rather painful attempt
to vocalize his remembrance of "The Captain endearing and
tall," engaged in which desperate operation of memory,
O'Connor left the old gentleman, and returned to his tempo-
rary abode to pass a sleepless night of vain remembrancer,
regrets, and despair.

On the morning subsequent to the somewhat disorderly
scene which we have described as having occurred in the theatre,
Mary Ashwoode, as usual, sate silent and melancholy, in the
dressing-room of her father, Sir Richard. The baronet was
not yet sufficiently recovered to venture downstairs to break-
fast, which in those days was a very early meal indeed. After
an unusually prolonged silence, the old man, turning suddenly
to his daughter, abruptly said, " Mary, you have now had
some days to study Lord Aspenly — how do you like him ? "

The girl raised her eyes, not a little surprised at the question,
and doubtful whether she had heard it aright.

" I say," resumed he, "you ought to have been able by this
time to arrive at a fair judgment as to Lord Aspenly 's merits
— what do you think of him — do you like him P "

" Indeed, father," replied she, " I have observed him very
little — he may be a very estimable man, but I have not seen
enough of him to form any opinion ; and indeed, if I had, my
opinion must needs be a matter of the merest indifference to
him and everyone else."

"Your opinion upon this point," replied Sir Richard, tartly,
" happens not to be a matter of indifference "

A considerable pause again ensued, during which Mary
Ashwoode had ample time to reflect upon the very unpleasant
doubts which this brief speech, and the tone in which it was
uttered, were calculated to inspire.

" Lord Aspenly 's manners are very agreeable, very," con-
tinued Sir Richard, meditatively — " I may say, indeed, fasci-
nating— very — do you think so ? " he added sharply, turning
towards his daughter.

This was rather a puzzling question. The girl had never
thought about him except as a frivolous old beau ; yet it was
plain she could not say so without vexing her father; she
therefore adopted the simplest expedient under such perplexing
circumstances, and preserved an embarrassed silence.

" The fact is," said Sir Richard, raising himself a little, so as
to look full in his daughter's face, at the same time speaking
slowly and sternly, " the fact is, I had better be explicit on this
subject. Jam anxious that you should think well of Lord

The L odging. 1 1 9

Aspenly ; it is, in short, my wish and pleasure that you should
like him ; you understand me — you had better understand
me." This was said with an emphasis not to be mistaken,
and another piuse ensued. "For the present,'7 continued he,
" run down and amuse yourself — and — stay — offer to show his
lordship the old terrace garden — do you mind? Now, once
more, run away."

So saying, the old gentleman turned coolly from her, and
rnng his hand-bell vehemently. Scarcely knowing what she
did, such was her astonishment at all that had passed, Mary
Ashwoode left the room without any very clear notion as to
whither she was going, or what to do ; nor was her confusion
much relieved when, on entering the hall, the first object
which encountered her was Lord Aspenly himself, with his
triangular hat under his arm, while he adjusted his deep lare
ruffles — he had never looked so ugly before. As he stood
beneath her while &he descended the broad staircase, smiling
from ear to ear, and bowing with the most chivalric profundity,
his skinny, lemon-coloured face, and cold, glittering little
pyes raised toward her — she thought that it was impossible for
tbe human shape so nearly to assume the outward semblance
of a squat, emaciated toad.

"Miss Ashwoode, as I live!" exclaimed the noble peer,
with his most gracious and fascinating smile. "On what
mission of love and mercy does she move? Shall I hope that
her first act of pity may be exercised in favour of the most
devoted of her slaves? I have been looking in vain for a
guide through the intricacies of Sir Kichard's yew hedges and
leaden statues ; may I hope that my presiding angel has sent
me one in you ? "

Lord Aspenly paused, and grinned wider and wider, but
receiving no answer, he resumed, —

" I understand, Miss Ashwoode, that the pleasure-grounds,
which surround us, abound in samples of your exquisite taste ;
as a votary of Flora, may I ask, if the request be not too
bold, that you will vouchsafe to lead a bewildered pilgrim to
the object of his search ? There is — is there not ? — shrined in
the centre of these rustic labyrinths, a small flower-garden
which owes its sweet existence to your creative genius ; if it
be not too remote, and if you can afford so much leisure, allow
me to implore your guidance."

As he thus spoke, with a graceful flourish, the little gentle-
man extended his hand, and courteously taking hers by the
extreme points of the fingers, he led her forward in a manner,
as he thought, so engaging as to put resistance out of the
question. Mary Ashwoode felt far too little interest in any-
thing but the one ever-present grief which weighed upon her
heart, to deny the old fop his trifling request ; shrouding her

1 20 The "Cock and A nchor"

graceful limbs, therefore, in a short cloak, and drawing the
hood over her head, she walked forth, with slow steps and an
aching heart, among the trim hedges which fenced the old-
t'ashioned pleasure walks.

" Beauty," exclaimed the nobleman, as he walked with an
air of romantic gallantry by her side, and glancing as he
spoke at the flowers which adorned the border of the path —
" beauty is nowhere seen to greater advantage than in spots
like this ; where nature has amassed whatever is most beautiful
in the inanimate creation, only to prove how unutterably
more exquisite are the charms of living loveliness : these walks,
but this moment to me a wilderness, are now so many paths
of magic pleasure — how can I enough thank the kind en-
chantress to whom I owe the transformation ? " Here the
little gentleman looked unutterable things, and a silence of
some minutes ensued, during which he effected some dozen
very wheezy sighs. Emboldened by Miss Ashwoode's silence,
which he interpreted as a very unequivocal proof of conscious
tenderness, he resolved to put an end to the skirmishing with
which he had opened his attack, and to commence the action
in downright earnestness. " This p^ce breathes an atmo-
sphere of romance ; it is a spot consecrated to the wor->hip of
love; it is — it is the shrine of passion, and I — Jam a votary —
a worshipper."

Miss Ashwoode paused in mingled surprise and displeasure,
for his vehemence had become so excessive as, in conjunction
with his asthma, to threaten to choke his lordship outright.
When Mary Ashwoode stopped short, Lord Aspenly took it
for granted that the crisis had arrived, and that the moment
for the decisive onset was now come ; he therefore ejaculated
with a rapturous croak, —

" And you — you are my divinity ! " and at the same moment
he descended stiffly upon his two knees, caught her hand in
his, and began to mumble it with unmistakable devotion.

" My lord — Lord Aspenly ! — surely your lordship cannot
mean — have done, my lord," exclaimed the astonished girl,
withdrawing her hand indignantly from his grasp. " Rise,
my lord ; you cannot mean otherwise than to mock me by
such extravagance. My lord — my lord, you surprise and
shock me beyond expression."

" Angel of beauty ! most exquisite — most perfect of your
sex," gasped his lordship, " I love you — yes, to distraction.
Answer me, if you would not have me expire at your feet —
ugh — ugh — tell me that I may hope — ugh — that I am not
indifferent to you — ugh, ugh, ugh, — that — that you can love
me P " Here his lordship was seized with so violent a fit of
coughing, that Miss Ashwoode began to fear that he would
expire at her feet in downright earnest. During the paroxysm,

The Lodging. 121

in which, with one hand pressed upon his side, he supported
himself by leaning with the o'her upon the ground, Mary had
ample time to collect her thoughts, so that when at length he
had recovered his breath, she addressed him with composure
and decision.

" My lord," she said, " I am grateful for your preference
of me ; although, when I consider the shortness of my ac-
quaintance with you, and how few have been your oppor-
tunities of knowing me, I cannot but wonder very much at its
vehemence. For me, your lordship cannot feel more than an
idle fancy, which will, no doubt, pa*s away just as lightly as
it came ; and as for my feelings, I have only to say, that it is
wholly impossible for you ever to establish in them any
interest of the kind you look for. Indeed, indeed, my lord, I
hope I have not given you pain — nothing can be further from
my wish than to do so ; but it is my duty to tell you plainly
and at once my real feelings. I should otherwise but trifle
with your kindness, for which, although I cannot return it as
yon desire, I shall ever be grateful."

Having thus spoken, she turned from her noble suitor, and
began to retrace her steps rapidly towards the house.

" Stay, Miss Ashwoode — remain here for a moment — you
tnvst hear me ! " exclaimed Lord Aspenly, in a tone so altered,
that she involuntarily paused, while his lordship, with some
difficulty, raised himself again to his feet, and with a flushed
and haggard face, in which still lingered the ghastly phantom
of his habitual smile, he hobbled to her side. " Miss Ash-
woode," he exclaimed, in a tone tremulous with emotions very
different from love, "I — I — I am not used to be treated
cavalierly — I — I will not brook it : I am not to be trifled with
— jilted — madam, jilted, and taken in. You have accepted
and encouraged my attentions — attentions which you cannot
have mistaken ; and now, madam, when I make you an offer
— such as your ambition, your most presumptuous ambition,
dared not have anticipated — the offer of my hand — and — and
a coronet, you coolly tell me you never cared for me. Why,
what on earth do you look for or expect? — a foreign prince or
potentate, an emperor, ha — ha — he — he — ugh — ugh — ugh ! I
tell you plainly, Miss Ashwoode, that my feelings must be
considered. I have long made my passion known to you; it
has been encouraged; and I have obtained Sir Richard's —
your father's — sanction and approval. You had better re-
consider what you have said. I shall give you an hour ; at
the end of that time, unless you see the propriety of avowing
feelings which, you must pardon me when I say it, your
encouragement of my advances has long virtually acknow-
ledged, 1 must lay the whole case, including all the painful
details of my own ill-usage, before Sir Richard AshwuoJe, and

122 The "Cock and Anchor:'

trust to his powers of persuasion to induce yon to act reason-
ably, and, I will add, honourably"

Here his lordship took several extraordinarily copious
pinches of snuff, after which he bowed very low, conjured up
an unusually hideous smile, in which spite, fury, and trinmph
were eagerly mingled, and hobbled away before the astonished
girl had time to muster her spirits sufficiently to answer him.

CHAPTER XXI.

WHO APPEARED TO MARY ASH WOOD E AS SHE SATE UNDER THE
TREES— THE CHAMPION.

WITH flashing eyes and a swelling heart, struck dumb with
unutterable indignation, the beautiful girl stood fixed in the
attitude in which his last words had reached her, while the
enraged and unmanly old fop hobbled away, with the ease and
grace with which a crippled ape might move over a hot griddle.
He had disappeared for some minutes before she had recovered
herself sufficiently to think or speak.

" If he were by my side," she said, "this noble lord dared
not have used me thus. Edmond would have died a thousand
deaths first. But oh ! God look upon me, for his love is gone
from me, and I am now a poor, grieved, desolate creature, with
none to help me."

Thus saying, she sate herself down upon the grass bank,
beneath the tall and antique trees, and wept with all the
bitter and devoted abandonment of hopeless sorrow. From
this unrestrained transport of grief she was at length aroused
by the pressure of a hand, gently and kindly laid upon her
shoulder.

" What vexes you, Mary, my little girl ? " inquired Major
O'Leary, for he it was that stood by her. " Come, darling,
don't fret, but tell your old uncle the whole business, and
twenty to one, he has wit enough in his old noddle yet to set
matters to rights. So, so, my darling, dry your pretty eyes — •
wipe the tears away; why should they wet your young cheeks,
my poor little doat, that you always were. It is too early yet
for sorrow to come on you. Wouldn't I throw myself between
my little pet and all grief, and danger ? Then trust to me,

darling ; wipe away the tears, or by I'll begin to cry

myself. Dry your eyes, and see if I can't help you one way
or another."

The mellow brogue of the old major had never fallen before

Who appeared to Mary Ashwoode. 1 23

with such a tender pathos upon the ear of his beautiful niece,
as now that its rich current bore full upon her heart the
unlooked-for words of kindness and comfort.

" Were not you always my pet," continued he, with the same
tenderness and pity in his tone, "from the time I first took
you upon my knee, my poor little Mary ? And were not you
fond of your old rascally uncle O'Leary? Usedn't I always
to take your part, right or wrong; and do you think I'll desert
you now ? Then tell it all to me — ain't I your poor old uncle,
the same as ever ? Come, then, dry the tears — there's a darling
— wipe them away."

While thus speaking, the warm-hearted old man took her
hand, with a touching mixture of gallantry, pity, and affection,
and kissed it again and again, with a thousand accompanying
expressions of endearment, such as in the days of her cbild-
hood he had been wont to lavish upon his little favourite.
The poor girl, touched by the kindness of her early friend,
whose good-natured sympathy was not to be mistaken, gradu-
ally recovered her composure, and yielding to the urgencies of
the major, who clearly perceived that something extraordi-
narily distressing must have occurred to account for her
extreme agitation, she at length told him the immediate cause
of her grief and excitement. The major listened to the narra-
tive with growing indignation, and when it had ended, he
inquired, in a tone, about whose unnatural calmness there was
something infinitely more formidable than in the noisiest
clamour of fury, —

" Which way, darling, did his lordship go when he left
yon ? "

The girl looked in his face, and saw his deadly purpose
there. ,

" Uncle, my own dear uncle," she cried distractedly, "for
God's sake do not follow him — for God's sake — I conjure you,
I implore — " She would have cast herself at his feet, but
the major caught her in his arms.

" Well, well, my darling/' he exclaimed, " I'll not kill him,
well as he deserves it — I'll not: you have saved his life. I
pledge you my honour, as a gentleman and a soldier, I'll not
harm him for what he has said or done this day—are you
satisfied ? "

" I am, I am ! Thank God, thank God ! " exclaimed the pjor
girl, eagerly.

" But, Mary, I must see him,'' rejoined the major; "he has
threatened to set Sir Kichard upon you — I must see him ; you
don't object to that, under the promise I have made ? I want
to — to reason with him. He shall not get you into trouble
with the baronet ; for though Eichard and I came of the same
mother, we are not of the same marriage, nor of the same

1 24 The "Cock and A nchor"

mould — I wouW not for a cool hundred that he told his story
to your father."

"Indeed, indeed, dear uncle," replied the girl, "I fear me
there is little hope of escape or ease for me. My father must
know what has passed ; he will learn it inevitably, and then
it needs no colouring or misrepresentation to call down upon
me his heaviest displeasure; his anger I must endure as best
I may. God help me. But neither threats nor violence shall
make me retract the answer T have given to Lord Aspenly, nor
ever yield consent to marry him — nor any other now.'3

" Well, well, little Mary," rejoined the major, " I like your
spirit. Stand to that, and you'll never be sorry for it. In the
meantime, I'll venture to exercise his lordship's conversational
powers in a brief conference of a few minutes, and if I find him

as reasonable as I expect, you'll have no cause to regret my
interposition. Don't look so frightened — haven't I promised,
on the honour of a gentleman, that I will not pink him for
anything said or done in his conference with you ? To send a
small sword through a bolster or a bailiff," he continued, medi-
tatively, " is an indifferent action ; but to spit such a poisonous,
crawling toad as the respectable old gentleman in question,
would be nothing short of meritorious — it is an act that 'ud
tickle the fancy of every saint in heaven, and, if there's justice
on earth, would canonize myself. But never mind, I'll let it
alone — the little thing shall escape, since you wish it — Major
O'Leary has said it, so let no doubt disturb you. Good-bye,
my little darling, dry your eyes, and let me see you, before an
hour, as merry as in the merriest days that are gone."

So saying, Major O'Leary patted her cheek, and taking her
hand affectionately in both his, he added, —

" Sure I am, that there is more in all this than you care to
tell me, my little pet. I am sorely afraid there is something
beyond my power to remedy, to change your light-hearted
nature so mournfully. What it is, I will not inquire, but re-
member, darling, whenever you want a friend, you'll find a sure
one in me."

Thus having spoken, he turned from her, and strode rapidly
down the walk, until the thick, formal hedges concealed his
retreating form behind their impenetrable screens of darksome
verdure.

Odd as were the manner and style of the major's professions,
there was something tender, something of heartiness, in his
speech, which assured her that she had indeed found a friend
in him — rash, volatile, and violent it might be, but still one on
whose truth and energy she might calculate. That there was
one being who felt with her and for her, was a discovery which
touched her heart and moved her generous spirit, and she now
regarded the old major, whose spoiled favourite in childhood she

The Spinet. 125

had been, but whom, before, she had never known capable of
a serious feeling, with emotions of affection and gratitude,
stronger and more ardent than he had ever earned from any
other being. Agitated, grieved, and excited, she hurriedly left
the scene of this interview, and sought relief for her over-
charged feelings in the quiet and seclusion of her chamber.

CHAPTER XXII.

THE SPINET.

IN no very pleasant frame of mind did Lord Aspenly retrace
his steps toward the old house. His lordship had, all his lite,
been firmly persuaded that the whole female creation had been
sighing and pining for the possession of his heart and equip-
age. He knew that among those with whom his chief experi-
ence lay, his fortune and his coronet were considerations not
to be resisted ; and he as firmly believed, that even without
such recommendations, few women, certainly none of any
taste or discrimination, could be found with hearts so steeled
against the archery of Cupid, as to resist the fascinations of his
manner and conversation, supported and directed, as both
were, by the tact and experience drawn from a practice of
more years than his Jordship cared to count, even to himself.
He had, however, smiled, danced, and chatted, in impregnable
celibacy, through more than half a century of gaiety aud
frivolity — breaking, as he thought, hearts innumerable, and,
at all events, disappointing very many calculations — until, at
length, his lordwhip had arrived at that precise period of
existence a,t which old gentlemen, not unfrequently, become
all at once romantic, disinterested, and indiscreet — nobody
exactly knows why — unless it be for variety, or to spite an heir
presumptive, or else that, as a preliminary to second childhood,
nature has ordained a second boyhood too. Certain, however,
it is, that Lord Aspenly was seized, on a sudden, with a matri-
monial frenzy ; and, tired of the hackneyed schemers, in the
centre of whose manoeuvres he had stood and smiled so long
in contemptuous security, he resolved that his choice should
honour some simple, unsophisticated beauty, who had never
plotted his matrimony.

Fired with this benevolent resolution, he almost instantly
selected Mary Ashwoode as the happy companion of his
second childhood, acquainted Sir Richard with his purpose,
of course received his consent and blessing, and forthwith
opened his entrenchments with the same certainty of success

1 26 The "Cock and A nchor"

with which, the great Duke of Maryborough might have invested
a Flanders village. The inexperience of a girl who had
mixed, comparatively, so little in gay society, her consequent
openness to flattery, and susceptibility of being fascinated
by the elegance of his address, and the splendour of his
fortune — all these considerations, accompanied by a clear
consciousness of his own infinite condescension in thinking
of her at all, had completely excluded from all his calcula-
tions the very possibility of her doing anything else than
jump into- his arms the moment he should open them to
receive her. The result of the interview which had just
taken place, had come upon him with the overwhelming
suddenness of a thunderbolt. Rejected!— Lord Aspenly
rejected ! — a coronet, and a fortune, and a man whom all
the male world might envy — each and all rejected ! — and by
whom ? — a chit of a girl, who had no right to look higher
than a half-pay captain with a wooden leg, or a fox-hunting
boor, with a few inaccessible acres of bog and mountain — the
daughter of a spendthrift baronet, who was, as everyone knew,
on the high road to ruin. Death and fury ! was it to be
endured?

The little lover, absorbed in such tranquilizing reflections,
arrived at the house, and entered the drawing-room. It was
not unoccupied ; seated by a spinet, and with a sheet of
music-paper in her lap, and a pencil in her hand, was the
fair Emily Copland. As he entered, she raised her eyes,
started a little, became gracefully confused, and then, with
her archest smile, exclaimed, —

" What shall I say, my lord ? You have detected me. I
have neither defence nor palliation to offer ; you hive fairly
caught me. Here am I engaged in perhaps the most pre-
sumptuous task that ever silly maiden undertook — I am
wedding your beautiful verses to most unworthy music of my
own. After all, there is nothing like a simple ballad. Such
exquisite lines as these inspire music of themselves. Would
that Henry Purcell had had but a peep at tnem ! To what
might they not have prompted such a genius— to what,
indeed ? "

So sublime was the flight of fancy suggested by this
interrogatory, that Miss Copland shook her head slowly
in poetic rapture, and gazed fondly for some seconds upon the
carpet, apparently unconscious of Lord Aspenly's presence.

"She is a fine creature," half murmured he, with an
emphasis upon the identity which implied a contrast not very
favourable to Mary — " and — and very pretty — nay, she looks
almost beautiful, and so — so lively — so much vivacity. Never
was poor poet so much flattered," continued his lordship,
approaching, as he spoke, and raising his voice, but not above

The Spinet. 127

its most mellifluous pitch; " to have his verses read by such
eyes, to have them chanted by such a minstrel, were honour
too high for the noblest bards of the noblest daya of poetry :
for me it is a happiness almost too great ; yet, if the request
be not a presumptuous one, may I, in all humility, pray that
you will favour me with the music to which you have coupled
my most undeserving — my most favoured lines?"

The young lady looked modest, glanced coyly at the paper
which lay in her lap, looked modest once more, and then
arch again, and at length, with rather a fluttered air, she
threw her hands over the keys of the instrument, and to a
tune, of which we say enough when we state that it was in no
way unworthy of the words, she sang, rather better than
young ladies usually do, the following exquisite stanzas from
his lordship's pen : —

" Tbo' Chloe slight me when I woo,

And scorn the love of poor Philander ;
The shepherd's heart she tcorna is true,
His heart is true, his passion tender.

" But poor Philander sighs in vain,

In vaiu laments the poor Philander;
Fair Chloe scorns with high disdain,
His love so true and passion tender.

"And here Philander lays him down,

Here will expire the poor Philander ;
The victim of fair Chloe's frown,
Of love so true and passion tender.

" Ah, well-a-day ! the shepherd's dead ;

Ay, dead and gone, the poor Philander;
And Dryads crown with flowers his head,
And Cupid mourns his love so tender."

During this performance, Lord Aspenly, who had now
perfectly recovered his equanimity, marked the time with
head and hand, standing the while beside the fair performer,
and every note she sang found its way through the wide
portals of his vanity, directly to his heart.

" Brava ! brava ! bravissima ! " murmured his lordship, from
time lo time. "Beautiful, beautiful air — most appropriate —
most simple; not a note that accords not with the word it
carries — beautiful, indeed ! A thousand thanks ! I have
become quite conceited of lines of which heretofore I was half
ashamed. I am quite elated — at once overpowered by the
characteristic vanity of the poet, and more than recompensed
by the reality of his proudest aspiration — that of seeing his
verses appreciated by a heart of sensibility, and of heariug
them sung by the lips of beauty."

128

The "Cock and Anchor"

"I am but too happy if I am forgiven" replied Emily
Copland, slightly laughing, and with a heightened colour,
while the momentary overflow of merriment was followed by
a sigh, and her eyes sank pensively upon the eround.

This little by-play was not lost upon Lord Aspenly.

" Poor little thing," he inwardly remarked, " she is in a
very bad way — desperate — quite desperate. What a devil of
a rascal I am to be sure ! Egad ! it's almost a pity — she's a
decidedly superior person ; she has an elegant turn, of mind

— refinement — taste — egad ! she is a fine creature— and so
simple. She little knows I see it all ; perhaps she hardly
knows herself what ails her — poor, poor little thing ! '.'

While these thoughts floated rapidly through his mind, he
felt, along with his spite and anger towards Mary Ashwoode,
a feeling of contempt, almost of disgust, engendered by her
audacious non-appreciation of his merits — an impertinence
which appeared the more monstrous by the contrast of Emily
Copland's tenderness. She had made it plain enough, by
all the artless signs which simple maidens know not how
to hide, that his fascinations had done their fatal work

The Spinet, 1 29

upon her heart. He had seen this for several days, but
not with the overwhelming distinctness with which he now
beheld it.

"Poor, poor little girl!" said his lordship to himself; "I
am very, very sorry, but it cannot be helped ; it is no fault
of mine. I am really very, very, confoundedly sorry."

In saying so to himself, however, he told himself a lie ;
for, instead of being grieved, he was pleased beyond measure
— a fact which he might have ascertained by a single glance
at the reflection of his wreathed smiles in the ponderous
mirror which hung forward from the pier between the windows,
as if staring down in wondering curiosity upon the progress
of the flirtation. Not caring to disturb a train of thought
which his vanity told him were but riveting the subtle
chains which bound another victim to his conquering chariot-
wheels, the Earl of Aspenly turned, with careless ease, to a
table, on which lay some specimens of that worsted tapestry-
work, in which the fair maidens of a century and a half ago
were wont to exercise their taste and skill.

" Your work is very, very beautiful/' said he, after a con-
siderable pause, and laying down the canvas, upon whose
unfinished worsted task he had been for some time gazing.

'* That is my cousin's work," said Emily, not sorry to turn
the conversation to a subject upon which, for many reasons,
she wished to dwell ; " she used to work a great deal with me
before she grew romantic — before she fell in love."

" In love ! — with whom ? " inquired Lord Aspenly, with
remarkable quickness.

" Don't you know, my lord ? " inquired Emily Copland, in
simple wonder. " May be I ought not to have told you — I
am sure I ought not. Do not ask me any more. I am the
giddiest girl — the most thoughtless ! ''

" Nay, nay," said Lord Aspenly, " you need not be afraid to
trust me — I never tell tales ; and now that I know the fact
that she is in love, there can be no harm in telling me the leas
important particulars. On my honour," continued his lord-
ship, with real earnestness, and affected playfulness — " upon
my sacred honour ! I shall not breathe one syllable of it to
mortal--! shall be as secret as the tomb. Who is the happy
person in question ? "

" Well, my lord, you'll promise not to betray me," replied
she. " I know very well I ought not to have said a word
about it ; but as I have made the blunder, I see no harm in
telling you all I know ; but you will be secret ? "

" On my honour — on my life and soul, I swear! " exclaimed
his lordship, with unaffected eagerness.

"Well, then, the happy man is a Mr. Edmond O'Connor,"
replied she.

K

130 The "Cock and Anchor?

" O'Connor — O'Connor — I never saw nor heard of the man
before," rejoined the earl, reflectively. " Is he wealthy ? "

"Oh! no; a mere beggarman," replied Emily, "and a
Papist to boot ! "

" Ha, ha, ha — he, he, he ! a Papist beggar," exclaimed his
lordship, with an hysterical giggle, which was intended for a
careless laugh. " Has he any conversation — any manner —
any attraction of that kind ? "'

" Oh ! none in the world ! — both ignorant, and 1 think,
vulgar," replied Emily. " In short, he is very nearly a stupid
boor ! "

" Excellent ! Ha, ha — he, he, he ! — ngh ! ugh ! — very capital
— excellent ! excellent ! " exclaimed his lordship, although he
might have found some difficulty in explaining in what, pre-
cisely the peculiar excellence of the announcement consisted.
" Is he — is he — a — a — handsome ? "

" Decidedly not what I consider handsome ! " replied she ;
" he is a large, coarse-looking fellow, with very broad shoulders
— very large — and as they say of oxen, in very great condition
— a sort of a prize man ! "

" Ha, ha ! — ugh ! ugh ! — he, he, he, he, he ! — ugh, ugh, ugh !
— de — lightful — quite delightful ! " exclaimed the earl, in a
tone of intense chagrin, for he was conscious that his own
figure was perhaps a little too scraggy, and his legs a leetle
too nearly approaching the genus spindle, and being so,
there was no trait in the female character which he so
inveterately abhorred and despised as their tendency to
prefer those figures which exhibited a due proportion of thew
and muscle. Under a cloud of rappee, his lordship made a
desperate attempt to look perfectly delighted and amused,
and effected a retreat to the window, where he again indulged
in a titter of unutterable spite and vexation.

" And what says Sir Richard to the advances of this very
desirable gentleman ? " inquired he, after a little time.

" Sir Richard is, of course, violently against it," replied
Emily Copland.

" So I should have supposed," returned the little nobleman,
briskly. And turning again to the window, he relapsed
into silence, looked out intently for some minutes, took
more snuff, and finally, consulting his watch, with a few
words of apology, and a gracious smile and a bow, quitted the
room.

The Dark Room. 131

CHAPTER XXIII.

THE DARK BOOM — CONTAINING PLENTY OF SCARS AND BRUISES
AND PLANS OF VENGEANCE.

ON the same day -a very different scene was passing in another
quarter, whither for a few moments we must transport the
reader. In a large and aristocratic-looking brick house,
situated near the then fashionable suburb of Glasnevin,
surrounded by stately trees, and within furnished with the
most prodigal splendour, combined with the strictest and
most minute attention to comfort and luxury, and in a large
and lofty chamber, carefully darkened, screened round by the
rich and voluminous folds of the silken curtains, with spider-
tables laden with fruits and wines and phials of medicine,
crowded around him, and rather buried than supported among
a luxurious pile of pillows, lay, in sore bodily torment, with
fevered pulse, and heart and brain busy with ;i thousand
projects of revenge, the identical Nicholas Blarden, whose
signal misadventure in the theatre, upon the preceding
evening, we have already recorded. A decent-looking matron
sate in a capacious chair, near the bed, in the capacity of
nurse-tender, while her constrained and restless manner, as
well as the frightened expression with which, from time to
time, she stole a glance at the bloated mass of scars and
bruises, of which she had the care, pretty plainly argued
the sweet and patient resignation with which her charge
endured his sufferings. In the recess of the curtained window
sate a little black boy, arrayed according to the prevailing
fashion, in a fancy suit, and with a turban on his head, and
carrying in his awe-struck countenance, as well as in the
immobility of his attitude, a woeful contradiction to the
gaiety of his attire.

" Drink — drink — where's that d d hag ? — give me drink,

I say ! " howled the prostrate gambler.

The woman started to her feet, and with a step which fell
noiselessly upon the deep-piled carpets which covered the floor,
she hastened to supply him.

He had hardly swallowed the draught, when a low knock at
the door announced a visitor.

" Come in, can't you ? '' shouted Blarden.

" How do you feel now, Nicky dear ? " inquired a female
voice — and a handsome face, with rather a bold expression,
and crowned by a small mob-cap, overlaid with a profusion of
the richest lace, peeped into the room through the half-open
door — " how do you feel ? "

" In hell— that's all," shouted he.
K 2

132 The "Cock and Anchor."

" Doctor Mallarde is below, love," added she, without
evincing either surprise or emotion of any kind at the concise
announcement which the patient had just delivered.

" Let him come up then," was the reply.

" And a Mr. M'Quirk — a messenger from. Mr. Chancey."

" Let Mm come up too. Bnt why the hell did not Chancey
come himself P-That will do— pack— be off."

The lady tossed her head, like one having authority, looked
half inclined to say something sharp, but thought better of
it, and contented herself with shutting the door with more
emphasis than Dr. Mallarde would have recommended.

The physician of those days was a solemn personage : he
would as readily have appeared without his head, as without
his full-bottomed wig ; and his ponderous gold-headed cane
was a sort of fifth limb, the supposition of whose absence
involved a contradiction to the laws of anatomy ; his dress
was rich and funereal ; his step was slow and pompous ; his
words very long and very few; his look was mysterious; his
nod awful; and the shake of his head unfathomable : in short,
he was in no respect very much better than a modern charlatan.
The science which he professed was then overgrown with
absurdities and mystification. The temper of the times
was superstitious aud credulous, the physician, being wise
in his generation, framed his outward man (including his
air and language) accordingly, and the populace swallowed his
long words and his electuaries with equal faith.

Doctor Mallarde was a doctor-like person, and, in theatrical
phraseology, looked the part well. He was tall and stately,
saturnine and sallow in aspect, had bushy, grizzled brows, and
a severe and prominent dark eye, a thin, hooked nose, and a
pair of lips jutst as thin as it. Along with these advantages
he had a habit of pressing the gold head of his professional
cane against one corner of his mouth, in a way which
produced a sinister and mysterious distortion of that organ ;
and by exhibiting the medical baton, the outward and visible
sign of doctorship, in immediate juxtaposition with the
fountain of language, added enormously to the gravity and
authority of the words which from time to time proceeded
therefrom.

In the presence of such a spectre as this — intimately asso-
ciated with all that was nauseous and deadly on earth — it is
hardly to be wondered at that even Nicholas Blarden felt
himself somewhat uneasy and abashed. The physician felt
his pulse, gazing the while upon the ceiling, and pressing the
gold head of his cane, as usual, to the corner of his mouth ;
made him put out his tongne, asked him innumerable ques-
tion 8, which we forbear to publish, and ended by forbidding
his patient the use of every comfort in which he had hitherto

The Dark Room. 133

found relief, and by writing1 a prescription which might have
furnished a country dispensary with good things for a twelve-
month. He then took his leave and his fee, with the grisly
announcement, that unless the drugs were all swallowed, and
the other matters attended to in a spirit of absolute submission,
he would not answer for the life of the patient.

" I am d d glad he's gone at last," exclaimed Blarden,

with, a kind of gasp, as if a weight had been removed from his
breast. " Curse me, if I did not feel all the time as if my coffin
was in the room. Are you there, M'Quirk ? "

" Here I am, Mr. Blarden," rejoined the person addressed,
whom we may as well describe, as we shall have more to say
about him by-and-by.

Mr. M'Quirk was a small, wiry man, of fifty years and
upwards, arrayed in that style which is usually described as
" shabby genteel." He was gifted with one of those mean and
commonpface countenances which seem expressly made for the
effectual concealment of the thoughts and feelings of the
possessor — an advantage which he further secured by habitually
keeping his eyes as nearly closed as might be, so that, for any
indication afforded by them of the movements of the inward
man, they might as well have been shut up altogether. The
peculiarity, if not the grace, of his appearance, was heightened
by a contraction of the muscles at the nape of the neck, which
drew his head backward, and produced a corresponding eleva-
tion of the chin, which, along with a certain, habitual toss of
the head, gave to his appearance a kind of caricatured affecta-
tion of superciliousness and hauteur, very impressive to behold.
Along with the swing of the head, which we have before
noticed, there was, whenever he spoke, a sort of careless
libration of the whole body, which, together with a certain
way of jerking or twitching the right shoulder from time to
time, were the only approaches to gesticulation in which he
indulged.

" Well, what does your master say ? " inquired Blarden —
" oufc with it, can't you."

" Master — master — indeed ! Cock him up with master"
echoed the man, with lofty disdain.

" Ay ! what does he sav ? " reiterated Blarden, in no very

musical tones. " D you, are you choking, or moonstruck ?

Out with it, can't you ? "

" Chancey says that you had better think the matter over —
arid that's bis opinion," replied M'Quirk.

" And a fine opinion it is," rejoined Blarden, furiously.
" Why, in hell's name, what's the matter with him — the —
drivelling idiot ? What's law for — what's the courts for ?
Am I to be trounced and cudgelled in the face of hundreds,
and— and half murdered, and nothing for it? I tell jou, I'll

134 The "Cock and Anchor"

be beggared before the scoundrel shall escape. If every penny
I'm worth in the world can buy it, I'll have justice. Tell
that sleepy sot Chancey that I'll make him work. Ho — o —
o — oh ! " bawled the wretch, as hid anguish all returned
a hundredfold in the fruitless attempt to raise himself in
bed.

" Drink, here — drink — I'm choking ! Hock and water.

D you, don't look so stupid and frightened. I'll not be

bamboozled by an old 'pothecary. Quick with it, you fum-
bling witch."

He finished the draught, and lay silently for a time.

" See — mind me, M'Quirk,'' he said, -after a pause, " tell
Chancey to come out himself — tell him to be here before
evening, or I'll make him sorry for it, do you mind ; I want
to give him directions. Tell him to come at once, or I'll make
him smoke for it, that's all."

" I understand — all right — very well ; and so, as you seem
settling for a snooze, I wish you good-evening, Mr. Blarden,
and all sorts of pleasure and happiness," rejoined the
messenger.

The patient answered by a grin and a stifled howl, and
Mr. M'Quirk, having his head within the curtains, which
screened him effectually from the observation of the two
attendants, and observing that Mr. Blarden's eyes were closely
shut in the rigid compression of pain, put out his tongue,
and indulged for a few seconds in an exceedingly ugly
grimace, after which, repeating his farewell in a tone of
respectful sympathy, he took his departure, chuckling inwardly
all the way downstairs, for the little gentleman had a playful
turn for mischief.

When Gordon Chancey, Esquire, barrister-at-law, in obe-
dience to this summons, arrived at Cherry Hill, for so the
residence of the sick voluptuary was called, he found his
loving friend and patron, Nicholas Blarden, babbling not of
green fields, but of green curtains, theatres, dice-boxes, bright
eyes, small-swords, and the shades infernal — in a word, in a
high state of delirium. On calling next day, however, he
beheld him much recovered ; and after an extremely animated
discussion, these two well-assorted confederates at length,
by their united ingenuity, succeeded in roughly sketching
the outlines of a plan of terrific vengeance, in all respects
worthy of the diabolical council in which it originated, and
of whose progress and development this history very iully
treats.

A Critic. 135

CHAPTER XXIY.

A CRITIC— A CONDITION— AND THE SMALL-SWORDS.

LORD ASPENLY walked forth among the trim hedges and
secluded walks which surrounded the house, and by alternately
taking enormous pinches of rappee, and humming a favourite
air or two, he wonderfully assisted his philosophy in recovering
his equanimity.

" It matters but little how the affair ends," thought his
lordship, " if in matrimony — the girl is, after all, a very fine
girl : but if the matter is fairly off, in that case I shall — look
very foolish," suggested his conscience faintly, but his lordship
dismissed the thought precipitately — " in that case I shall
make it a point to marry within a fortnight. I should like to
know the girl who would refuse me " — " the only one you ever
asked" suggested his conscience again, but with no better
result — "I should like to see the girl of sense or discrimina-
tion who could refuse me. I shall marry the finest girl in the
country, and then I presume very few will be inclined to call
me fool."

" Not I for one, my lord," exclaimed a voice close by.
Lord Aspenly started, for he was conscious that in his energy
he had uttered the concluding words of his proud peroration
with audible emphasis, and became instantly aware that the
speaker was no other than Major O'Leary.

"Not J for one, my lord," repeated the major, with
extreme gravity, " I take it for granted, my lord, that you are
no fool."

"I am obliged to you, Major O'Leary, for your good
opinion," replied his lordship, drily, with a surprised look and
a stiff inclination of his person.

" Nothing to be grateful for in it," replied the major,
returning the bow with grave politeness: "if years and dis-
cretion increase together, you and I ought to be models of
wisdom by this time of day. I'm proud of my years, my lord,
and I would be half as proud again if I could count as many
as your lordship."

There was something singularly abrupt and uncalled for in
all this, which Lord Aspenly did not very well understand ;
he therefore stopped short, and looked in the major's face ; but
reading in its staid and formal gravity nothing whatever to
furnish a clue to his exact purpose, he made a kind of short
bow, and continued his walk in dignified silence. There was
something exceedingly disagreeable, he thought, in the manner
of his companion — something very near approaching to cool
impertinence — which he could not account for upun any other

1 36 The "Cock and Anchor?

supposition than that the major had been prematurely indulg-
ing in the joys of Bacchus. If, however, he thought that by
the assumption of the frigid and lofty dignity with which he
met the advances of the major, he was likely to relieve himself
of his company, he was never more lamentably mistaken. His
military companion walked with a careless swagger by his
side, exactly regulating his pace by that of the little nobleman,
whose meditations he had so cruelly interrupted.

"What on earth is to be done with this brnte beast?"
muttered his lordship, taking care, however, that the query
should not reach the subject of it. " I must get rid of him — [
must speak with the girl privately — what the deuce is to be
done ? "

They walked on a little further in perfect silence. At length
his lordship stopped short and exclaimed, —

" My dear major, I am a very dull companion — quite a
bore ; there are times when the mind— the — the — spirits
leqnire solitude — and these walks are the very scene for a
lonely ramble. I dare venture to aver that you are courting
solitude like myself — your silence betrays you — then pray do
not stand on ceremony — that walk leads down toward the
river — pray no ceremony."

"Upon my conscience, my lord, I never was less inclined to
stand on ceremony than I am at this moment," replied the
major; "so give yourself no trouble in the world about me.
Nothing would annoy me so much as to have you think I
was doing anything but precisely what I liked best myself."

Lord Aspenly bowed, took a violent pinch of snuff, and
walked on, the major still keeping by his side. After a long
silence his lordship began to lilt his own sweet verses in a
careless sort of a way, which was intended to convey to his
tormentor that he had totally forgotten his presence : —

" Tho' Chloe slight me when I woo,

And scorn the love of poor Philander ;
The shepherd's heart she scorns is true,
Hib heart is true, his passion tender."

" Passion tender," observed the major — "passion tender —
it's a mtrse-tender the like of you and me ought to be looking'
for — passion tender — upon my conscience, a good joke."

Lord Aspenly was strongly tempted to give vent to his feel-
ings ; but even at the imminent risk of bursting, he managed
to suppress his fury. The major was certainly (however un-
accountable and mysterious the fact might be) in a perfectly
cut- throat frame ot mind, and Lord Aspenly had no desire to
present his weasand for the entertainment of his military
friend.

" Tender — tender," continued the inexorable major, " allow

A Critic. 137

me, my lord, to suggest the word tough as an improvement —
tender, my lord, is a term which does not apply to chickens
beyond a certain time of life, and it strikes me as too bold a
license of poetry to apply it to a gentleman of such extreme
and venerable old age as your lordship ; for I take it for
granted tha.t Philander is another name for yourself."

As the major uttered this critical remark, Lord Aspenly
felt his brain, as it were, fizz with downright fury ; the instinct
of self-preservation, however, triumphed; he mastered his
generous indignation, and resumed his walk in a state of mind
nothing short of awful.

" My lord," inquired the major, with tragic abruptness, and
with very stern emphasis — " I take the liberty of asking, have
you made your soul ? "

The precise nature of the major's next proceeding, Lord
Aspenly could not exactly predict ; of one thing, however, he
felt assured, and that was, that the designs of his companion
were decidedly of a dangerous character, and as he gazed in
mute horror upon the major, confused but terrific ideas of
" homicidal monomania," and coroner's inquests floated dimly
through his distracted brain.

" My soul ? " faltered he, in undisguised trepidation.

" Yes, my lord," repeated the major, with remarkable cool-
ness, " have you made your soul ? "

During this conference his lordship's complexion had
shiited from its original lernon-colour to a lively orange,
and thence faded gradually off into a pea-green ; at which
hue it remained fixed during the remainder of the interview.

" I protest — you cannot be serious — I am wholly in the dark.
Positively, Major O'Leary, this is very unaccountable conduct
— you really ought — pray explain."

''Upon my conscience, I will explain," rejoined the major,
"although the explanation won't make you much more in love
with your present predicament, unless I am very much out.
You made my niece, Mary Ashwoode, an offer of marriage to-
day ; well, she was much obliged to you, but she did not want
to marry you, and she told you so civilly. Did you then, like
a man and a gentleman, take your answer from her as you
ought to have done, quietly and courteously ? No, you did
not ; you went to bully the poor girl, and to insult her ;
because she politely declined to marry a — a — an ugly bunch of
wrinkles, like you ; and you threatened to tell Sir Richard —
av, you did — to tell him your pitiful story, you — you — you —
but wait awhile. You want to have the poor girl frightened
and bullied into marrying you. Where's your spirit or your
feeling, my lord ? But you don't know what the words mean.
If ever you did, you'd sooner have been racked to death, than
have terrified and insulted a poor friendless girl, as you

138 The "Cock and A nchor?

thought her. But she's not friendless. I'll teach you she's
not. As long as this arm can lift a small-sword, and while
the life is in my body, I'll never see any woman maltreated by
a scoundrel — a scoundrel, my lord ; but I'll bring him to his
knees for it, or die in the attempt. And holding these
opinions, did you think I'd let you oflend my niece ? No, sir,
I'd be blown to atoms first."

" Major O'Leary," replied his lordship, as soon as he had
collected his thoughts and recovered breath to speak, " your
conduct is exceedingly violent — very, and, I will add, most
hasty and indiscreet. You have entirely misconceived me,
you have mistaken the whole affair. You will regret this
violence — I protest — I know you will, when you understand
the whole matter. At present, knowing the nature of your
feelings, I protest, though I might naturally resent your
observations, it is not in my nature, in my heart to be angry."
This was spoken with a very audible quaver.

" You would, my lord, you would be angry," rejoined the
major, " you'd dance with fury this moment, if you dared.
You could find it in your heart to go into a passion with a
girl ; but talking with men is a different sort of thing. Now,
my lord, we are both here, with our swords ; no place can be
more secluded, and, I presume, no two men more willing.
Pray draw, my lord, or I'll be apt to spoil your velvet and gold
lace."

"Major O'Leary, I will be heard!" exclaimed Lord
Aspenly, with an earnestness which the imminent peril
of his person inspired — " I must have a word or two with
you, before we put this dispute to so deadly an arbitra-
ment."

The major had foreseen and keenly enjoyed the reluctance
and the evident tremors of his antagonist. He returned his
half -drawn sword to its scabbard with an impatient thrust, and,
folding his arms, looked down with supreme contempt upon
the little peer.

" Major O'Leary, you have been misinformed — Miss Ash-
woode has mistaken me. I assure you, I meant no disrespect
— none in the world, I protest. I may have spoken hastily —
perhaps I did — but I never intended disrespect — never for a
moment."

" Well, my lord, suppose that I admit that you did not
mean any disrespect ; and suppose that I distinctly assert
that I have neither right nor inclination just now to call
you to an account for anything you may have said, in your
interview this morning, offensive to my niece ; I give you leave
to suppose it, and, what's more, in supposing it, I solemnly
aver, you suppose neither more nor less than the exact truth,"
said the major.

A Critic. 139

" Well, then, Major O'Leary," replied Lord Aspenly, " I
profess myself wholly at a loss to understand your conduct.
I presume, at all events, that nothing further need pass
between us about the matter."

" Not so fast, my lord, if you please," rejoined the major ;
" a great deal more must pass between us before I have done
with your lordship; although I cannot punish you for the
past, 1 have a perfect right to restrain you for the future. I
have a proposal to make, to which I expect your lordship's
assent — a proposal which, under the circumstances, I dare
say, you will think, however unpleasant, by no means un-
reasonable."

" Pray state it," said Lord Aspenly, considerably reassured
on finding that the debate was beginning to take a diplomatic
turn.

" This is my proposal, then," replied the major : " you shall
write a letter to Sir Richard, renouncing all pretensions to
his daughter's hand, and taking upon yourself the whole
responsibility of the measure, without implicating her directly
or indirectly ; do you mind : and you shall leave this place,
and go wherever you please, before supper-time to-night.
These are the conditions on which I will consent to spare you,
my lord, and upon no other shall you escape."

" Whv> what can you mean, Major O'Leary ? " exclaimed
the little coxcomb, distractedly. " If I did any such thing, I
should be run through by Sir Richard or his rakehelly son ;
besides, I came here for a wife — my friends know it ; I cannot
consent to make a fool of myself. How dare you presume to
propose such conditions to me P "

The little gentleman as he wound up, had warmed so much,
that he placed his hand on the hilt of his sword. Without one
word of commentary, the major drew his, and with a nod of
invitation, threw himself into an attitude of defence, and
resting the point of his weapon upon the ground, awaited
the attack of his adversary. Perhaps Lord Aspenly re-
gretted the precipitate valour which had prompted him to
place his hand on his sword-hilt, as much as he had ever
regretted any act of his whole life ; it was, however, too late
to recede, and with the hurried manner of one who has made
up his mind to a disagreeable thing, and wishes it soon over,
he drew his also, and their blades were instantly crossed in
mortal opposition.

1 40 The " Cock and A nchor"

CHAPTER XXV.

THE COMBAT AND ITS ISSUE.

LORD ASPENLY made one or two eager passes at his opponent,
•which were parried with perfect ease and coolness ; and before
he had well recovered his position from the last of those
lunges, a single clanging sweep of the major's sword, taking
his adversary's blade from the point to the hilt with irresistible
force, sent his lordship's weapon whirring through the air
some eight or ten yards away.

"Take your life, my lord," said the major, contemptuously ;
" I give it to you freely, only wishing the present were more
valuable. What do you say now, my lord, to the terms ? "

"I say, sir — what do /say? " echoed his lordship, not very
coherently. "Major O'Leary, you have disarmed me, sir, and
you ask me what I say to your terms. What do I say ? Why,
sir, I say again what I said before, that I cannot and will not
subscribe to them."

Lord Aspenly, having thus delivered himself, looked half
astonished and half frightened at his own valour.

"Everyone to his taste — your lordship has an uncommon
inclination for slaughter," observed the major coolly, walking
to the spot where lay the little gentleman's sword, raising
it, and carelessly presenting it to him : " take it, my lord,
and use it more cautiously than you have done — defend your-
self ! "

Little expecting another encounter, yet ashamed to decline
it, his lordship, with a trembling hand, grasped the weapon
once more, and again their blades were crossed in deadly
combat. This time his lordship prudently forbore to risk his
safety by an impetuous attack upon an adversary so cool
and practised as the major, and of whose skill he had just
Lad so convincing a proof. Major O'Leary, therefore, began
the attack ; and pressing his opponent with some slight feints
and passes, followed him closely as he retreated for some
twenty yards, and then, suddenly striking up to the point of
his lordship's sword with his own, he seized the little noble-
man's right arm at the wrist with a grasp like a vice, and once
njore held his life at his disposal.

" Take your life for the second and the last time," said the
major, having suffered the wretched little gentleman for a
brief pause to fully taste the bitterness of death; "mind, my
lord, for the last time;" and so saying, he contemptuously
Hung his lordship from him by the arm which he grasped.

" Now, mv lord, before we begin for the last time, listen to
me," said the major, with a sternness, which commanded all

The Combat and its Issue,

141

the attention of the affrighted peer ; " I desire that you
should fully understand what I propose. I would not like
to kill you under a mistake — there is nothing like a clear,
mutual understanding during a quarrel. Such an understand-
ing being once established, bloodshed, if it unfortunately
occurs, can scarcely, even in the most scrupulous bosom, excite
the mildest regret. I wish, my lord, to have nothing what-
ever to reproach myself with in the catastrophe which you
appear to have resolved shall overtake you; and, therefore,

I'll state the whole case for your dying consolation in as few
words as possible. Don't be in a hurry, my lord, I'll not
detain you more than five minutes in this miserable world.
Now, my lord, you have two strong, indeed I may call them
in every sense fatal, objections to my proposal. The first is,
that if you write the letter I propose, you must fight Sir
Kichard and young Henry Ashwoode. Now, I pledge myself,
my soul, and honour, as & Christian, a soldier, and a gentle-
man, that I will stand between you and them — that I will
protect you completely from all responsibility upon that score
— and that it' anyone is to fight with either of them, it shall

142 The "Cock and Anchor."

not be you. Your second objection is, that having been fool
enough to tell the world that you were coming here for a wife,
you are ashamed to go away without one. Now, without
meaning to be offensive, I never heard anything more idiotic
in the whole course of my life. But if it must be s\ and that

you cannot go away without a wife, why the d 1 don't

you ask Emily Copland — a fine girl with some thousands
of pounds, I believe, and at all events dying for love of you,
as I am sure you see yourself? You can't care for one more
than the other, and why the deuce need you trouble your head
about their gossip, if anyone wonders at the change? And
now, my lord, mark me, I have said all that is to be said in the
way of commentary or observation upon my proposal, and I
must add a word or two about the consequences of finally
rejecting it. I have spared your life twice, my lord, within
these five minutes. If you refuse the accommodation I have
proposed, I will a third time give you an opportunity of dis-
embarrassing yourself of the whole affair by running me
through the body — in which, if you fail, so sure as you are
this moment alive and breathing before me, you shall, at the
end of the next five, be a corpse. So help me God ! "

Major O'Leary paused, leaving Lord Aspenly in a state of
confusion and horror, scarcely short of distraction.

There was no mistaking the major's manner, and the old
beau garqon already felt in imagination the cold steel busy
with his intestines.

" But, Major O'Leary," said he, despairingly, " will you
engage — can you pledge yourself that no mischief shall follow
from my withdrawing as you say? not that I would care to
avoid a duel when occasion required; but no one likes to
unnecessarily risk himself. Will you indeed prevent all un-
pleasantness ? "

" Did I pledge my soul and honour that I would ? " inquired*
the major sternly.

" Well, I am satisfied. I do agree," replied his lordship.
" But is there any occasion for me to remove to-night ? "

" Every occasion," replied the major, coolly. " You must
come directly with me, and write the letter — and this evening,
before supper, you must leave Morley Court. And, above all
things, just remember this, let there be no trickery or treachery
in this matter. So sure as I see the smallest symptom of
anything of the kind, I will bring about such another piece
of work as has not been for many a long day. Am I fully
understood ? "

" Perfectly — perfectly, my dear sir," replied the nobleman.
"Clearly understood. And believe me, Major, when I say
that nothing but the fact that I myself, for private reasons,
am not unwilling to break the matter off, could have induced

The Hell. 143

me to co-operate with you in this business. Believe me, sir,
otherwise I should have fought until one or other of us had
fallen to rise no more."

" To be sure you would, my lord," rejoined the major, with
edifying gravity. " And in the meantime yonr lordship will
much oblige me by walking up to the house. There's pen and
paper in Sir Kichard's study ; and between us we can
compose something worthy of the occasion. Now, my lord, if
you please."

Thus, side by side, walked the two elderly gentlemen, like
the very best friends, towards the old house. And shrewd
indeed would have been that observer who could have gathered
from the manner of either ^whatever their flushed faces and
somewhat ruffled exterior might have told), as with formal
courtesy they threaded the trim arbours together, that but a
few minutes before each had sought the other's life.

CHAPTER XXYI.

THE HELL— GORDON CHANCEY — LUCK — FRENZY AND A
RESOLUTION.

THE night which followed this day found young Henry
Ash wood e, his purse replenished with bank-notes, that day
advanced by Craven, to the amount of one thousand pounds,
once more engaged in the delirious prosecution of his favourite
pursuit — gaming. In the neighbourhood of the theatre, in
that narrow street now known as Smock Alley, there stood in
those days a kind of coffee-house, rather of the better sort.
From the public-room, in which actors, politicians, officers,
and occasionally a member of parliament, or madcap Irish
peer, chatted, lounged, and sipped their sack or coffee — the
initiated, or, in short, any man with a good coat on his back
and a few pounds in his pocket, on exchanging a brief whisper
with a singularly sleek-looking gentleman, who sate in the
prospective of the background, might find his way through a
small, baize-covered door in the back of the chamber, and
through a lobby or two, and thence upstairs into a suite of
rooms, decently hung with gilded leather, and well lighted
with a profusion of wax candles, where hazard and cards were
played for stakes unlimited, except by the fortunes and the
credit of those who gamed. The ceaseless clang of the dice-box
and rattle of the dice upon the table, and the clamorous
challenging and taking of the odds upon the throwing, accom-
panied by the ferocious blasphemies of desperate losers, who,

144 The "Cock and Anchor."

with clenched hands and distracted gesture?, poured, un-
heeded, their frantic railings and imprecations, as they, in
unpitied agony, withdrew from the fatal table ; and now and
then the scarcely less hideous interruptions of brutal quarrels,
accusations, and recriminations among the excited and half-
drunken gamblers, were the sounds which greeted the ear of
him who ascended toward this unhallowed scene. The rooms
were crowded — the atmosphere hot and stifling, and the
company in birth and pretensions, if not in outward attire,
to the full as mixed and various as the degrees of fortune,
which scattered riches and ruin promiscuously among them.
In the midst of all this riotous uproar, several persons sate
and played at cards as if (as, perhaps, was really the case),
perfectly unconscious of the ceaseless hubbub going on around
them. B ere you might see in one place the hare-brained
young squire, scarcely three months launched upon the road
to ruin, snoring in drunken slumber, in his deep- cushioned
chair, with bis cravat untied, and waistcoat loosened, and his
last cup of mulled sack upset upon the table beside him, and
streaming upon his velvet breeches and silken hose — while
his lightly- won bank notes, stuffed into the loose coat pocket,
and peeping temptingly from the aperture, invited the fingers
of the first chevalier d'industrie who wished to help himself.
In another place you might behold two sharpers fulfilling the
conditions of their partnership, by wheedling a half-tip»y
simpleton into a quiet game of ombre. And again, elsewhere
you might descry some bully captain, whose occupation having
ended with the Irish war?, indemnified himself as best he
might by such contributions as he could manage to levy from
the young and reckless in such haunts as this, busily and
energetically engaged in brow-beating a timid greenhorn, who
has the presumption to fancy that he has won something from
the captain, which the captain has forgotten to pay. In
another place you may see, unheeded and unheeding, the
wretch who has played and lost his last stake; with white,
unmeaning face and idiotic grin, glaring upon the floor,
thought and feeling palsied, something worse, and more
appalling than a maniac.

The whole character of the assembly bespoke the reckless-
ness and the selfishness of its ingredients. There was*, too,
among them a certain coarse and revolting disregard and
defiance of the etiquettes and conventional decencies of social
life. More than half the men were either drunk or tipsy ;
some had thrown off their coats and others wore their hats ;
altogether the company had more the appearance of a band of
reckless rioters in a public street, than of an assembly ot'
persons professing to be gentlemen, and congregated in a
drawing-room.

The Hell. 145

By the fireplace in the first and by far the largest and most
crowded of the three drawing-rooms, there sate a person whose
appearance was somewhat remarkable. He was an ill-made
fellow, with long, lank, limber legs and arms, and an habitual
lazy stoop. His face was sallow ; his mouth, heavy and
sensual, was continually moistened with the brandy and water
which stood beside him upon a small spider-table, placed there
for his especial use. His eyes were long-cut, aod seldom more
than half open, and carrying in their sleepy glitter a singular
expression of treachery and brute cunning. He wore his own
lank and grizzled hair, instead of a peruke, and sate before
the fire with a drowsy inattention to all that was passing in
the room ; and, except for the occasional twinkle of his eye as
it glanced from the corner of his half-closed lids, he might
have been believed to have been actually asleep. His attitude
was lounging and listless, and all his movements so languid
and heavy, that they seemed to be rather those of a somnam-
bulist than of awaking man. His dress had little pretension,
and less neatness ; it was a suit of threadbare, mulberry-
coloured cloth, with steel buttons, and evidently but little
acquainted with the clothes-brush. His linen was soiled and
crumpled, his shoes ill-cleaned, his beard had enjoyed at least
two days' undisturbed growth ; and the dingy hue of his face
and hands bespoke altogether the extremest negligence and
slovenliness of person.

. This slovenly and ungainly being, who sate apparently
unconscious of the existence of any other earthly thing than
the fire on which he gazed, and the grog which from time to
time he lazily sipped, was Gordon Chancey, Esquire, of Sky-
copper Court, Whitefriar Street, in the city of Dublin,
barrister-at-law — a gentleman who had never been known to
do any professional business, but who managed, nevertheless,
to live, and to possess, somehow or other, the command of very
considerable sums of money, which he most advantageously
invested by discounting, at exorbitant interest, short bills and
promissory notes in such places as that in which he now sate
— one of his favourite resorts, by the way. At intervals of
from five to ten minutes he slowly drew from the vast pocket
of his clumsy coat a bulky pocket-book, and sleepily conned
over certain memoranda with which its leaves were charged —
then having looked into its well-lined receptacles, to satisfy
himself that no miracle of legerdemain had abstracted the
treasure on which his heart was set, he once more fastened
the buckle of the leathern budget, and deposited it again in
his pocket. This procedure, and his attentions to the spirits
and water, which from time to time he swallowed, succeeded
one another with a monotonous regularity altogether un-
disturbed by the uproarious scene which surrounded him.

L

146 The "Cock and Anchor"

As the night wore apace, and fortune played her wildest
pranks, many an applicant — some successfully, and some in
vain — sought Chancey's succour.

" Come, my fine fellow, tip me a cool hundred," exclaimed a
fashionably-dressed young man, flushed with the combined
excitement of wine and the dice, and tapping Chancey on the
back impatiently with his knuckles — " this moment — will you,
and be d "

" Oh, dear me, dear me, Captain Markham," drawled the
barrister in a low, drowsy tone, as he turned sleepily toward
the speaker, " have you lost the other hundred so soon ? Oh,
dear ! — oh, dear ! "

" Never you mind, old fox. Shell out, if you're going to
do it," rejoined the applicant. " What is it to you ? "

" Oh, dear me, dear me ! " murmured Chancey, as he
languidly drew the pocket-book from his pocket. " When
shall I make it payable ? To-morrow ? "

" D n to-morrow," replied the captain. "I'll sleep all to-
morrow. Won't a fortnight do, you harpy ? "

" Well, well — sign — sign it here," said the usurer, handing
the paper, with a pen, to the young gentleman, and indicating
with his finger the spot where the name was to be written.

The roue wrote his name without ever reading the paper;
and Chancey carefully deposited it in his book.

" The money — the money — d n you, will you never give

it ! " exclaimed the young man, actually stamping with im-
patience, as if every moment's absence from the hazard-table
cost him a fortune. " Give — give — give them."

He seized the notes, and without counting, stuffed them
into his coat-pocket, and plunged in an instant again among
the gamblers who crowded the table.

" Mr. Chancey — Mr. Chancey," said a slight young man,
whose whole appearance betokened a far progress in the
wasting of a mortal decline. His face was pale as death itself,
and glittering with the cold, clammy dew of weakness and
excitement. The eye was bright, wild, and glassy; and the
features of this attenuated face trembled and worked in the
spasms of agonized anxiety and despair — with timid voice,
and with the fearful earnestness of one pleading for his life — •
with knees half bent, and head stretched forward, while his
thin fingers were clutched and knotted together in restless
f everishness. He still repeated at intervals in low, supplicating
accents — " Mr. Chancey — Mr. Chancey — can you spare a
moment, sir — Mr. Chancey, good sir — Mr. Chancey."

.For many minutes the worthy barrister gazed on apa-
thetically into the fire, as if wholly unconscious that this
piteous spectacle was by his side, and all but begging his
attention.

The Hell. 147

" Mr. Chancey, good sir — Mr. Chancey, kind sir — only one
moment — one word — Mr. Chancey."

This time the wretched young man advanced one of his
trembling hands and laid it hesitatingly upon Chancey's knee
—the seat of mercy, as the ancients thought; but truly here
it was otherwise. The hand was repulsed with insolent rude-
ness ; and the wretched suppliant stood trembling in silence
before the bill-discounter, who looked upon him with a scowl
of brute ferocity, which the timid advances he had made could
hardly have warranted.

" Well," growhd Cbmcey, keeping his baleful eyes fixed not
very encouragingly upon the poor young man.

" I have been unfortunate, sir — I have lost ray last shilling
—that is, the last 1 have about me at present."

" Well," repeated he.

" I might win it all back," continued the suppliant, becoming
more voluble as he proceeded. " I might recover it all — it has
often happened to me before. Oh, sir, it is possible — certain,
if I had but a few pounds to play on."

" Ay, the old story," rejoined Chancey.

" Yes, sir, it is indeed — indeed it is, Mr. Chancey," said the
young man, eagerly, catching at this improvement upon his
first laconic address as an indication of some tendency to re-
lent, and making, at the same time, a most woeful attempt to
look pleasant — " it is, sir — the old story, indeed ; but this time
it will come out true — indeed it will. Will you do one little
note for me — a little one — twenty pounds ? "

" No, I won't," drawled Chancey, imitating with coarse
buffoonery the intonation of the request — " I won't do a little
one for you."

" Well, for ten pounds — for ten only."

" No, nor for ten pence," rejoined Chancey, tranquilly.

" You may keep five out of it for the discount — for friendship
— only let me have five — just^t-e," urged the wasted gambler,
with an agony of supplication.

" No. I won't ; junt five," replied the lawyer.

"I'll make it payable to-morrow," urged the suppliant.

" Maybe you'll be dead before that," drawled Chancey, with
a sneer ; "the life don't look very tough in you."

"Ah! Mr. Chancey, dear sir — good Mr. Chancey," said the
young man, " you often told me you'd do me a friendly turn
yet. Do not you remember it ? — when I was able to lend you
money. For God's sake, lend me five pounds now, or any-
thing ; I'll give you half my winnings. You'll save me from
beggary — ah, sir, for old friendship."

Mr. Gordon Chancey seemed wondrously tickled by this
appeal ; he gazed sleepily at the fire while he raked the embers
with the toe of his shoe, stuffed his hands deep into his

L 2

148 The "Cock and Anchor?'

breeches pocket-0, and indulged in a sort of lazy, comfortable
laughter, which lasted for several minutes, until at length it
subsided, leaving him again apparently unconscious of the
presence of his petitioner. Emboldened by the condescension
of his quondam friend, the young man made a piteous effort to
join in the laughter — an attempt, however, which was speedily
interrupted by the hollow cough of consumption. After a
p^use of a minute or two, during which Chancey seemed to
have forgotten his existence, he once more addressed that
gentleman, —

« Well, sir— well, Mr. Chancey ? "

The barrister turned full upon him with an expression of
face not to be mistaken, and in a tone just as unequivocal, he
growled, —

" I'm d d if I give you as much as a leaden penny. Be

off; there's no begging allowed here — away with you, you
blackguard."

Having thus delivered himself, Chancey relapsed into his
ordinary dreamy quiet.

Every muscle in the pale, wasted face of the ruined, dying
gamester quivered with fruitless agony ; he opened his mouth
to speak, but could not ; he gasped and sobbed, and then,
clutching his lank hands over his eyes and forehead as though
he would fain have crushed his head to pieces, he uttered one
low cry of anguish, more despairing and appalling than the
loudest shriek of horror, and passed from the room unnoticed.

"Jeffries, can you lend me fifty or a hundred pounds till to-
morrow P" said young Ashwoode, addressing a middle-aged
fop who had just reeled in from an adjoining room.

" Cuss me, Ashwoode, if the thing is a possibility," replied
he, with a hiccough ; " I have just been fairly cleaned out by
Snarley and two or three others — not one guinea left — con-
found them all. I've this moment had to beg a crown to pay
my chair and link-boy home ; but Chancey is here ; I saw him
not an hour ago in his old corner."

" So he is, egad — thank you," and Ashwoode was instantly
by the uionied man's side. " Chancey, I want a hundred -and
fifty — quickly, man, are you awake? " and so saying, he shook
the lawyer roughly by the shoulder.

" Oh, dear ! oh, dear ! " exclaimed he, in his usual low, sleepy
voice, "it's Mr. A.shwoode, it is indeed — dear me, dear me;
and can I oblige you, Mr. Ashwoode ? "

" Yes ; don't I tell you I want a hundred and fifty — or stay,
two hundred," said Ashwoode, impatiently. " I'll pay you in
a week or less — say to-morrow if you please it."

" Whatever sum you like, Mr. Ashwoode," rejoined he —
" whatever sum or whatever date you please ; I declare to God
I'm uncommonly glad to do it. Oh, dear, but them dice is

The Hell. 149

unruly. Two hundred, you say, and a — a week we'll say, not
to be pressing. Well, well, this money has luck in it, maybe.
That's a long lane that has no turn — fortune changes sides
when it's least expected. Your name here, Mr. Ashwoode."

The name was signed, the notes taken, and Ashwoode once
more at the table ; but alack-a-day ! fortune was for once
steady, and frowned with consistent obdurateness upon Henry
Ashwoode. Five minutes had hardly passed, when the two
hundred pounds had made themselves wings and followed the
larger sums which he had already lost. Again he had re-
course to Chancey: again he found that gentleman smooth,
gracious, and obliging as he could have wished. Still his luck
was adverse : as fast as he drew the notes from his pocket,
they were caught and whirled away in the eddy of ruin. Once
more from the accommodating barrister he drew a larger sum,
— still with a like result. So large and frequent were his
drafts, that Chancey was obliged to go away and replenish his
exhausted treasury; and still again and again, with a terrible
monotony of disaster, young Ashwoode continued to lose.

At length the grey, cold light of morning streamed drearily
through the chinks of the window-shutters into the hot
chamber of destruction and debauchery. The sounds of daily
business began to make themselves heard from the streets.
The wax lights were flaring in the sockets. The floor strewn
with packs of cards, broken glasses, and plates, and fragments
of fowls and bread, and a thousand other disgusting indications
of recent riot and debauchery which need not to be mentioned.
Soiled and jaded, with bloodshot eyes and haggard faces, the
gamblers slunk, one by one, in spiritless exhaustion, from the
scene of their distracting orgies, to rest the brain and refresh
the body as best they might.

With a stunning and indistinct sense of disaster and ruin ;
a vague, fevered, dreamy remembrance of overwhelming
calamity: a stupefying, haunting consciousness that all the
clatter, and roaring, and stifling heat, and jostling, and angry
words, and smooth, civil speeches of the night past, had been,
somehow or other, to him fraught with fearful and tremendous
agony, and delirium, and ruin — Ashwoode stalked into the
street, and mechanically proceeded to the inn where his horse
was stabled.

The ostler saw, by the haggard, vacant stare with which
Ashwoode returned his salutation, that something had gone
wrong, and, as he held the stirrup for him, he arrived at the
conclusion that the young gentleman must have gotten at
least a dozen duels upon his hands, to be settled, one and all,
before breakfast.

The young man dashed the spurs into the high-mettled
horse, aud tiaversing the streets at a peiilous speed, without

1 50 . The "Cock and Anchor?

well thinking or knowing whitherward he was proceeding, he
found himself at length among the wild lanes and brushwood
of the Koyal Park, and was recalled to himself by finding his
horse rearing and floundering up to his sides in a slough.
Having extricated the animal, he dismounted, threw his hat
beside him, and, kneeling down, bathed his head and face
again and again in the water of a little brook, which ran in
many a devious winding through the tangled briars and thorns.
The cold, refreshing ablution, assisted by the sharp air of the
morning, soon brought him to his recollection.

" The fiend himself must have been by my elbow last night,"
he muttered, as he stood bare-headed, in wild disorder, by the
brook's side. " I've lost before, and lost heavily too, but such
a run, such an infernal string of ruinous losses. First, a
thousand pounds gone — swallowed up in little more than an
hour ; and then the devil knows how much more — curse me,
if I can remember how much I borrowed. I am over head
and ears in Chancey's books. How shall I face my father ?
and how, in the fiend's name, am I to meet my engagements ?
Craven will hand me no more of the money. Was I mad or
drunk, to go on against such an accursed tide of bad luck ? —
what fury from hell possessed me ? I wish I had thrust my
hand between the bars, and burnt it to the elbow, before I
took the dice-box last night. What's to be done ? " — he paused
— " Yes — I must do it — fate, destiny, circumstances drive me
to it. T will marry the woman ; she can't live very long — it's
not likely ; and even if she does, what's that to me ? — the
world is wide enough for us both, and once married, we need
not plague one another much with our society. I must see

Chancey about those d d bills or notes: curse me, if I even

know when they are payable. My brain swims like a sea.
Lady Stukely, Lady Stukely, you are a happy woman : it's
an ill wind that blows nobody good — T am resolved — my course
is taken. First then for Morley Court, and next for the

wealthy widow's. I don't half like the thing, but, d n it,

what other chance have I? Then away with hesitation, away
with thought ; fate has ordained it."

So saying, the young man donned his hat, caught the bridle
of his well-trained steed, vaulted into the saddle, and was soon
far on his way to Morley Court, where strange and startling
tidings awaited his arrival.

The Departure of the Peer. 1 5 1

CHAPTER XXVII.

THE DEPARTURE OF THE PEER — THE BILLET AND THE SHATTERED
MIRROR.

NEVER yet did day pass more disagreeably to mortal man
than that whose early events we have recorded did to Lord
Aspenly. His vanity and importance had suffered more mor-
tification within the last few hours than he had ever before
encountered in all the eight-and-sixty winters of his previous
useful existence. And spite of the major's assurances to the
contrary, he could not help feeling certain very unpleasant
misgivings, as the evening approached, touching the con-
sequences likely to follow to himself from his meditated
retreat.

He resolved by the major's advice to leave Morley Court
without a formal leave-taking, or, in short, any explanatory
interview whatever with Sir Richard. And for the purpose of
taking his departure without obstruction or annoyance, he
determined that the hour of his setting forth should be that at
which the baronet was wont to retire for a time to his dressing-
room, previously to appearing at supper. The note which was
to announce his departure was written and sealed, and de-
posited in his waistcoat pocket. He felt that it supplied but
a very meagre explanation of so decided a step as he was con-
strained to take ; nevertheless it was the only explanation he
had to offer. He well knew that its perusal would be followed by
an explosion, and he not unwisely thought it best, under all
the circumstances, to withdraw to a reasonable distance before
springing the mine.

The evening closed ominously in storm and cloud ; the wind
was hourly rising, and distant mutterings of thunder bespoke
a night of tempest. Lord Aspenly had issued his orders with
secrecy, and they were punctually obeyed. At the hoar indi-
cated, his own and his servant's horses were at the door. Lord
Aspenly was crossing the hall, cloaked, booted, and spurred for
the road, when he encountered Emily Copland.

" Dear me, my lord, can it be possible — surely you are not
going to leave us to-night ? "

" Indeed, it is but too true, fair lady," rejoined his lordship,
with a dolorous shrug. " An unlucky contretemps requires
my attendance in town ; my precipitate flight," he continued,
with an attempt at a playful smile, " is accounted for in this
note, which perhaps you will kindly deliver to Sir Richard,
when next you see him. I trust, Miss Copland, that fortune
will often grant me the privilege of meeting you. Be assured
it is one which I prize above all others. Adieu "

152 The " Cock and A nchor. "

His lordship gallantly kissed the hand which was extended
to receive the note, and then, with his best bow, withdrew.

A few petulant questions, which bespoke his inward
acerbity, he addressed to his servant — glanced with a very
sour aspect at the lowering sky — clambered stifflv into the
saddle, and then, desiring his attendant to follow him, rode
down the avenue at a speed which seemed prompted by aa
instinctive dread of pursuit.

As the wind howled and the thunder rolled and rumbled
nearer and nearer, Emily Copland could not but wonder more
and more what urgent and peremptory cause could have
induced the little peer to adopt this sudden resolution, and to
carry it into effect upon such a night of storm. Surely that
motive must be a strange and urgent one which would not
brook the delay of a few hours, especially during the violence
of such weather as the luxurious little nobleman had perhups
never voluntarily encountered in the whole course of his lite.
Curiosity prompted her to deliver the note which she held in
her hand at once; she therefore ran lightly upstairs, an-l
rapidly threading all the intervening lobbies and rambling
passages, she knocked at her uncle's door.

" Come in, come in," cried the peevish voice of Sir Hichard
Ashwoode.

The girl entered the room. The Italian was at the toilet,
arranging his master's dressing-case, and the baronet himself
in his night-gown and slippers, and with a pamphlet in his
hand, reclined listlessly upon a sofa.

"Who is that? — who is it?" inquired he in the same
tone, without turning his eyes from the volume which he
read.

"Per dina ! " exclaimed the Neapolitan — " Mees Emily —
she is vary seldom come here. You are wailcome, Mees Emily ;
weel you sect down ? — there is chair. Sir Bichard, it is Mees
Emily."

" What does the young lady want ? " inquired he, drily.

" I have gotten a note for you, uncle," replied she.

" Well, put it down? — put it there on the table, anywhere ; I
presume it will keep till morning," replied he, without
removing his eyes from the pages.

" It is from Lord Aspenly," urged the girl.

" Eh ! Lord Aspenly. How — give it to me," said the
baronet, raising himself quickly and tossing the pamphlet
aside. He broke the seal and read the note. Whatever its
contents were, they produced upon the baronet an extraordinary
effect; he started from the sofa with clenched hands and
frantic gesture.

"Who — where — stop him, after him — he shall answer me
— he shall ! " cried, or rather shrieked, the baronet in the

The Departure of the Peer. 153

hoarse, choking scream of fury. "After him all — my sword,
my horse. By , be'll reckon with me this night."

Never did the human form more fearfully embody the
passions of hell; he stood before them absolutely transformed.
The quivering face was pale as ashes; the livid veins, like
blue knotted cordage, protruded upon his forehead ; the eye
glared and rolled with the light of madness, and as he shook
and raved there before them, no dream ever conjured up
a spectacle more appalling ; he spit upon the letter — he tore
it into fragments, and with his gouty feet stamped it into the
fire.

There was no extravagance of frenzy which he did not
enact. He tossed his arms into the air, and dashed his
clenched hands upon the table; he stamped, he stormed, he
howled; and as with thick and furious utterance he volleyed
forth his incoherent threats, mandates, and curses, .the foam
hung upon his blackened lips.

" I'll bring . him to the dust — to the earth. My very
menials shall spurn him. Almighty, that he should dare
— trickster — liar — that he should dare to practise upon me
this outrageous slight. Ay, ay — ay, ay— laugh, my lord —

laugh on ; but by the , this shall bring yon to your

knees, ay, and to your grave ; and you — you," thundered hp,
turning upon the awe-struck and terrified young lady, "you
no doubt had your share in this — ay, you have — you have —

yes, I know you — you — you — hollow, lying , quit my house

— out with you — turn her out — drive her out — away with
her."

As the horrible figure advanced towards her, the girl by an
effort roused herself from the dreadful fascination, and turning
from him, fled swiftly downstairs, and fell fainting at the
parlour door.

•Sir Richard still strode through his chamber with the same
frantic evidences of unabated fury ; and the Italian — the
only remaining spectator of the hideous scene — sate calmly
in a chair by the toilet, with his legs crossed, and his
countenance composed into a kind of sanctimonious placidity,
which, however, spite of all his efforts, betrayed at the
corners of the mouth, and in the twinkle of the eye, a
certain enjoyment of the spectacle, which was not altogether
consistent with the perfect affection which he professed for his
master.

" Ay, ay, my lord," continued the baronet, madly, "laugh

on — laugh while you may; but by the , you shall

gnash your teeth for this ! "

" What coning, old gentleman is mi Lord Aspenly — ah !
vary, vary," said the Italian, reflectively.

" You shall, my lord," continued Sir Richard, furiously.

1 54 The "Cock and A nchor?

" Your disgrace shall be public — exemplary — the insult shall
recoil upon yourself — your punishment shall be memorable-
public — tremendous."

" Mi Lord Aspenly and Sir Richard — both so coning," con-
tinued the Italian — "yees — yees — set one thief to catch the
other."

The Neapolitan had, no doubt, bargained for the indulgence
of his pleasant humour, as usual, free of cost; but he was
mistaken. With the quickness of light, Sir Richard grasped
a m-issive glass decanter, full of water, and hurled it at the
head of his valet. Luckily for that gentleman's brains, it
missed its object, and, alighting upon a huge mirror, it
dashed it to fragments with a stunning crash. In the ex-
tremity of his fury, Sir Richard grasped a heavy metal ink-
stand, and just as the valet escaped through the private door
of his room, hurled it, too, at his head. Two such escapes
were quite enough for Signor Parucci on one evening ; and
not wishing to tempt his luck further, he ran nimbly down
the stairs, leaped into his own room, and bolted and double-
locked the door ; and thence, as the night wore on, he still
heard Sir Richard pacing up and down his chamber, and
storming and raving in dreadful rivalry with the thunder and
hurricane without.

CHAPTER XXVIII.
/

THE THUNDER- STORM — THE EBONY STICK— THE UNSEEN
VISITANT — TERROR.

AT length the uproar in Sir Richard's room died away. The
hoarse voice in furious soliloquy, and the rapid tread as he
paced the floor, were no longer audible. In their stead was
heard alone the stormy wind rushing and yelling through the
old trees, and at intervals the deep volleying thunder. In the
midst of this hubbub the Italian rubbed his hands, tripped
lightly up and down his room, placed his ear at the keyhole,
and chuckled and rubbed his hands again in a paroxvsm of
glee — now and again venting his gratification in brief ejacula-
tions of intense delight — the verv incarnation of the spirit of
mischief.

The sounds in Sir Richard's room had ceased for two
hours or more ; and the piping wind and the deep-mouthed
thunder still roared and rattled. The Neapolitan was too
much excited to slumber. He continued, therefore, to pace
the floor of his chamber — sometimes gazing through his

The Thunder-storm. 155

window upon the black stormy sky and the blue lightning,
which leaped in blinding flashes across its darkness, revealing
for a moment the ivied walls, and the tossing trees, and the
fields and hills, which were as instantaneously again
swallowed in the blackness of the tempestuous night ; and
then turning from the casement, he would plant himself by
the door, and listen with eager curiosity for any sound from
Sir Richard's room.

As we have said before, several hours had passed, and all
had long been silent in the baronet's apartment, when on a
sudden Parucci thought Ire heard the sharp and well-known
knocking of his patron's ebony stick upon the floor. He ran
and listened at his own door. The sound was repeated with
unequivocal and vehement distinctness, and was instantane-
ously followed by a prolonged and violent peal from his
master's hand-bell. The summons was so sustained and
vehement, that the Italian at length cautiously withdrew the
bolt, unlocked the door, and stole out upon the lobby. So
far from abating, the sound grew louder and louder. On tip-
toe he scaled the stairs, until he reached to about the midway ;
and he there paused, for he heard his master's voice exerted in
a tone of terrified entreaty, —

" Not now — not now — a vaunt — not now. Oh, God ! — help,"
cried the well-known voice.

These words were followed by a crash, as of some heavy
body springing from the bed — then a rush upon the floor —
then another crash.

The voice was hushed ; but in its stead the wild storm
made a long and plaintive moan, and the listener's heart
turned cold.

"Malora — Corpo di Pluto! " muttered he between his teeth.
" What is it ? Will he reeng again ? Santo gennaro / — there
is something wrong."

He paused in fearful curiosity ; but the summons was not
repeated. Five minutes passed ; and yet no sound but the
howling and pealing of the storm. Parucci, with a beating
heart, ascended the stairs and knocked at the door of his
patron's chamber. No answer was returned.

" Sir Richard, Sir Richard," cried the man, "do you want
me, Sir Richard ? "

Still no answer. He pushed open the door and entered. A
candle, wasted to the very socket, stood upon a table beside
the huge hearse-like bed, which, for the convenience of the
invalid, had been removed from his bed-chamber to his
dressing-room. The light was dim, and waved uncertainly in
the eddies which found their way through the chinks of the
window, so that the lights and shadows flitted ambiguously
across the objects in the room. At the end of the bed a table

1 56 The "Cock and Anchor'.'

had been upset ; and lying near it npon the floor was some-
thing— a heap of bed-clothes, or — could it be? — yes, it was Sir
Richard Ashwoode.

Parncci approached the prostrate figure: it was lying upon
its back, the countenance fixed and livid, the eyes staring and
glazed, and the jaw fallen — he was a corpse. The Italian
stooped down and took the hand of the dead man — it was
already cold ; h« called him by his name and shook him, but
all in vain. There lay the cunning intriguer, the fierce, fiery
prodigal, the impetuous, unrelenting tyrant, the unbelieving,
reckless man of the world, a ghastly lump of clay.

With strange emotions the Neapolitan gazed upon the
lifeless effigy from which the evil tenant had been so suddenly
and fearfully called to its eternal and unseen abode.

" Gone — dead — all over — all past," muttered he, slowly,
while he preBsed his foot upon the dead body, as if to satisfy
himself that life was indeed extinct — '' quite gone. Canchero !
it was ugly death — there was something with him ; what was
he speaking with ? "

Parucci walked to the door leading to the great staircase,
but found it bolted as usual.

" Pshaw ! there was nothing," said he, looking fearfully
round the room as he approached the body again, and repeating
the negative as if to reassure himself — "no, no — nothing,
nothing."

He gazed again on the awful spectacle in silence for several
minutes.

" Corbezzoli, and so it is over," at length he ejaculated —
" the game is ended. See, see, the breast is bare, and there
the two marks of Aldini's stiletto. Ah ! briccone, briccone,
what wild laylow were you — -panzanera,fot a pretty ankle
and a pair of black eyes, you would dare the devil. Rotto di
collo, his fnce is moving! — pshaw! it is only the light that
wavers. Diamine ! the face is terrible. \Vhat made him
speak ? nothing was with him — pshaw ! nothing could come
to him here — no, no, nothing."

As he thus spoke, the wind swept vehemently upon the
windows with a sound as if some great thing had rushed
against them, and was pressing for admission, and the gust
blew out the candle; the blast died away in a lengthened
wail, and then again came rushing and howling up to the
windows, as if the very prince of the powers of the air himself
were thundering at the casement ; then again the blue
dazzling lightning glared into the room and gave place to
deeper darkness.

"Pah! that lightning smells like brimstone. Sangue d'un
dua, I hear something in the room."

Yielding to his terrors, Parucci stumbled to the door open-

I

The Crones. 157

iner upon the great lobby, and with cold and trembling fingers
drawing the bolt, sprang to the stairs and shouted for
assistance in a tone which speedily assembled half the house-
hold in the chamber of death.

CHAPTER XXIX.

THE CRONES — THE COKPSE, AND THE SHARPER.

HAGGARD, exhausted, and in no very pleasant temper, Henry
Ashwoode rode up the aveuue of Morley Court.

" I shall have a blessed conference with my father," thought
he, " when he learns the fate of the thousand pounds I was to

have brought him — a pleasant interview, by . How shall

I open it ? He'll be no better than a Bedlamite. By , a

pretty hot kettle of fish this — but through it I must flounder
as best I may — curse it, what am I afraid of ? "

Thus muttering, he leaped from the saddle, leaving the
well-trained steed to make his way to the stable, and entered
at the half open door. In the hall he encountered a servant,
but was too much occupied by his own busy reflections to
observe the earnest, awe-struck countenance of the old
domestic.

" Mr. Henry — Mr. Henry — stay, sir — stay — one moment,"
said the man, following and endeavouring to detain him.

Ashwoode, however, without heeding the interruption,
hastened by him, and mounted the stairs with long and rapid
strides, resolved not unnecessarily to defer the interview
which he believed must come sooner or later. He opened Sir
Richard's door, and entered the chamber. He looked round
the room for the object of his search in vain; but to his
unmeasured astonishment, beheld instead three old shrivelled
hags seated by the hearth, who all rose upon his entrance,
except one, who was warming something in a saucepan upon
the fire, and each and all resumed respectively the visages of
woe which best became the occasion.

"Eh! How is this? What brings you here, nurse P "
exclaimed the young man, in a tone of startled curiosity.

The old lady whom he addressed thought it advisable to
weep, and instead of returning any answer, covered her face
with her apron, turned away her head, and shook her palsied
hand towards him with a gesture which was meant to express
the mute anguish of unutterable sorrow.

" What is it ? " said Ashwoode. " Are you all tongue-tied ?
Speak, some of you."

1 5 8 The "Cock and A nchor?

" Oh, musha ! musha ! the crathur," observed the second
witch, with a most lugubrious shake of the head, "but it is he
that's to be pitied. Oh, wisha — wisha — wiristhroo ! "

" What the d 1 ails you ? Can't you speak out ? Where's

my father r " repeated the young man, with impatient
perplexity.

" With the blessed saints in glory," replied the third hag,
giving the saucepan a slight whisk to prevent the contents
from burniner, " and if ever there was an angel on earth, he
was one. Well, well, he has his reward— that's one comfort,
sure. The crown of glory, with the holy apostles — it's he's to
be envied — up in heaven, though he wint mighty suddint,
surely."

This was followed by a kind of semi -dolorous shake of the
head, in which the three old women joined.

With a hurried step, young Ashwoode strode to the bedside,
drew the curtain, and gazed upon the sharp and fixed features
of the corpse, as it leered with unclosed eyes from among the
bed-clothes. It would not have been easy to analyze the
feelings with which he looked upon this spectacle. A kind of
incredulous horror sate upon his compressed features. He
touched the hand, which rested stiffly upon the coverlet, as if
doubtful that the old man, whom he had so long feared and
obeyed, was actually dead. The cold, dull touch that met his
was not to be mistaken, and he gazed fixedly with that awful
curiosity with which in death the well-known features of a
familiar face are looked on. There lay the being whose fierce
passions had been to him from his earliest days a source of
habitual fear — in childhood, even of terror — henceforth to be
no more to him than a thing which had never been. There
lay the scheming, busy head, but what availed all its calcula-
tions and its cunning now ! No more thought or power has
it than the cushion on which it stiffly rests. There lies the
proud, worldly, unforgiving, violent man, a senseless effigy of
cold clay — a grim, impassive monument of the recent presence
of the unearthly visitant.

"It's a beautiful corpse, if the eyes were only shut,"
observed one of the crones, approaching ; " a purty corpse as
ever was stretched."

" The hands is very handsome entirely," observed another
of them, " and so small, like a lady's."

" It's himself was the good master," observed the old nurse,
with a slow shake of the head ; " the likes of him did not
thread in shoe leather. Oh ! but my heart's sore for you this
day, Misther Harry."

Thus speaking, with a good deal of screwing and puckering,
she succeeded in squeezing a tear from one eye, like the last
drop from an exhausted lemon, and suffering it to rest upon

The Crones. 1 59

her cheek, that it might not escape observation, she looked
round with a most pity-moving visage upon her companions,
and an expression of face which said as plainly as words,
" What a faithful, attached, old creature lam, and how well I
deserve any little token of regard which Sir .Richard's will
may have bequeathed me."

*' Ah ! then, look at him," said the matron of the saucepan,
gazing with the most touching commiseration upon Henry
Ashwoode, " see how he looks at it. Oh, but it's he that
adored him ! Oh, the crathur, what will he do this day ?
Look at him there — he's an orphan now — God help him."

" Be off with yourselves, and leave me here," said Henry
(now Sir Henry) Ashwoode, turning sharply upon them.
" Send me some one that can speak a word of sense : call
Parucci here, and get out of the room every one of you —
away ! "

With abundance of muttering and grumbling, and many an
indignant toss of the head, and many a dignified sniff, the old
women hobbled from the room; and Henry Ashwoode had
hardly been left alone, when the small private door com-
municating with Parucci's apartment, opened, and the valet
peeped in.

" Come in — come in, Jacopo," said the young man ; " come
in, and close the door. When did this happen?"

The Neapolitan recounted briefly the events which we have
already recorded.

" It was a fit — some sudden seizure," said the young man,
glancing at the features of the corpse.

"Yes, vary like, vary like," said Parucci; "he used to
complain sometimes that his head was sweeming round, and
pains and aches ; but there was something more — something
more."

"What do you mean? — don't speak riddles," said Ash-
woode.

" 1 mean this, then," replied the Italian ; " something came
to him — something was in the room when he died."

" How do you know that ? " inquired the young man.

"I heard him talking loudly with it," replied he — "talking
and praying it to go away from him."

" Why did you not come into the room yourself ? " asked
Ashwoode.

" So I did, Diamine, so I did," replied he.

" Well, what saw you ? "

"Nothing bote Sir Kichard, dead — quite dead; and the far
door was bolted inside, just so as he always used to do; and
when the candle went ont, the thing was here again. I heard
it myself, as sure as I ain leeving man — I heard it — close up
with me — by the body."

160 The "Cock and Anchor:'

11 Tut, tut, man ; speak sense. Do you mean to say that
anyone talked with you ? " said Ashwoode.

" I mean this, that something was in the chamber with me
beside the dead man," replied the valet, doggedly. "I heard
it with my own ears. Zucche ! I moste 'av benn deaf, if I did
not hear it. It said ' hish,' and then agaiu, close up to my
face, it said it — ' hish, hish,' and laughed below its breath.
Pah ! the place smelt of brimstone."

" In plain terms, then, you believe that the devil was in the
room ; is that it ? " said Ashwoode, with a ghastly smile of
contempt.

" Oh ! no," replied the servant, with a sneer as ghastly ; " it
was an angel, of course — an angel from heaven."

" No more of this folly, sirrah," said Ashwoode, sharply.

'* Your own d d cowardice fills your brain with these fancies.

Here, give me the keys, and show me where the papers are
laid. I shall first examine the cabinets here, and then in the
library. Now open this one ; and do you hear, Parucci, not
one word of this cock-and-bull story of yours to the servants.
Good God ! my brain's unsettled. I can scarcely believe my
father dead — dead," and again he stood by the bedside, and
looked upon the still face of the corpse.

" We must send for Craven at once,'' said Ashwoode, turn-
ing from the bed ; " I must confer with him ; he knows better
than anyone else how all my father's affairs stand. There are
some d -d bills ont, I believe, but we'll soon know."

Having despatched an urgent note to Craven, the in-
sinuating attorney, to whom we have already introduced the
reader, Sir Henry Ashwoode proceeded roughly to examine
the contents of boxes, escritoires, and cabinets filled with
dusty papers, and accompanied and directed in his search by
the Italian.

*' You never heard him mention a will, did you ? " inquired
the young man.

The Neapolitan shook his head.

" You did not know of his making one ? " he resumed.

" No, no, I cannot remember," said the Italian, reflectively ;
" but," he added quickly, while a peculiar meaning lit up the
piercing eyes which he turned upon the interrogator — " but
do you weesh to find one? Maybe I could help you to fiud
one."

" Pshaw! folly ; what dp you take me for? " retorted Ash-
woode, slightly colouring, in spite of his habitual insensibility,
for Parucci was too intimate with his principles for him to
assume ignorance of his meaning. " Why the devil should I
wish to find a will, since I inherit everything without it ? "

" Signer," said the little man, after an interval of silence,
during which he seemed absorbed in deep reflection, "1 have

The Crones. 161

moche to say about what I shall do with mvself, and some
things to ask from you. I will begin and end it here and now
— it is best over at once. I have served Sir Richard there for
thirty-four years. I have served him well — vary well. I have
taught him great secrets. I have won great abundance ot'
good moneys for him ; if he was not reech it is not my fault.
I attend him through his sickness; and 'av been his companion
for the half of a long life. What else I 'av done for him E
need not count np, but most of it you know well. Sir
Kichard is there — dead and gone — the service is ended, and
now I 'av resolved I will go back again to Italy — to Naples —
where I was born. You shall never hear of me any more if
yon will do for me one little thing."

" What is it? — <*pe*k out. You want to extort money — is
it so? " said Ashwoode, slowly and sternly.

" I want," continued the man, with equal distinctness and
deliberateness, " I want one thousand pounds. I do not ask a
penny more, and I will not take a penny less; and if you give
me that, I will never trouble you m^re with word of mine —
you will never hear or see honest Jacopo Parmxji any mere."

" Come, come, Jacopo, that were paying a little too dear,
even for such a luxury," replied Ashwoocle. " A thousand
pounds ! Ha ! ha ! A modest request, truly. I half suspect
your brain is a little crazed."

" Remember what I have done — all I have done for him,"
rejoined the Italian, coolly. "And above all, remember what
I have not done for him. I could have had him hanged up by
the neck — hanged like a dog — but I never did. Oh! no, never
—though not a day went by that I might not 'av brought the
house full of officers, and have him away to jail and get him
hanged. Eemember all that, signer, and say is it in conscience
too moche ?—rotta di collo ! It is not half — no, nor quarter
so moche as I ought to ask. No, nor as you ought to give,
signor, without ine to ask at all."

" Parucci, you are either mad or drunk, or take me to be
so," said Ashwoode, who could n >t feel quite comfortable in
disputing the claims of the Italian, nor secure in provoking
his anger. " But at all events, there is ample time to talk
about these matters. We can settle it all more at our ease in
a week or so."

" No, no, signor. I will have my answer now," replied the
man, doggedly. " Mr. Craven has money now — the money of
Miss Mary's land that Sir Richard got from her. But though
the money is there notu, in a week or leetle more we will not
see moche of it, and my pocket weel remain aimpty — corbez-
zolif am I a fool?"

" I tell you, Parucci, I will give you no promises now," ex-
claimed the young man, vehemently. ." Why, d it, the

M

1 62 The "Cock and Anchor?

blood is hardly cold in the old man's vein?, and you begin to
pester me for money. Can't yon wait till he's buried ? "

" Ay — yees — yees — wait till he's buried — and then wait till
the mourning's off — and then wait for something more," said
the Neapolitan, with a sneer, " and so wait on till the money's
all spent. No, no, signor — corpo di Bacco f I will have it
now. I will have my answer now, before Mr. Craven comes —
giuro di Dio, I will have my answer."

" Don't talk like a madman, Parucci, replied the young
man, angrily. "I have no money here. I will make no
promises. And besides, your request is perfectly ridiculous
and unconscionable."

" I ask for a thousand pounds," replied the valet. " I roust
have the promise now, signer, and the money to-day. If you
do not promise it here and at once, I will not ask again,
and maybe you weel be sorry. I will take one thousand
pounds. I want no more, and I accept no less. Signor, your
answer."

There was a cool, menacing insolence in the manner of the
fellow which stung the pride of the young baronet to the
quick.

" Scoundrel," said he, " do you think I am to be bullied by
your audacious threats? Do you dream that I am weak
enough to suffer a wretch like you to practise his extortions

upon me? By , you'll find to your co4 that you Have

no longer to deal with a master who is in your power. What
care I for your utmost ? Do your worst, miscreant — I defy
you. I warn you only to beware of giving an undue license
to your foul, lying tongue — for if I find that you have been
spreading yonr libellous tales abroad, I'll have you pilloried
and whipped."

" Well, you 'av given me an answer," replied the Italian
coolly. " I weel ask no more ; and now, signor, farewell —
adieu. I think, perhaps, you will hear of me again. I will
not return here any more after I go out ; and so, for the last
time," he continued, approaching the cold form which lay upon
the bed, " farewell to you, Sir Richard Ashwoode. While
I am alive I will never see your face again — perhaps, if holy
friars tell true, we may meet again. Till then — till then —
farewell."

With this strange speech the Neapolitan, having gazed for
a brief space, with a strange expression, in which was a dash
of something very nearly approaching to sorrow, upon the
stern, moveless face before him, and then with an effort, and
one long-drawn sigh, having turned away, deliberately with-
drew from the room through the small door which led to his
own apartment.

" The lazzarone will come to himself in a little," muttered

Sky -Copper Court. 163

Ashwoode ; he will think twice before he leaves this place —
he'll cool — he'll cool."

Thus soliloquizing, the young man locked up the presses
and desks which he had opened, bolted the door after the
Italian, and hurried from the room ; for, sonuhow or other,
he felt uneasy and fearful alone in the chamber with the
body.

CHAPTER XXX.

8RY-COPPEE COURT.

UPON the evening of the same day, the Italian having col-
lected together the few movables which he called his own, and
left them ready for removal in the chamber which he had for
so long exclusively occupied, might have been seen, emerging
from the old manor-house, and with a small parcel in his hand,
wending his solitary, moon-lit way across the broad wooded
pasture-lands of Morley Court. Without turning to-look back
upon the familiar scene, which he was now for ever leaving —
fur all his faculties and feelings, such as they were, had busy
occupation in the measures of revenge which he was keenly
pursuing, he crossed the little stile which terminated the
pathway he was following, and descended upon the public
road — shaking from his hat and cloak the heavy drops, which
in his progress the close uuderwood through which he brushed
had sited upon him. With a quickened pace, and with a stern,
almost a savage countenance, over which from time to time
there flitted a still more ominous smile, and muttering be-
tween his teeth many a sbort and vehement apostrophe as he
went, he held his way directly toward the city of Dublin;
and once within the streets, he was not long in reaching the
ancient, and by this time to the reader, familiar mansion, over
whose portal swung the glittering sign of the " Cock and
Anchor."

"Now, then," thought Parucci, "let us see whether I have
not one card left, and that a trump. What, because I wear
no sword myself, shall you escape unpunished ? Fool — mis-
creant, I will this night conjure up such an avenger as will
appal even you ; I will send him with a thousand atrocious
wrocgs upon his head, frantic into your presence — you had
better cope with an actual incarnate demon."

Such were the exulting thoughts which lighted the features
of Parucci with a fitful smile of singular grimness as he
entered the inn yard, where meeting one of the waiters, he

M 2

164 The "Cock and Anchor."

promptly inquired for O'Connor. To his dismay, however, tie
learnt that that gentleman had quitted the " Cock arid
Anchor5' on the day before, and whither he had gone, none
conld inform him. As he stood, pondering in bitter dis-
appointment what step was next to be taken, somebody
tapped his shoulder smartly from behind. He turned, and
beheld the square form and swarthy features of O'Hanlon,
whose interview with O'Connor is recorded early in these
pages. After a few brief questions and answers, in which,
by a reference to the portly proprietor of the " Cock and
Anchor," who vouched for the accuracy of his representations,
O'Hanlon satisfied the vindictive foreigner that he might
safely communicate the subject of his intended communica-
tion to him, as to the sure friend of Mr. O'Connor. Both
personages, Parucci and O'Hanlon — or, as he was there called,
Dwyer — repaired to a private room, where they remained
closeted for fully half an hour. That interview had its con-
sequences— consequences of which sooner or later the reader
shall fully hear, and which were perhaps somewhat unlike
those calculated upon by honest Jacopo.

It is not necessary to detain the reader with a description of
the ceremonial which conducted the mortal remains of Sir
Henry Ashwoode to the grave. It is enough to say that if
pomp and pageantry, lavished upon the fleeting tenement of
clay which it has deserted, can delight the departed spirit,
that of the deceased baronet was happy. The funeral was an
aristocratic procession, well worthy of the rank and pre-
tensions of the distinguished dead, and in numbers and eclat
such as to satisfy even the exactions of Irish pride.

Carriages and four were there in abundance, and others of
lesser note without number. Outriders, and footmen, and
corpulent coachmen filled the court and avenue of the manor,
and crowded its hall, where refreshments enough for a garri-
son were heaped together upon the tables. The funeral
feasting and revelry finished, the enormous mob of coaches,
horses, and lacqueys began to arrange itself, and assume
something like order. The great velvet-covered coffin was
carried out upon the shoulders of six footmeu, staggering
under the leaden load, and was laid in the hearse. The high-
born company, dressed in the fantastic trappings of mourniny,
began to show themselves one by one, or in groups, at the
hall-door, and took their places in their respective vehicles;
and 'at length the enormous volume began to uncoil, and
gradually passing down the great avenue, and winding along
the road, to proceed toward the city, covering from the com'u
to the last carriage a space of more than a mile in length.

The body was laid in the aisle of St. Audoen's Church, and
a comely monument, recording in eloquent periods the virtues

Sky-Copper Court. 165

of the deceased, was reared by the piety of his son. The aisle,
however, in which it stood, is now a roofless ruin ; and this,
along with many a more curious relic, has crumbled into dust
from its time-worn wall : so that there now remains, except in
these idle pages, no record to tell posterity that so important
a personage as Sir Richard Ashwoode ever existed at all.

Of all who donned " the customary suit of solemn black "
upon the death of Sir Richard Ashwoode, but one human
being felt a pang of sorrow. But there was one whose grief
was real aud poignant — one who mourned for him as though
he had been all that was fond and tender — who forgot and
forgave all his faults and failings, and remembered only that
he had b^en her father and she his child, and companion,
and gentle, patient nurse-tender through many an hour of
pain and sickm- ss. Mary wept for his death bitterly for many
a day and night ; for all that he had ever done or said to
give her pain, her noble nature found entire forgiveness, and
every look, and smile, and word, and tone that had ever borne
the semblance of kindness, were all treasured in her memory,
and all called up again in affectionate and sorrowful review.
Seldom indeed bad the hard nature of Sir Richard evinced
even such transient indications ot tenderness, and when they
did appear they were btill more rarely genuine. But Mary
felt that an object of her kindly care and companionship was
gone — a familiar face tor ever hidden — one of the only two
who were near to her in the ties of blood, departed to return
no more, and with all the deep, strong yearnings of kindred,
she wept and mourned after her lather.

Emily Copland had left Morley Court and was now residing
with her gay relative, Lady Stukely, so that poor Mary was
left almost entirely alone, and her brother, Sir Henry, was so
immersed in business and papers that she scarcely saw him
even for a moment except while he swallowed bis hasty meals ;
aud sooth to say, his thoughts were not much oftener with
her than his person.

Though, as the reader is no doubt fully aware, Sir Henry's
grief for the loss of his parent was by no means of that
violent kind which refuses to be comforted, yet he was too
chary of the world'.s opinion, as well as too punctilious an
observer of etiquette, to make the cheerfulness of his re-
signation under this dispensation startlingly apparent by any
overt act of levity or indifference. Sir Henry, however, must
see Gordon Chancey ; he must ascertain how much he owes
him, and when it is all payable — facts of which he has, if any,
the very dimmest and vaguest possible recollection. Therefore,
upon the very day on which the funeral had taken place, as
soon as the evening had closed, and darkness succeeded the
twilight, the young baronet ordered hiatruoty servant to bring

1 66 The "Cock and Anchor."

the horses to the door, and then muffling himself iu his cloak,
and drawing it about his face, so that even in the reflection of
an accidental link he might not by possibility be recognized,
he threw himself into the saddle, and telling his servant to
follow him, rode rapidly through the dense obscurity towards
the town.

When he had reached Whitefriar Street, he checked his
pace to a walk, and calling his attendant to his side, directed
him to await his return there ; then dismounting, he threw
him the bridle, and proceeded upon his way. Guided by
the hazy starlight and by an occasional gleam from a shop-
window or tavern-door, as well as by the dusky glimmer of
the wretched street lamps, the young man directed his
course for some way along the open street, and then turning
to the right into a dark archway which opened from it, he
found himself in a small, square court, surrounded by tall,
dingy, half-ruinous houses which loomed darkly around,
deepening the shadows of the night into impenetrable gloom.
From some of these dilapidated tenements issued smothered
sounds of quarrelling, indistinctly mingled with the crying of
children and the shrill accents of angry females ; from others
the sounds of discordant singing and riotous carousal; while,
as far as the eye could discern, few places could have been
conceived with an aspect more dreary, forbidding, and cut-
throat, and, in all respects, more depressing and suspicious.

"This is unquestionably the place," exclaimed Ashwoode,
as he stepped cautiously over the broken pavement ; " there
is scarcely another like it in this town or any other; but
heshrew me if 1 remember which is the house."

He entered one of them, the hall-door of which stood half
open, and through the chinks of whose parlour-door were
issuing faint streams of light and gruff sounds of talking.
At one of these doors he knocked sharply with his whip-
handle, and instantly the voices were hushed. After a
silence of a minute or two, the parties inside resumed their
conversation, and Ashwoode more impatiently repeated his
summons.

"There is someone knocking — I tould you there was,"
exclaimed a harsh voice from within. " Open the doore,
Corny, and take a squint."

The door opened cautiously; a great head, covered with
shaggy elf-locks, was thrust through the aperture, and a
singularly ill-looking face, as well as the imperfect light
would allow Ashwoode to judge, was advanced towards his.
The fellow just opened the door far enough to suffer the ray
of the candle to fall upon the countenance of his visitant,
and staring suspiciously into his face for some time, while he
held the lock of the door in his hand, he asked, —

Sky -Copper Court. 167

" Well, neighbour, did you rap at this doore ? "

" Yes, I want to be directed to Mr. Chancey's rooms,"
replied Ashwoode.

•' Misthur who?" repeated the man.

" Mr. Chancey — Chancey : he lives in this court, and,
unless I am mistaken, in this house, or the next to it,"
rejoined Ashwoode.

" Chancey ; I don't know him," answered the man. " Do
you know where Mr. Chancey lives, Garvey ? "

" Not I, nor don't care," rejoined the person addressed, with
a hoarse growl, and without taking the trouble to turn from
the n're, over which he was cowering, with his back toward the
door. " Slap the doore to, can't you r* and don't keep gostherin'
there all ni^ht."

" No, he won't slap the doore," exclaimed the shrill voice
of a female. "I'll see the gentleman myself. Well, sir,"
she cried, presenting a tall, raw-boned figure, arrayed <n
tawdry rags, at the door, and shoving the man with the
unkempt locks aside, she eyed Ashwoode with a leer and a
grin that were anything but inviting — '• well, sir, is there
anything I can do for yon. The chaps here is not used to
quality, an' Father has a mighty ignorant manner; but they
are placible boys, an' manes no offence. Who is it you're
lookin' for, sir?"

"Mr. Gordon Chancey: he lives in one of these houses.
Can you direct me to him ? "

" No, we can't," said the fellow from the fire, in a savage
tone. " I tould you before. Won't you take your answer —
won't you? Slap that doore, Corny, or I'll get up to him
myself."

" Hould your tongue, you gaol bird, won't you?" rejoined
the female, in accents of shrill displeasure. "Chancey/ is
not he the counsellor gentleman ; he has a yallow face an' a
down look, and never has his hands out of his breeches'
pockets ? "

'• The very man," replied Ashwoode.

"Well, sir, he does live in this court: he has the parlour
next doore. The street doore stands open — it's a lodging-
house. One doore further on; you can't miss him."

" Thank you, thank you," said Ashwoode. " Good-night."
And as the door was closed upon him, he heard the voices of
those within raised in hot debate.

He stumbled and groped his way into 1he hall of the house
which the gracious nymph, to whom he had just bidden fare-
well, indicatt-d, and knocked stoutly at the parlour-door. It
was opened by a sluttish girl, with bare feet, and a black eye,
which had reached the green and yellow stage of recovery,
blie had probably been interrupted in the midst of a spirited

168

The "Cock and Anchor"

altercation with the barrister, for ill humour and excitement
were unequivocally glowing in her face.

Ashwoode walked in, and found matters as we shall describe
them in the next chapter.

CHAPTER XXXI.

THE USURER AND THE OAKEN BOX.

THE room which Sir Henry Ashwoode entered was one of
squalid isorder. It was a large apartment, originally hand-
somely wainscoted, but damp and vermin had made woeful

havoc in the broad panels, and the ceiling was covered with
green and black blotches of mildew. No carpet covered the
bare boards, which were strewn with fragments of papers, rags,
splinters of an old chest, which had been partially broken up
to light the tire, and occasionally a potato-skin, a bone, or an
old shoe. The furniture was scant, and no one piece matched
the other. Little and bad as it was, its distribution about the
room was more comfortless and wretched still. All was dreary
disorder, dust, and dirt, and damp, and mildew, and rat-holes.
By a large grate, scarcely half tilled with a pile of ashes and
a few fragments of smouldering turf, sat Gordon Chancey,

The Usurer and the Oaken Box. 169

the master of this notable establishment; his arm rested upon
a dirty deal table, and his fingers played listlessly with a dull
and battered pewter goblet, which he had just replenishei from
a two-quart measure of strong beer which stood upon the
t-ible, and whose contents had dabbled that piece of furniture
with sundry mimic lakes and rivers. Unrestrained by the
ungenerous confinement of a fender, the cinders strayed over
the crocked hearthstone, and even wandered to the boards
beyond it. Mr. Gordon Chancey was himself, too, rather
in deshabille. He had thrown off his shoes, and was in his
stockings, which were unfortunately rather imperfect at the
extremities. His waistcoat was unbuttoned, and his cravat
lay upon the table, swimming in a sea of beer. As Ashwoode
entered, with ill-suppressed disgust, this loathly den, the
object of his visit languidly turned his head and his sleepy
eyes over his shoulder, in the direction ot the door, and with-
out making the smallest effort to rise, contented himself with
extending his hand along the sloppy table, pdlm upwards, for
Ashwoode to shake, at the same time exclaiming, with a drawl
of gentle placidity, —

" Oh, dear — oh, dear me ! Mr. Ashwoode, I declare to God
I am very glad to see you. Won't you sit down and have
some beer? Eliza, bring a cup for my friend, Mr. Ashwoode.
Will you take a pipe too? I have some elegant tobacco.
Bring my pipe to Mr. Ashwoode, and the little canister that
M'Quirk left here last night."

" I am much obliged to you," said Ashwoode, with difficulty
swallowing his anger, and speaking with marked hauteur, " my
visit, though an unseasonable one, is entirely one of business.
I shall not give vou the trouble of providing any refreshment
for me ; in a word, 1 have neither time nor appetite for it. I
want to learn exactly how you and I stand : five minutes will
show me the state of the account."

" Oh, dear— oh, dear ! and won't you take any beer, then ?
it's elegant beer, from Mr. M'Gin's there, round the corner."

Ashwoode bit his lips, and remained silent.

"Eliza, bring a chair for my friend, Sir Henry Ashwoode,"
continued Chancey ; " he must be very tired — indeed he must,
after his long walk ; and here, Eliza, take the key and open
the press, and do you see, bring me the little oak box on the
second shelf. She's a very good little girl, Mr. Ashwoode, I
assure you. Eliza is a very sensible, good little girl. Oh,
dear ! — oh, dear ! but your father's death was very sudden ;
but old chaps always goes off that way, on short notice. Oh,

dear me !— I declare to , only I had a pain in my — (here

he mentioned his lower stomach somewhat abruptly) — I'd
have gone to the funeral this morning. There was a great lot
of coaches, wasn't there ? ''

1 70 The "Cock and Anchor."

" Pray, Mr. Chancey," said Ashwoode, preserving his temper
with an effort, "let ns proceed at once to business. I am
pressed for time, and I shall be glad, with as little delay as
possible, to ascertain — what I suppose there can be no difficulty
in learning — the exact state of our account."

" Well, I'm very sorry, so I am, Mr. Ashwoode, that you are

in such a hurry — I declare to I am," observed Chancey,

supplying his goblet afresh from the larger measure. " Eliza,
have you the box? "Well, bring it here, and put it down on
the table, like an elegant little girl."

The girl shoved a small oaken chest over to Chancey's
elbow ; and he forthwith proceeded to unlock it, and to draw
forth the identical red leather pocket-book which had received
in its page-* the records of Ashwoode's disasters upon the
evening of their last meeting.

" Here I have them. Captain Markham — no. that is not it,"
said ChRncey, sleepily turing over the leaves ; " but this is it,
Mr. Ashwoode — ay, here ; first, two hundred pounds, promis-
sory note — payable one week after date. Mr. Ashwoode,
again, one hundred and fifty — promissory note — one week.
Lord Kilblatters — no— ay, here again— Mr. Ashwoode, two
hundred — promissory note — one week. Mr. Ashwoode, two
hundred and fifty — promissory note — one week. Mr. Ash-
woode, one hundred; Mr. Ashwoode, fifty. Oh, dear me!
dear me! Mr. Ashwoode, three hundred." And so on, till it
appeared that Sir Henry Ashwoode stood indebted to Gordon
Chancey, Esq., in the sum of six thousand four hundred and
fifty pounds, for which he had passed promissory notes which
would all become due in two days' time.

" I suppose,5' said Ashwoode, "these notes have hardly been
negotiated. Eh ?"

"Oh, dear me! No — oh, no, Mr. Ashwoode," replied
Chancey. "They have not gone out of my desk. I would not
put them into the hands of a stranger for any trifling advan-
tage to myself. Oh, dear me ! not at all."

" Well, then, I suppose you can renew them for a fortnight
or so, or hold them over — eh ? " asked Ashwoode.

" I'm sure I can," rejoined Chancey. "The bills belong to
the old cripple that lent the money ; and he does whatever I
bid him. He trusts it all to me. He gives me the trouble, and
takes the profit himself. Oh ! he does confide in me. I have
only to say the word, and it's done. They shall be renewed or
held over as often as you wish. Indeed, I can answer for it.
Dear me, it would be very hard if I could not."

"Well, then, Mr. Chancey," replied Ashwoode, "I may
require it, or 1 may not. Craven has the promise of a large
sum of money, within two or three days — part of the loan he
has already gotten. Will you favour me with a call on to-

The Diabolic Whisper. I / I

morrow afternoon at Morley Court. I will then have heard
definitely fiotn Craven, and can tell you whether I require
time or not."

"Very good, sir — very fair, indeed, Mr. Ashwoode. Nothing
fairer," rejoined the lawyer. " But don't give yourself any

uneasiness. Oh, dear, on no account ; for I declare to I

would hold them over as long as you like. Oh, dear me —
indeed but I would. Well, then, I'll call out at about four
o'clock.''

"Very good, Mr. Chancey," replied Ashwoode. "I shall
expect you. Meanwhile, go )d-night." So they separated.

The young baronet reached his ancestral dwelling without
adventure of any kind, and Mr. Gordon Chancey poured out
the last drops of beer from the inverted can into his pewter
cup, and draining it calmly, anon buttoned his waistcoat,
shook the wet from his cravat, and tied it on, thrust his feet
into his shoes, and flinging his cocked hat cirelessly upon his
head, walked forth in deep thought into the street, whistling
a concerto of his own invention.

CHAPTER XXXII.

THE DIABOLIC WHISPER.

GORDON CHANCEY sauntered in his usual lazy, lounging way,
with his hands in his pockets, down the street. After a list-
less walk of half-an-hour he found himself at the door of a
handsome house, in the immediate neighbourhood of the Castle.
He knocked, and was admitted by a servant in full livery.

" Is he in the same room ? " inquired Chancey.

" Yes, sir," replied the man ; and without further parley,
the learned counsel proceeded upstair?, and knocked at the
drawing-room door, which, without waiting for any answer, he
forthwith opened.

Nicholas Blarden — with two ugly black plaisters across his
fate, his arm in a sling, and his countenance bearing in
abundance the livid marks of his late rencounter — stood with
his back to the fire-place ; a table, blazing with wax-lights,
and stored with glittering wine-flasks and other matters, was
placed at a little distance before him. As the man of law
entered the room, the countenance of the invalid relaxed into
an ugly grin of welcome.

"Well, Gordy, boy, how goes the game? Out with your
news, old rat-catcher," said Blarden, in high good humour.

172 The "Cock and Anchor?

" Dear me, dear me ! but the night is mighty chill, Mr.
Blarden," observed Chancey, filling a glass of wine to the brim,
and sipping it uninvited. " News," he continued, letting him-
self drop into a chair — "news ; well, there's not much stirring
worth telling )ou."

" Come, what is it ? You're not come here for nothing, old

fox," rejoined Blarden, " I know by the twinkle iii the

corner of your eye."

" Well, he has been with me, just now," drawled Chancey.

" Ashwoode?"

" Yes."

" Well ! what does he want — what does he want, eh. ? " asked
Blarden, with intense excitement.

" He says he'll want time for the notes," replied Chancey.

" God be thanked ! " ejaculated Blarden, and followed this
ejaculation with a ferocious burst of laughter. " We'll have

him, Chancey, boy, if only we know how to play him — by ,

we'll have him, as sure as there's heat in hell."

" Well, maybe we will," rejoined Chancey.

" Does he say he can't pay them on the day ? " asked Blarden,
exultingly.

" No ; he says maybe he can't," replied the jackal.

" That's all one," cried Blarden. " What do you think ? Do
you think he can ?"

" 1 think maybe he can, if we squeeze him," replied
Chancey.

" Then don't squeeze him — he must not get out of our
books on any terms — we'll lose him if he does," said
Nicholas.

" We'll not renew the notes, but hold them over," said
Chancey. " He must not feel them till he can't pay them.
We'll make them sit light on him till then — give him plenty of
line for a while — rope enough and a little patience — and the
devil himself can't keep him out of the noose."

"You're right — you are, Gordy, boy," rejoined Blarden.
" Let him get through the ready money" first — eh ? — and then
into the stone jug with him — we'll just choose our own time
for striking."

" I tell you what it is?, if you are just said and led by me,
you'll have a quare hold on him before three months are past
and gone," said Chancey, lazily — " mind I tell you, you will."

" Well, Gordy, boy, fill again — fill again — here's success to
you."

Chancey filled, and quaffed his bumper, with a matter-of-
fact, business-like air.

"And do you mind me, boy," continued Blarden, "spare
nothing in this business— briug A^hwoode entirely under my
knuckle— and, bv — , I'll make it a great job for you."

T lie Diabolic Whisper. 173

" Indeed — indeed but I will, Mr. Blarden, if I can," rejoined
Chancey ; "and I think I can — f think I know a way, so I do,
to get a halter round his neck — do you mind? — and leave the
rope's end in your hand, to hang him or not, as you like."

" To hang him ! " echoed Blarden, like one who hears some-
thing too good to be true.

" Yes, to hang him by the neck till he's dead— dead — dead,"
repeated Chancey, import urbably.

" How the blazes will you do it ? " demanded the wretch,
anxiously. " Pish, it's all prate and vapour."

Gordon Chancey stole a suspicious glance round the room
from the corner of his eye, and then suffering his gaze to rest
sleepily upon the fire once more, he stretched out one of his
lank arms, and after a little uncertain groping, succeeding in
grasping the collar of his companion's coat, and drawing his
head down toward him. Blarden knew Mr. Chancey's wj-y, and
without a word, lowered his ear to that gentlemin's mouth,
who forthwith whispered something into it which produced a
marked effect upon Mr. Blarden.

" If you do that," replied he with ferocious exultation, " by
— -, I'll make your fortune for you at a slap."

And so saving, he struck his hand with heavy emphasis upon
th« barrister's shoulder, like a man who clenches a bargain.

" Well, Mr. Blarden," replied Chancey, in the same drowsy
tone, " as I said before, I declare it's my opinion I can, so it
is— I think I can."

" And so do I think you can — by •, I'm sure of it,"

exclaimed Blardeu triumphantly ; " but take some more —
more wine, won't you? take some more, and stay a bit, can't
you ? "

Chancey had made his way to the door with his usual drowsy
gait; and. passing O'lt without deigning any answer or w>rd
of farewell, stumbled lazily downstairs. There was nothing
odd, however, in this leave-taking ; it was Chancey's way.

" We'll do it, and easily too," muttered Blarden with a gri-i
of exaltation. " I never knew him fail — that fellow is worth a
mine. Ho! ho! Sir Henry, beware — beware. E^ad, you had
better keep a bright look-out. It's rather late for green goslings
to look to their necks, when the fox claps his nose in one
poultry-yard.''

1 74 The " Cock and Anchor."

CHAPTER XXXIII.

SHOWING HOW SIR HENRY ASHWOODE PLAYED AND PLOTTED —
AND OF THE SUDDEN SUMMONS Of GORDON CHANCEY.

HENRY ASHWOOIE was but too anxious to avail himself of the
indulgence offered by Gordon Chancey. With the immediate
urgency of distress, any thoughts of prudence or retrench-
ment which may have crossed his mind vanished, and along
with the command of new resources came new wants and still
more extravagant prodigality. His passion for gaming was
now indulged without restraint, and almost without the inter-
ruption of a day. For a .time his fortune rallied, and sums,
whose amount would startle credulity, flowed into his hands,
only to be lost and squandered again in dissipation and ex-
travagance, which grew but the wilder and more reckless, in
proportion as the sources which supplied them were temporarily
increased. At length, after some coquetting, the giddy god-
dess again deser£ed him. Night after night brought new and
heavier disasters ; and with this reverse of fortune came its
invariable accompaniment— a wilder and more daring reckless-
ness, and a more unmeasured prodigality in hazardiug larger
and larger sums; as if the victims of ill luck sought, by this
frantic defiance, to bully and browbeat their capricious perse-
cutor into subjection. There was scarcely an available security
of any kind which he had not already turned into money, and
now he began to feel, in downright earnest, the iron gripe of
ruin closing upon him.

He was changed— in spirit and in aspect changed. The
unwearied tire of a secret fever preyed upon his heart and
brain; an untold horror robbed him of his rest, and haunted
him night and day.

" Brother," said Mary Ashwoode, throwing one hand fondly
round his neck, and with the other pressing his, as he sate
moodily, with compressed lips and haggard lace, arid ey*s
fixed upon the floor, in the old parlour of Morley Court — •
"dear brother, you are greatly changed; you are ill; some
great trouble weighs upon your mind. Why will you keep
all your cares and griels from me ? I would try to comfort
you, whatever your sorrows may be. Then let me know it
all, dear brother; why should your griefs be hidden from
me ? Are there not now but the two of us in the wide world
to care for each other ? " and as she said this her eyes filled
with tears.

" You would know what grieves me ? " said Ashwoode, after
a short silence, and gaziug fixedly in her face, with stern,

How Sir Henry Ashwoode Played and Plotted. 175

dilated eyes, and pale features. He remained again silent for
a time, and then uttered the emphatic word — "Ruin."

" How, dear brother, what has befallen you ? " asked the poor
girl, pressing her brother's hand more kindly.

" I say, we are ruined — both of us. I've lost everything.
We are little better than beggars,'' replied he. "There's no-
thing I can call my own," he resumed, abruptly, after a pause,
" but that old place, Incharden. It's worth next to nothing —
bo», rocks, brushwoo ', old stables, and all — absolutely nothing.
We are ruined — beggared — that's all."

" Oh ! brother, I am glad we have still that dear old place.
Oh, let us go down and live thtre together, among the quiet
glen?, and the old green woods ; for amo-igst its pleasant
shades I have known happier times than shall ever come again
for me. I would like to ramble there again in the pleasant
summer time, and hear the birds siug, aud the sound of the
rustling leaves, and the clear winding brook, as I used to hear
them long ago. There I could think over many things, that it
breaks my heart to think of here; and you and 1, brother,
would be always together, and we would soon be as happy as
either of us can be in this sorrowful world."

She threw her arms around her brother's neck, and while the
tears flowed fast and silently, she kissed his pale and wasted
cheeks again and again.

" In the meantime," said Ashwoode, starting np abruptly, and
looking at his watch, "I must go into town, and see some of
these harpies — usurers — that have gotten their fangs in me.
It is as well to keep out of jail as long as one can," and, with
a very joyless laugh, he strode from the room.

As he rode into town, his thoughts again and again recurred
to his old scheme respecting Lady Stukely.

" It is after all my only chance," said he. " I have made

my mind up fifty times to it, but somehow or other, d n

me, if I could ever bring myself to do it. That woman will live
for five-and-twenty years to come, and she would as easily
part with the control of her property as with her life. While
she lives I must be her dependent — her slave : there is no use
in mincing the matter, I shall not have the command of a
shilling, but as she pleases; but patience — patience, Hurry
Ashwoode, sooner or later death will come, and then begins
your jubilee."

As these thoughts hurried through his brain, he checked his
horse at Lady Betty Stukely's door.

As he traversed the capacious hall, and ascended the hand-
some staircase — " Well," thought he, " even with her ladyship,
this were better than the jail."

In the drawing-room he found Lady Stukely, Emily Cop-
land, and Lord Aspenly. The two latter evidently deep in a

1 76 The "Cock and A nchor."

very desperate flirtation, and her ladyship meanwhile very
considerately employed in trying a piece of music on the
spinet.

The entrance of Sir Henry produced a very manifest sensa-
tion among the little party. Lady Stately looked charmingly
conscious and fluttered. Emily Copland smiled a gracious
welcome, for though she and her handsome cousin perfectly
well understood each other, and both well knew that marriage
was out of the question, they liad each, what is called, a fancy
for the other ; and Emily, with the unreasonable jealousy of a
woman, felt a kind of soreness, secretly and almost unacknow-
ledged to herself, at Sir Henry's marked devotion to Lady
Stukely, though, at the same time, no feeling of her own heart,
beyond the lightest and the merest vanity, had ever been en-
gaged in favour of Henry Ashwoode. Of the whole party,
Lord Aspenly alone was a good deal disconcerted, and no
wonder, for he had not the smallest notion upon what kind of
terms he and Henry Ashwoode were to meet; — whether that
young gentleman would shake hands with him as usual, or
proceed to throttle him on the spot. Ashwoode was, however,
too completely a man of the world to make any unnecessary
fuss about the awkward affair of Morley Court; he therefore
met the little nobleman with cold and easy politeness ; and,
turning from him, was soon engaged in an animated and
somewhat tender colloquy with the love-stricken widow,
whose last words to him, as at length he arose to take his
leave, were. —

" Remember to-morrow evening, Sir Henry, we shall look for
you early ; and you have promised not to disappoint your cousin
Emily — has not he, Emily? I shall positively be affronted
with you for a week at least if you are late. I am very abso-
lute, and never forgive an act of rebellion. I'm quite a little
sovereign here, and very despotic ; so you had better not
venture to be naughty."

Here she raised her finger, and shook it in playful menace at
her admirerf.

Lady Stukely had, however, little reason to doubt his
punctuality. It she had but known the true state of the case
she would have been aware that in literal matter-of-fact she
had become as necessary to Sir Henry Ashwoode as his daily
bread.

Accordingly, next evening Sir Henry Ashwoode was one of
the gayest of the guests in Lady Stukely's drawing-rooms.
His resolution was takjfen ; and he now looked round upon the
splendid rooms and all their rich furniture as already his own.
Some chatted, some played cards, some danced the courtly
minuet, and some hovered about from group to group, without
any determinate occupation, and sharing by turns in the

How Sir Henry Ashwoode Played and Plotted. 177

frivolities of all. Ashwoode was, of course, devoted exclusively
to his fair hostess. She was all smiles, and sighs, and bash-
ful coyness ; he all tenderness and fire. In short, he felt that
all he wanted at that moment was the opportunity of asking,
to ensure his instantaneous acceptance. While thus agree-
ably employed, the yonng baronet was interrupted by a loot-
man, who, with a solemn bow, presented a silver salver, on
which was placed an exceedingly dirty and crumple i little
note. Ashwoode instantly recognized the hand in which the
address was written, and snatching the filthy billet from its
conspicuous position, he thrust it into his waistcoat pocket.

" A messenger, sir, waits for an answer," murmured the
servant.

"Where is he? "

" He waits in the hall, sir."

" Then I shall see him in a moment — tell him so," said Ash-
woode ; and turning to Lady Stukely, he spoke a few sweet
words of gallantry, and with a forced smile, and casting a long-
ing, lingering look behind, he glided from the room.

" So, what can this mean ? " muttered he, as he placed
himself immediately under a cluster of lights in the lobby,
and hastily drew forth the crumpled note. He read as fol-
lows : —

" MY DEAR SIR HENRY,— There is bad news— as bad as can
be. Wherever you are, and whatever you are doing, come on
receipt of these, on the moment, to me. If you don't, you'll
be done for to-morrow ; so come at once. Bobby M'Quirk will
hand you these, and if you follow him, will bring you where I
am now. I am desirous to serve yon, and if the art of man
can do it, to keep you out of this pickle.

"Your obedient, humble servant,

" GORDON CHANCEY."

" N.B. — It is about these infernal notes, so come quickly."

Through this production did Ashwoode glance with no
very enviable feelings; and tearing the note into the very
smallest possible pieces, he ran downstairs to the hall, where
he found the aristocratic Mr. M'Quirk, with his chin as high
as ever, marching up and down with a free and easy swagger,
and one arm akimbo, and whistling the while an air of martial
defiance.

" Did you bring a note to me just now ? " inquired Ash-
woode.

" I have had that pleasure," replied M'Quirk, with an aris-
tocratic air. " I presume I am addressed by Sir Henry Ash-
woode, baronet. I am Mr. M'Quirk— Mr. Robert M'Quirk:.

a

1 78 The "Cock and A nchor?

Sir Henry, I kiss your hands — proud of the honour of your
acquaintance."

" Is Mr. Chancey at his own lodging now? " inquired Ashr
woode, without appearing to hear the speeches which M'Quirk
thought proper to deliver.

" Why, no," replied the little gentleman. " Our friend
Chancey is just now swigging his pot of beer, and smoking his
pen'orth of pigtail in the " Old Saint Columbkil," in Ship Street
— a comfortable house, Sir Henry, as any in Dublin, and very
cheap — cheap as dirt, sir. A Welsh rarebit, one penny; a
black pudding, and neat cut of bread, and three leeks, for
—how much do you guess ? "

" Have the goodness to conduct me to Mr. Chancey,
wherever he is," said Ashwoode drily. " I will follow — go on,
sir."

" Well, Sir Henry, I'm your man — I'm your man — glad of
your company, Sir Henry," exclaimed the insinuating Bobby
M'Quirk ; and following his voluble conductor in obstinate
silence, Sir Henry Ashwoode found himself, after a dark and
sloppy walk, for the first, though not for the last time in his
life, under the roof tree of the " Old Saint Columbkil."

CHAPTER XXXIV.

THE " OLD ST. COLUMBKIL " — A TETE-1-TETE IN THE " ROYAL BAM "
— THE TEMPTER.

THE " Old Saint Columbkil " was a sort of low sporting tavern
frequented chiefly by horse-jockeys, cock-fighters, and dog-
fanciers ; it had its cock-pits, and its badger-baits, and an un-
pretending little " hell " of its own ; and, in short, was defi-
cient in noue of the attractions most potent in alluring such
company as it was intended to receive.

As Ashwoode, preceded by his agreeable companion, made
his way into the low-roofed and irregular chamber, his senses
were assailed by the thick fumes of tobacco, the reek of
spirits, and the heavy steams of the hot dainties which minis-
tered to the refined palates of the patrons of the " Old Saint
Columbkil ; " and through the hazy atmosphere, seated at a
table by himself, and lighted by a solitary tallow candle with
a portentous snuff, and canopied in the clouds of tobacco
smoke which he himself emitted, Gordon Chancey was dimly
discernible.

"Ah! dear me, dear me. I'm right glad to see you — I
declare to , I am, Mr. Ashwoode," said that eminent

The "Old St. Columbkil." 1 79

barrister, when the young gentleman had reached his side.
"Indeed, I was thinking it was m^ybe too late to see you to-
night, and that things would have to go on. Oh, dear me,
but it's a regular Providence, so it is. You'd have been up in
lavender to-morrow, as sure as eggs is eggs. I'm gladder than
a crown piece, upon my soul, I am."

" Don't talk of business here ; cannot we have some place to
ourselves for five minutes, out of this stifling pig-sty. 1 can't
bear the place ; besides, we shall be overheard," urged Ash-
woode.

" Well, and that's very true,'' assented Chancey, gently,
" very true, so it is ; we'll get a small room above. You'll have
to pay an extra sixpenny bit for it though, but what signifies
the matter of that ? M'Quirk, ask old Pottles if ' Noah's Ark '
is empty — either that or the ' Royal Ram ' — run, Bobby."

" I have something else to do, Mr. Chancey," replied Mr.
M'Quirk, with hauteur.

" Run, Bobby, run, man," repeated Chancey, tranquilly.

" Run yourself," retorted M'Quii k, rebelliously.

Chancey looked at him for a moment to ascertain by his
visible aspect whether he had actually uttered the audacious
suggestion, and reading in the red face of the little gentleman
nothing but the most refractory dispositions, he said with A
low, dogged emphasis which experience had long taught Mr.
M'Quirk to respect, —

"Are you at your tricks again? D you, you black-
guard, if you stand prating there another minute, I'll open
your head with this pot — be off, you scoundrel."

The learned counsel enforced his eloquence by knocking the
pewter pot with an emphatic clang upon the table.

All the aristocratic blood of the M'Quirks mounted to the
face of the gentleman thus addressed ; he suffered the noble
inundation, however, to subside, and after some hesitation, and
one long look of unutterable contempt, which Chancey bore
with wonderful stoicism, he yielded to prudential considera-
tions, as he had often done before, and proceeded to execute
his orders.

The effect was instantaneous — Pottles himself appeared.
A short, stout, asthmatic man was Pottles, bearing in his
thoughtful countenance an ennobling consciousness that
human society would feel it hard to go on without him, and
carrying in his hand a soiled napkin, or rather clout, with
which he wiped everything that came in his way, his own fore-
head and nose included.

With pompous step and wheezy respiration did Pottles
conduct his honoured guests up the creaking stairs and into
the" Royal Ram." He raked the erubeisinthe f re-place, threw
on a piece of turt, and planting the candle wiich he carried

^ 2

1 80 The "Cock and Anchor:'

upon a table covered with slop and pipe ashes, he wiped the
candlestick, and then his own mouth carefully with his dingy
napkin, and asked the gentlemen whether they desired any-
thing for supper.

"No, no, we want nothing but to be left to ourselves for
ten or fifteen minutes," said Ashwoode, placing a piece of
money upon the table. " Take this for the use of the room,
and leave us."

The landlord bowed and pocketed the coin, wheezed and
bowed again, and then waddled magnificently out of the room.
Ashwoode got up and closed the door after him, and then
returning, drew his chair opposite to Chancey's, and in a low
tone asked, —

" Well, what is all this about ? "

"All about them notes, nothing else," replied Chancey,
calmly.

" Go on — what of them ? " urged Ashwoode.

" Can you pay them all to-morrow morning ? " inquired
Chancey, tranquilly.

" To-morrow ! " exclaimed Ashwoode. " Why, hell and
death, man, you promised to hold them over for three months.

To-morrow ! By , you must be joking," and as he spoke

his face turned pale as ashes.

" I told you all along, Mr. Ashwoode," said Chancey drowsily,
" that the money was not my own ; I'm nothing more than an
agent in the matter, and the notes are in the desk of that old

bed- ridden cripple that lent it. D n him, he's as full of

fumes and fancies as old cheese is of maggots. He has taken
it into his head that your paper is not sate, and the devil him-
self won't beat it out of him ; and the long and the short of it
is, Mr. Ashwoode, he's going to arrest you to-morrow."

In vain Ashwoode strove to hide his agitation — he shook like
a man in an ague.

" Good heavens ! and is there no way of preventing this ?
Make him wait for a week — for a day," said Ashwoode.

" Was not I speaking to him ten times to-day — ay, twenty
times," replied Chancey, " trying to make him wait even for one
day? Why, I'm hoarse talking to him, and I might just as
well be speaking to Patrick's tower ; so make your mind up to
this. As sure as light, you'll be in gaol before to-morrow's
past, unless you either settle it early some way or other, or
take leg bail for it."

" See, Chancey, I may as well tell you this," said Ash-
woode, " before a fortnight, perhaps before a week, I shall
have the means of satisfying these damned notes beyond the
possibility of failure. Won't he hold them over for so long? "

" I might as well be asking him to cut out his tongue and
give it to me as to allow us even a day ; he has heard of

The " Old St. Columbkiir 1 8 c

different accidents that has happened to some of your paper
lately — and the long and the short of it is — he won't hear of
it, nor hold them over one hour more than he can help. I
declare to , Mr. Ashwoode, T am very sorry for your dis-
tress, so I am — but you say you'll have the money in a week ? "

" Ay, ay, ay, so I shall, if he don't arrest me," replied Ash-
woode ; " but if he does, my perdition's sealed ; I shall lie in
gaol till 1 rot ; but, curse it, can't the idiot see this P — if he
waits a week or so he'll get his money — every penny back
again — but if he won't have patience, he loses every sixpence
to all eternity."

" You might as well be arguing with an iron box as think
to change that old chap by talk, when he once gets a thing
into his head," rejoined Chancey. Ashwoode walked wildly
up and down the dingy, squalid apartment, exhibiting in his
aristocratic form and face, and in the rich and elegant suit,
flashing even in the dim light of that solitary, unsnuffed
candle, with gold lace and jewelled buttons, and with cravat
and ruffles fluttering with rich point lace, a strange and
startling contrast to the slovenly and deserted scene of low
debauchery which surrounded him.

" Chancey," said he, suddenly stopping and grasping the
shoulder of the sleepy barrister with a fierceness and energy

which made him start — " Chancey, rouse yourself, d you.

Do you hear ? Is there no way of averting this awful ruin —
is there none?"

As he spoke, Ashwoode held the shoulder of the fellow with
a gripe like that of a vice, and stooping over him, glared in his
face with the aspect of a maniac.

The lawyer, though by no means of a very excitable tem-
perament, was startled at the horrible expression which en-
countered his gaze, and sate silently looking into his victim's
face with a kind of fascination.

" Well," said Chancey, turning away his head with an effort
— " there's but one way I can think of."

" What is it P Do you know anyone that will take my note
at a short date ? For God's sake, man, speak out at once, or
my brain will turn. What is it ? " said Ashwoode.

" Why, Mr. Ashwoode, to be plain with you," rejoined Chan-
cey, " I do not know a soul in Dublin that would discount for
you to one-fourth of the amount you require — but there is
another way."

" In the fiend's name, out with it, then," said Ashwoode,
shaking him fiercely by the shoulder.

"Well, then, get Mr. Craven to join you in a bond for the
amount,3' said Chancey, "with a warrant of attorney to confess
judgment."

" Craven ! Why, he knows as well as yju do how I am

1 82 The "Cock and Anchor"

dipped. He'd just as readily thrust his hand into the fire,"
replied Ashwoode. " Is that your hopeful scheme ? "

"Why, Mr. Craven might not do so well, after all/' said
Chancey, meditatively, and without appearing to hear what
the young baronet said. " Oh ! dear, dear, no, he would not
do. Old Money-bags knows him — no, no, that would not do.''

" Can your d d scheming brain plot no invention to help

me ? In the devil's name, where are your wits ? Chancey,
if you get me out of this accursed fix, I'll make a man of
you."

" I got a whole lot of bills done for you once by the very

same old gentleman," continued Chancey, "and d n heavy

bills they were too, but they had Mr. Nicholas Blarden's name
across them ; would not he lend it again, if you told him how
you stand? If you can come by the money in a month or so,
you may be sure he'll do it."

"Better and better ! Why, Blarden would ask no better fun
than to see me ruined, dead, and damned," rejoined Ashwoode,
bitterly. " Cudgel your brains for another bright thought."

"Oh! dear me, dear me," said the barrister mildly, "I
thought you were the best of friends. Well, well, it's hard to
know. But are you sure he don't like you ? J'

" It's odd if he does," said Ashwoode, " seeing it's scarce a
month since I trounced him almost to death in the theatre.
Blarden, indeed ! "

" Well, Mr. Ashwoode, sit down here for a minute, and I'll
say all I have to say ; and if you like it, well and good ; and
if not, there's no harm done, and things must only take their
course. Are you quite sure of having the means within a
month of taking up the notes ?"

" As sure as I am that I see you before me," replied he.

" Well, then, get Mr. Blarden's name along with your own
to your joint and several bond — the old chap won't have any-
thing more to do with bills — so, do you mind, your joint and
several bond, with warrant of attorney to confess judgment —
and I'll stake my life, he'll take it as ready as so much cash,
the instant I show it to him," said the lawyer quietly.

" Are you dreaming or drunk ? Have not I told you twenty
times over that Blarden would cut his throat first? " retorted
Ashwoode, passionately.

" Why," said Chancey, fixing his cunning eyes, with a pecu-
liar meaning, upon the young man, and speaking with a
lowered voice and marked deliberateness, "perhaps if Mr.
Blarden knew that his name was wanted only to satisfy the
whim of a fanciful old hunks — if he knew that judgment should
never be entered — if he knew that the bond should never go
outside a strong iron box, under an old bedridden cripple's bed
— if he knew that no questions should be asked as to how he

The "Old St. Columbkiir 183

came to write his name at the foot of it — md if he knew that
no mortal should ever Mee it until you paid it long before the
day it was due — .ind if he was quite aware that the whole
transaction should be considered so strictly confidential, that
even to himself — do you mind — no allusion should be made to
it; — don't you think, in such a case, you could, by some means
or other, manage to get his — name? ''

They continued to gaze fixedly at one another in silence,
until, at length, Ashwoode's countenance lighted into a strange,
UD earthly smile.

" I see what you mean, Chancey — is it so ? " said he, in a
voice so low, as scarcely to be audible.

" Well, maybe you do," said the barrister, in a tone nearly
as low, and returning the young man's smile with one to the
full as sinister. Thus they remained without speaking for
many minutes.

" There's no danger in it," said Chancey, after a long pause ;
" I would not take a part in it if there was. You can pay it
eleven months before it's due. It's a thing I have known
done a hundred times over, without risk ; here there can be
none. I do all his business myself. I tell you, that for any-
thing that any living mortal but you and me and the old
badger himself will ever hear, or see, or know of the matter,
the bond might as well be burnt to dust in the back of the fire.
I declare to — — it's the plain truth I'm telling you — Sir
Henry — so it is."

There followed another silence of some minutes. At length
Ashwoode said, "I'd rather use any name but Blardeu's, if it
must be done."

" What does it matter whose name is on it, if there is no one
but ourselves to read it F " replied Chancey. " I say Blarden's
is the best, because he accepted bills for you before, which
were discounted by the same old codger ; and again, because
the old fellow knows that the money was wanted to satisfy
gambling debts, and Blarden would seem a very natural
party in a gaming transaction. Blarden's is the name for
us. And, for myself, all I ask is fifty pounds for my share in
the trouble."

" When must you have the bond ? " asked Ashwoode.

" Set about it now" said Chancey ; " or stay, your hand
shakes too much, and for both our sakes it must be done neatly ;
so say to-morrow morning, early. I'll see the old gentleman
to-night, and have the overdue notes to hand you in the morn-
ing. I think that's doing business."

" I would not do it — I'd rather blow my brains out — if there
was a single chance of his entering judgment on the bond, or
talking ot it," said Ashwoode, in great agitation.

"A chance!'' said the barrister. "I tell you there's not a

1 84 The "Cock and A nchor."

I manage all his money matters, and I'd burn
that bond, before it should see the outside of his strong box.
Why, d - n ! do you think I'd let myself be ruined for fifty
pounds ? You don't know Gordon Chancey, indeed you don't,
Mr. Ashwoode."

" Well, Chancey, I'll see you early to-morrow morning."
said Ashwoode ; " but are you very — very sure — is there no
ohcttice — no possibility of — of mischief?"

'• I tell you, Mr. Ashwoode," replied Chancey, " unless I
chose to betray myself, you can't come by harm. As I told
you before, I'm not such a fool as to ruin myself. Rely on me,
Mr. Ashwoode — rely on me. Do you believe what I say ?"

Ashwoode walked slowly up to him, and fixing his eyes upon
the barrister, with a glance which made Chancey 's heart turn
chill within him, —

'* Yes, Mr. Chancey," he said, "you may be sure I believe
you ; for if I did not — so help me, God ! — you should not quit
this room — alive."

He eyed the caitiff for some minutes in silence.'and then
returning the sword, which he had partially drawn, to its
scabbard, he abruptly wished him good-night, and lert the
room.

CHAPTER XXXV.

OF THE COUSIN AND THE BLACK CABINET— AND OF HENRY ASH-
WOODE'S DECISIVE INTERVIEW WITH LADY STUKRLY.

" WELL, then," said Ashwoode, a few days after the occurrences
which have just been faithfully recorded, " it behoves me wi&h-
out loss of time to make provision for this infernal bond ;
until I see it burned to dust, I feel as if I stood in the dock.
This sha'n't last long — my stars be thanked, one door of escape
lies open to me, and through it I will pass; the sun shall not
go down upon my uncertainty. To be sure, I shall be — but
curse it, it can't be helped now ; and let them laugh, and qu;z,
and sneer as they please, two-thirds of them would be bat
too glad to marry Lady Stukely with half her fortune, were
she twice as old and twice as ugly — if, indeed, either were
possible. Pshaw ! the laugh will subside in a week, and in
the style in which I shall open, curse me, if half the world
won't lie at my feet. Give me but money — money — plenty of
money, and though I be a paragon of absurdity and vice, the
•whole town will vote me a Solomon and a saint ; so let's have
no more shivering by the brink, but plunge boldly in at once
arid have it over."

The Cousin and the Black Cabinet. 185

Fortified with tbese reflections, Sir Henry Ashwoode vaulted
lightly into his saddle, and putting his horse into an easy
canter, he found himself speedily at Lady Stukely's house in
Stephen's Green. His servant held the rein and he dismounted,
and, having obtained admission, summoned all his resolution,
lightly mounted the stairs, and entered the handsome drawing-
room. Lady Stukely was not there, but his cousin, Emily
Copland, received him.

'•Lady Betty is not visible, then?" inquired he, after a
little chat upon, indifferent subjects.

" I believe she is out shopping — indeed, you may be very
certain she is not at home," replied Emily, with a malicious
smile; "her ladyship is always visible to you. Now confess,
have you ever had much cruelty or coldness to complain of at
dear Lady Stukely's hands? "

Ashwoode laughed, and perhaps for a moment appeared a
little disconcerted.

" I do admit, then, as you insist on placing me in the con-
fessional, that I have always found Lady Betty as kind and
polite as I could have expected or hoped," rejoined Ashwoode,
assuming a grave and particularly proper air; "I were par-
ticularly ungrateful if I said otherwise."

" Oh, ho ! so her ladyship has actually succeeded in inspiring
my platonic cousin with gratitude," continued Emily, in the
same tone, "and gratitude we all know is Cupid's best disguise.
Alas, and alack-a-day, to what vile uses may we come at last
— alas, my poor coz."

"Nay, nay, Emily," replied he, a little piqned, "you need
not write my epitaph yet ; I don't see exactly why you should
pity me so enormously."

" Haven't you confessed that you glow with gratitude to
Lady Stukely ? " rejoined she.

"Nonsense! I said nothing about glowing; but what if I
had ? " answered he.

" Then you acknowledge that you do glow ! Heaven help
him, the man actually glow*," ejaculated Emily.

"Pshaw! stuff, nonsense. Emily, don't be a blockhead,"
said he, impatiently.

" Oh ! Harry, Harry, Harry, don't deny it," continued she,
shaking her head with intense solemnity, and holding up her
fingers in a monitory manner — "you are then actually in love.
Oh, Benedick, poor Benedick! would thou hadst chosen some
Beatrice not quite so well stricken in years ; but what of that ?
— the beauties of age, if less attractive to the eye of thought-
less folly than those of youth, are unquestionably more dura-
ble; time may rob the cheek of its bloom, but I defy him to
rob it of its rouge; years — I might say centuries — hava no
power to blanche a wig or thin its flowing locks ; and thjugh

1 86 The "Cock and A nchor."

the nymph be blind with ag^, what matters it if the swain be
blind with love? I make no doubt you'll be f ally as happy
together as if she had twice as long to live."

Ashwoode poked the tire and blew his nose violently, but
nevertheless answered nothing.

" The brilliant blush of her cheek and the raven blackness
of her wig," continued the incorrigible Emily, "in close and
striking contrast, will remind you, and 1 trust usefully, of that
rouge et noir which has been your ruin all your days."

Still Ashwoode spoke not.

" The exquisite roundness of her ladyship's figure will
remind you that flesh, if not exactly grass, is at least very
little better than bran and buckram ; and her smile will in-
variably suggest the great truth, that whenever you do not
intend to bite it is better not to show your teeth, especially
when they happen to be like her ladyship's; in short, you
cannot look at her without feeling that in every particular, it'
rightly read, she supplied a moral lesson, so that in her presence
every unruly passion of man's nature must entirely subside
and sink to rest. Yes, she will make you happy — eminently
happy ; every little attention, every caress, every fond glance
she throws at you, will delightfully assure your affectionate
spirit, as it wanders in memory back to the days of earliest
childhood, that she will be to you all that your beloved grand-
mother could have been, had she been spared. Oh ! Harry,
Harry, this will indeed be too much happiness."

Another pause ensued, and Emily approached Sir Henry as
he stood sulkily by the mantelpiece, and laying her hand upoa
his arm, looked archly up into his face, while shaking her
head she slowly said, —

" Oh ! love, love — oh ! Cupid, Cupid, mischievous little boy,
what hast thou done with my poor cousin's heart ?

" ' 'Twas on a widow's jointure land
The archer, Cupid, took his stand.' "

As she said this, she looked so unutterably mischievous
and comical, that in spite of his vexation and all his efforts
to the contrary, he burst into a long and hearty fit of
laughter.

" Emily," said he, at length, "you are absolutely incor-
rigible— gravity in your company is entirely out of the
question ; but listen to me seriously for one moment, if you
can. I will tell you plainly how I am circumstanced, and you
must promise me in return that you will not quiz me any
more about the matter. But first," he added, cautiously,
" let us guard against eavesdroppers.'3

He accordingly walked into the next room, which opened

The Cousin and the Black Cabinet. 1 87

upon that in which they were, and proceeded to close the far
door. Before he had reached it, however, that in the other
room opened, and Lady Stukely herself entered. The instant
she appeared, Emily Copland by a gesture enjoined silence,
nodded towards the door of the next room, from which A.sh-
woode's voice, as he carelessly hammed an air, was audible ;
she then frowned, nodded, and pointed with vehement repe-
tition toward a dark recess in the wall, made darker and
more secure by the flanking projection of a huge, black,
varnished cabinet. Lady Stukely looked puzzle 1, took a step
in the direction of the post of conceal meat indicated by the
girl, then looked puzzled, and hesitated again. More im-
patiently Emily repeated her signal, and her ladyship, with-
out any distinct reason, but with her curiosity all alive,
glided behind the protecting cabinet, with all its army of
china ornaments, into the recess, and there remained entirely
concealed. She had hardly effected this movement, which
the deep-piled carpet enabled her to do without noise, when
Ashwoode returned, closed the door of communication between
the two rooms, and then shut that through which Lady
Stukely had just entered, almost brushing against her as he
did so, so close was their proximity. These precautions taken,
he returned.

" Now," said he, in a low and deliberate tone, " the plain
facts of the case are just these. I am dipped over head and
ears in debt — debts, too, of the most urgent kind — debts
which threaten me with ruin. Now, these must be paid — one
way or another they must be met. And to effect this I have
but one course — one expedient, and you have guessed it. No
man knows better than I what Lady Stukely is. I can see
all that is ridiculous and repulsive about her just as clearly
as anybody else. She is old enough to be my grandmother,
and ugly enough to be the devil's — and, moreover, painted
and varnished over like a signboard. She may be a fool —
she may be a termagant — she may be what you please — but
— but she has mouey. She has been throwing herself into my
arms this twelvemonth or more — and — but what the deuce is
that ? "

This interrogatory was caused by certain choking sounds
which proceeded with fearful suddenness from the place of
Lady Stukely 's concealment, and which were instantaneously
followed by the appearance of her ladyship in bodily presence.
She opened her mouth, but gave utterance to nothing but a
gasp—drew herself up with such portentous and swelling
magnificence, that Ashwoode almost expected to see her
expand like the spectre of a magic-lantern until her head
touched the ceiling. Forward she came, in her progress
sweeping a score of china ornaments from the cabinet, and

i88 The "Cock and A nchor?

strewing the whole floor with the crashing fragments of
n onkeys, monsters, and mandarins, breathless, choking, and
almost black with rage, Lady Stukely advanced to Ashwoode,
who stood, for the first time in his life, bereft of every vestige
of self-possession.

" Painted ! varnished ! " she screamed hysterically, " ridi-
culous ! repulsive! Oh, heaven and earth! you — you preter-
natural monster ! " "With these words she uttered two piercing
shrieks, and threw herself in strong hysterics into a chair,
holding on her wig distractedly with one hand, for fear of
accidents.

" Don't — don't ring the bell," said she, with an abrupt acces-
sion of fortitude, observing Emily Copland approach the bell.
" Don't, I shall be better presently." And then, with another
shriek, she opened afresh.

As the hysterics subsided, Ashwoode began a little to
recover his scattered wits, and observing that Lady Stukely
had sunk back in extreme languor and exhaustion, with closed
eyes, he ventured to approach the shrine of his outraged
divinity.

" I feel — indeed I own, Lady Stukely," he said, hesitatingly,
" I have much to explain. I ought to explain — yes, I ought.
I will, Lady Stukely — and — and I can entirely satisfy — com-
pletely dispel —

He was interrupted here ; for Lady Stukely, starting bolt
upright in the chair, exclaimed, —

"You wretch ! you villain ! you perjured, scheming, design-
ing, lying, paltry, stupid, insignificant, outrageous —

Whether it was that her ladyship wanted words to supply a
climax, or that hysterics are usually attended with such results,
we cannot pretend to say, but certain it is that at this precise
point the languishing, fashionable, die-away Lady Stukely
actually spat in the young baronet's face.

Ashwoode changed colour, as he promptly discharged the
ridiculous but very necessary task of wiping his face. With
difficulty he restrained himself under this provocation, but he
did command himself so far as to say nothing. He turned on
his heel and walked downstairs, muttering as he went, —

" An old painted devil ! "

The cool air, as he passed out, speedily dissipated the
confusion and excitement of the scene that had just passed,
; nd all the consequences of his rupture with Lady Stukely
rushed upon his mind with overwhelming and maddening
force.

" You were right, perfectly right — he is a cheat — a trickster
—a villain ! " exclaimed Lady Stukely. " Only to think of him !
Oh, heaven and earth ! " And again she was seized with
violent hysterics, in which state she was conducted up to her

8
'£
s.

Jewels, Plate, Horses, Dogs. 189

bedroom by Emily Copland, who had enjoyed the catastrophe
with an intensity of relish which none but a female, and a
mischievous one to boot, can know.

Loud and repeated were Lady Stukely's thanksgivings for
having escaped the snares of the designing young baronet,
and warm and multiplied and grateful her acknowledgments
to Emily Copland — to whom, however, from that time forth
she cherished an intense dislike.

CHAPTER XXXVI.

OF JEWELS, PLATE, HORSES, DOGS, AND FAMILY PICTURES — AND
CONCERNING THE APPOINTED HOUR.

IN a state little, if at all, short of distraction, Sir Henry Ash-
woode threw himself from his horse at Morley Court. That
resource which he had calculated upon with absolute certainty
had totally failed him; his last stake had been played and
lost, and ruin in its most hideous aspect stared him in the
face.

Spattered from heel to head with mud — for he had ridden
at a reckless speed — with a face pale as that of a corpse, and
his dress all disordered, he entered the great old parlour,
and scarcely knowing what he did, dashed the door to with
violence and bolted it. His brain swam so that the floor
seemed to heave and rock like a sea ; he cast his laced hat and
his splendid peruke (the envy and admiration of half the petit
maitres in Dublin) upon the ground, and stood in the centre
of the room, with his hands clutched upon the temples of his
bare, shorn head, and his teeth set, the breathing image of
despair. Prom this state he was roused by some one en-
deavouring to open the door.

" Who's there ? " he shouted, springing backward and
drawing his sword, as if he expected a troop of constables to
burst in.

Whoever the party may have been, the attempt was not
repeated.

" What's the matter with me — am I mad ? " said Ashwoode,
after a terrible pause, and hurling his sword to the far end of
the room. " Lie there. I've let the moment pass — I might
have done it — cut the Gordian knot, and there an end of all.
What brought me here?"

He stared about the room, for the first time conscious where
he stood.

I go The "Cock and A nchor"

"Damn these pictures," he muttered ; "they're all alive — •
everything moves towards me." He flung himself into a chair
and clasped his fingers over his eyes. " I can't breathe — the
place is suffocating. Oh, God ! I shall go mad ! " He threw
open one of the windows and stood gasping at it as if he stood
at the mouth of a furnace.

"Everything is hot and strange and maddening — I can't
endure this — brain and heart are bursting — it is HELL."

In a state of excitement which nearly amounted to down-
right insanity, he stood at the open window. It was long
before this extravagant agitation subsided so as to allow room
for thought or remembrance. At length he closed the window,
and began to pace the room from end to end with long and
heavy steps. He stopped by a pier-table, on which stood a china
bowl full of flowern, and plunging his hands into it, dashed
the water over his head and face.

" Let me think — let me think," said he. " I was not wont
to be thus overcome by reverse. Surely I can master as much
as will pay thut thrice-accursed bond, if I could but collect my
thoughts — there must yet be the means of meeting it. Let
that be but paid, and then, welcome ruin in any other shape.
Let me see. Ay, the furniture ; then the pictures — some of
them valuable — very valuable ; then the horses and the dogs;
and then — ay, the plate. Why, to be sure — what have I been
dreaming of? — the plate will go half-way to satisfy it; and
then — what else? Let me see. The whole thing is six thou-
sand four hundred and fifty pounds — what more ? Is there
nothing more to meet it ? The plate — the furniture — the
pictures — ay, idiot that I am, why did I not think of them
an hour since ? — my sister's jewels — why, it's all settled — how
the devil came it that I never thought of them before? It's
very well, however, as it is — for if I had, they would have
gone long ago. Come, come, I breathe again — I have gotten
my neck out of the hemp, at all events. I'll send in
for Craven this moment. He likes a bargain, and he shall

have one — before to-morrow's sun goes down, that d d bond

shall be ashes. Mary's jewels are valued at two thousand
pounds. Well, let him take them at one thousand five hun-
dred ; and the pictures, plate, furniture, dogs, and horses for
the rest — and he has a bargain. These jewels have saved me
— bribed the hangman. What care I how or when I die, if I
but avert that. Ten to one I blow my brains out before
another month. A short life and a merry one was ever the
motto of the Ashwoodes ; and as the mirth is pretty well over
with me, I begin to think it time to retire. Satis edisti. satis
lipisti, satis lusisti, tempus est tibi abire — what am I raving
about? There's business to be done now — to it, then — to it
like a man — while we are alive let us be alive."

The Reckoning. 191

Craven liked his bargain, and engaged that the money
should be duly handed at noon next day to Sir Henry Ash-
woode, who forthwith bade the worthy attorney good-night,
and wrote the following brief note to Gordon Chancey,
Esq. :—

" SIR,

" I shall call upon you to-morrow at one of the clock, if the
honr suit you, upon particular business, and shall be much
obliged by your having a certain security by you, which I shall
then be prepared to redeem.

" I remain, sir, your very obedient servant,

" HENRY ASHWOODE."

" So," said Sir Henry, with a half shudder, as he folded and
sealed this missive, " I shall, at all event?, escape the halter.
To-morrow night, spite of wreck and ruin, I shall sleep soundly.
God knows, 1 want rest. Since I wrote that name, and gave
that accursed bond out of my hands, my whole existence,
waking and sleeping, has been but one abhorred and ghastly

nightmare. I would gladly give a limb to have that d d

scrap of parchment in my hand this moment ; but patience,
patience — one night more— one night only — of fevered agony
andhideous dreams — one last night — and then — oncemore I am
my own master — my character and safety are again in my own
hands — and may I die the death, if ever I risk them again as I
have done — one night more — would — would to God it were
morning ! "

CHAPTER XXXVIT.

THE RECKONING — CHANCEY's LARGE CAT — AND THE COACH.

THE morning arrived, and at the appointed hour Sir Henry
Ashwoode dismounted in Whitefriar Street, and gave the bridle
of his horse to the groom who accompanied him.

" Well," thought he, as he entered the din^y, dilapidated
square in which Chancey 's lodgings were situated, "this
matter, at all events, is arranged — I sha'n't hang, though I'm
half inclined to allow I deserve to do so for my infernal folly
in trying the thing at all; but no matter, it has given me a
lesson I sha'n't soon forget. As to the rest, what care I now ?
Let ruin pounce upon me in any shape but that — luckily I
have still enough to keep body and soul together left."

He paused to indulge in ruminations of no very pleasant
kind, and then half muttered, —

The "Cock and A nchor"
i

" I have been a fool — I have walked in a dream. Only to
think of a man liko me, who has seen something of the world,

allowing that d d hag to play him such a trick. Well, I

believe it is true, after all, that we cannot have wisdom without
paying for it. If my acquisitions bear any proportion to my
outlay, I ought to be a Solomon by this time."

The door was opened to his summons by Gordon Chancey
himself. When Ashwoode entered, Chancey carefully locked
the door on the inside and placed the key in his pocket

"It's as well, Sir Henry, to be on the safe side, observed
Chancey, shuffling towards the table. "Dear me, dear me,
there's no such thing as being too careful — is there, Sir
Henry ? "

" Well, well, well, let's to business," said young Ashwoode,
hurriedly, seating himself at the end of a heavy deal table, at
which was a chair, and taking from his pocket a large leathern
pocket-book. " \ ou have the — the security here P "

" Of course — oh, dear, of course," replied the barrister ; " the

bond and warrant of attorney — that d d forgery — it is in

the next room, very safe — oh, dear me, yes indeed."

It struck Ashwoode that there was something, he could
not exactly say what, unusual and sinister in the manner of
Mr. Chancey, as well as in his emphasis and language, and he
fixed his eye upon him for a moment with a searching glance.
The barrister, however, busied himself with tumbling over
some papers in a drawer.

" Well, why don't you get it ? " asked Ashwoode, impatiently.

"Never mind, never mind," replied Chancey; "do you
reckon your money over, and be very sure the bond will come
time enough. 1 don't wonder, though, you're eager to have it
fast in 3 our own hands again — but it will come — it will
come."

Ashwoode proceeded to open the pocket-book and to turn
over the notes.

"They're all right," said he, "they're all right. But,
hush ! " he added, slightly changing colour — " I hear some-
thing stirring in the next room "

" Oh, dear, dear, it's nothing but the cat," rejoined Chancey,
with an ugly laugh.

" Your cat treads very heavily," said Ashwoode, suspiciously.
" So it does," rejoined Chancey, " it does tread heavy ; it's
a very large cat, so it is ; it has wonderful great claws ; it
can see in the dark; it's a great cat; it never missed a rat
yet ; and I've seen it lure the bird off a branch with the mere
power of its eye ; it's a great cat — but reckon your money, and
I'll go in for the bond."

This strange speech was uttered in a manner at least as
strange, and Chancey, without waiting for commentary or

The Reckoning. 193

interruption, passed into the next room. The step crossed the
adjoining chamber, and Ashwoode heard the rustling of papers ;
it then returned, the door opened, and not Gordon Chancey,
but Nicholas Blarden entered the room and confronted Sir
Henry Ashwoode. Personal fear in bodily conflict was a thing
unknown to the young baronet, but now all courage, all
strength forsook him, and he stood gazing in vacant horror
upon that, to him, most tremendous apparition, with a face
white as ashes, and covered with the starting dews of terror.

With that hideous combination, a smile and a scowl, stamped
upon his coarse features, the wretch stood with folded arms, in
an attitude of indescribable exultation, gazing with savage,
gloating eyes full upon his appalled and terror-stricken victim.
Fixed as statues they both remained for several minutes.

"Ho, ho, ho! you look frightened, young man," exclaimed
Blarden, with a horse laugh ; " you look as if you were going
to be hanged — you look as if the hemp were round your neck
— you look as if the hangman had you by the collar, you do —
ho, ho, ho ! "

Ashwoode's bloodless lips moved, but utterance was gone.

" It's hard to get the words out," continued Blarden, with
ferocious glee. " I never knew the man yet could do a last
dying speech smooth — a sort of choking comes on, eh ? — the
sight of the minister and the hangman makes a man feel so
quare, eh ? — and the coffin looks so ugly, and all the crowd ;
it's confusing somehow, and puts a man out, eh P — ho, ho,
ho!"

Ashwoode laid his hand upon his forehead, and gazed on in
blank horror.

" Why, you're not such a great man, by half, as you were in
the play-house the other evening," continued Blarden ; " you
don't look so grand, by any manner of means. Some way or
other, you look a little sickish or so. I'm afraid you don't
like my company — ho, ho, ho ! "

Still Sir Henry remained locked in the same stupefied
silence.

" Ho, ho ! you seem to think your hemp is twisted, and your
boards sawed," resumed Blarden; "you seem to think you're

in a fix at last — and so do I, by ! " he thundered, " for I

have the rope fairly round your weasand, and, by I'll

make you dance upon nothing, at Gallows Hill, before you're
a month older. Do you hear that — do you — you swindler ?
Eh — you gaol-bird, you common forger, you robber, you crows'
meat — who holds the winning cards now ? "

11 Where — where's the bond ? " said Ashwoode, scarce
audibly.

" Where's your precious bond, you forger, you gibbet-
carrion ? " shouted Blarden, exultingly. " Where's your

o

194 The "Cock and Anchor?

forged bond — the bond that will crack your neck for you —
where is it, eh ? Why, here — here in my breeches pocket —
that's where it is. I hope you think it safe enough — eh, you
gallows-tassle ? "

Yielding to some confused instinctive prompting to recover
the fatal instrument, Ashwoode drew his sword, and would
have rushed upon his brutal and triumphant persecutor ; but
Blarden was not unprepared even for this. With the quick-
ness of light, he snatched a pistol from his coat pocket, recoil-
ing, as he did so, a hurried pace or two, and while he turned,
coward as he was, pale and livid as death, he levelled it at the
young man's breast, and both stood for an instant motionless,
in the attitudes of deadly antagonism.

" Put up your sword ; I have you there, as well as every-
where else — regularly checkmated, by ! " shouted Blarden,

with the ferocity of half -desperate cowardice. "Put up your
sword, I say, and don't be a bloody idiot, along with every-
thing else. Don't you see you're done for? — there's not a
chance left you. You're in the cage, and there's no need to
knock yourself to pieces against the bars — you're done for, I
tell you."

With a mute but expressive gesture of despair, Ashwoode
grasped his sword by the slender, glittering blade, and broke
it across. The fragments dropped from his hands, and he
sunk almost lifeless into a chair — a spectacle so ghastly, that
Blarden for a moment thought that death was about to rescue
his victim.

" Chancey, come out here," exclaimed Blarden ; "the fellow
has taken the staggers — come out, will you ? "

" Oh ! dear me, dear me," said Chancey, in his own quiet
way, "but he looks very bad."

" Go over and shake him," said Blarden, still holding the
pistol in his hand. " What are you afraid of ? He can't hurt
you — he has broken his bilbo across — the symbol of gentility.

By ! he's a good deal down in the mouth."

While they thus debated, Ashwoode rose up, looking more
like a corpse endowed with motion than a living man.

" Take me away at once," said he, with a sullen wildness —
" take me away to gaol, or where you will — anywhere were
better than this place. Take me away ; I am ruined — blasted.
Make the most of it — your infernal scheme has succeeded —
take me to prison."

"Oh, murder! he wants to go to gaol — do you hear him,
Chancey ? " cried Blarden — " such an elegant, fine gentleman
to think of such a thing : only to think of a baronet in gaol —
and for forgery, too — and the condemned cell such an ungentle-
manly sort of a hole. Why, you'd have to use perfumes to no
end, to* make the place fit for the reception of your aristocratic

The Reckoning. 195

visitors — my Lord this, and my Lady that — for, of course,
you'll keep none but the best of company — ho, ho, ho ! Perhaps
the judge that's to try you may tarn out to be an old acquaint-
ance, for your luck is surprising — isn't it, Chancey ? — and he'll
pay you a fine compliment, and express his regret when he's
going to pass sentence, eh ? — ho, ho, ho ! But, after all, I'd
advise you, if the condescension is not too much to expect
from such a very fine gentleman as you, to consort as much as
possible with the turnkey — he's the most useful friend you can
make, under your peculiarly delicate circumstances — ho, ho ! —
eh P It's just possible he mayn't like to associate with you, for
some of them fellows are rather stiff, d'ye see, and won't keep
company with certain classes of the coves in quod, such as
forgers or pickpockets ; but if he'll allow it, you'd better get
intimate with him — ho, ho, ho ! — eh ? "

"Take me to the prison, sir," said Ashwoode, sternly — "I
suppose you mean to do so. Let your officers remove me at
once — you have, no doubt, men for the purpose in the next
room. Let them call a coach, and 1 will go with them — but
let it be at once."

" Well, you're not far out there, by ! " replied Blarden.

"I have a broad-shouldered acquaintance or two, and a little
bit of a warrant — you understand ? — in the next apartment.
Grimes, Grimes, come in here — you're wanted."

A huge, ill-looking fellow, with his coat buttoned up to his
chin, and a short pipe protruding from the corner of his mouth,
swaggered into the chamber, with that peculiar gait which
seems as if contracted by habitually shouldering and jostling
through mobs and all manner of riotous assemblies.

"That's the bird?" said the fellow, interrogatively, and
pointing with his pipe carelessly at Ashwoode. " You're my
prisoner," he added, gruffly addressing the unfortunate young
man, and at the same time planting his ponderous hand
heavily upon his shoulder, he in the other exhibited a crumpled
warrant.

" Grimes, go call a coach," said Blarden, " and don't be a
brace of shakes about it, do you mind."

Grimes departed, and Blarden, after a long pause, suddenly
addressing himself to Ashwoode, resumed, in a somewhat
altered tone, but with intenser sternness still, —

" Now, I tell you what it is, my young cove, I have a sort of
half a notion not to send you to gaol at all, do you hear ? "

" Pshaw, pshaw ! " said Ashwoode, turning bitterly away.

" I tell you I'm speaking what I mean," rejoined Blarden ;
" I'll not send you there now at any rate. I want to have a
bit of chat with you this evening, and it shall rest with you
whether you go there at all or not ; I'll give you the choice
fairly. We'll meet, then, at Morley Court this evening, at

0 2

196 The "Cock and Anchor."

eight o'clock ; and for fear of accidents in the meantime, you'll
have no objection to our mutual friend, Mr. Chancey, and our
common acquaintance, Mr. Grimes, accompanying you home
in the coach, and just keeping an eye on you till I come, for
fear you might be out walking when I call — you understand
me ? But here's Grimes. Mr. Grimes, my particular friend
Sir Henry Ashwoode has taken an extraordinary remarkable
fancy to you, and wishes to know whether you'll do him the
favour to take a jaunt with him in a carriage to see his house
at Morley Court, and to spend the day with him and Mr.
Chancey, for he finds that his health requires him to keep at
home, and he has a particular objection to be left alone, even
for a minute. Sir Henry, the coach is at the door. You'd
better bundle up your bank-notes, they may be useful to you.
Chancey, tell Sir Henry's groom, as you pass, that he'll not
want his horse any more to-day."

The party went out ; Sir Henry, pale as death, and scarcely
able to support himself on his limbs, walking between Chancey
and the herculean constable. Blarden saw them safely shut
up in the vehicle, and giving the coachman his orders, gazed
after them as they drove away in the direction of Morley
Court, with a flushed face and a bounding heart.

CHAPTER XXXVIII.

STRANGE GUESTS AT THE MANOR.

THE coach jingled, jolted, and rumbled on, and Ashwoode lay
back in the crazy conveyance in a kind of stupefied apathy.
The scene which had just closed was, in his mind, a chaos of
horrible confusion — a hideous, stunning dream, whose in-
cidents, as they floated through his passive memory, seemed
like unreal and terrific exaggerations, into whose reality he
wanted energy and power to inquire. Still before him sate a
breathing evidence of the truth of all these confused and
horrible recollections — the stalwart, ruffianly figure of the
constable— with his great red horny hands, and greasy cuffs,
and the heavy coat buttoned up to his unshorn chin — and the
short, discoloured pipe, protruding from the corner of his
mouth — lounging back with half-closed eyes, and the air of a
man who had passed the night in wearisome vigils among
strife and riot, and who has acquired the compensating power
of dividing his faculties at all times pretty nearly between
sleep and waking — a kind of sottish, semi-existence — some-
thing between that of a swine and a sloth. Over this figure

Strange Guests at the Manor. 197

the eyes of the young man vacantly wandered, and thence to
the cheerful fields and trees visible from the window, and back
again to the burly constable, until every seam and button in
his coat grew familiar to his mind as the oldest tenants of his
memory. Beside him, too, sate Chaucey — his artful, cowardly
betrayer. Yet even against him he could not feel anger ;
all energy of thought and feeling seemed lost to him; and
nothing but a dull ambiguous incredulity and a scared stupor
were there in their stead. On — on they rolled and rumbled,
among pleasant fields and stately hedge-rows, toward the
ancestral dwelling of the miserable prisoner, who sate like a
lifeless effigy, yielding passively to every jolt and movement
of the carriage.

" I say, Grimes, were you ever out here before ? " inquired
Mr. Chancey. " We'll soon be in the manor, driving up to
Morley Court. It's a fine place, I'm given to understand. I
never was here but once before, long as I know Sir Henry ;
but better late than never. Do you know this place, Mr.
Grimes ? "

A negative grunt and a short nod relieved Mr. Grimes
from the painful necessity of removing his pipe for the purpose
of uttering an articulate answer.

" Oh, dear me, dear me," resumed Mr. Chancey, " but I'm
uncommon hungry and dry. I wish to God we were safe and
sound in Sir Henry's house. Grimes, are you dry ? "

Mr. Grimes removed his pipe, and spat upon the coach
floor.

"Am I dhry?" said he. " About as dhry as a sprat in a
tindher-box, that's all. Is there much more to go ? "

Chancey stretched his head out of the coach window.

" I see the old piers of the avenue," said he ; " and God
knows but it's I that's glad we're near our journey's end.
Now we're passing in — we're in the avenue."

Mr. Grimes hereupon uttered a grunt of approbation ; and
pressing down the ashes of his pipe with his thumb, he
deposited that instrument in his waistcoat pocket — whence,
at the same time, he drew a small plug of tobacco, which he
inserted in his mouth, and rolled it about with his tongue
from time to time during the remainder of their progress.

" Sir Henry, we're arrived," said Chancey, admonishing the
baronet with his elbow — " we're at the hall-door at Morley
Court. Sir Henry — dear me, dear me, he's very abstracted,
so he is. I say, Sir Henry, we're at Morley Court."

Ashwoode looked vacantly in Chancey 's face, and then upon
the stately door of the old house, and suddenly recollecting
himself, he said with strange alacrity, —

" Ay, ay — at Morley Court — so we are. Come, then, gentle-
men, let us get down."

198 The "Cock and Anchor:'

Accordingly the three companions descended from the con-
veyance, and entered the ancient dwelling-house together.

" Follow me, gentlemen," said Ash\voode, leading the way
to a small, oak-wainscoted parlour. " You shall have refresh-
ments immediately."

He called the servant to the door, and continued addressing
himself to Chancey, and his no less refined companion.

" Order what you please, gentlemen — I can't think of these
things just now ; and, sirrah, do you hear me, bring a large
vessel of water — my throat is literally scorched."

"Well, Mr. Chancey, what do you say?" said Grimes.
" I'm for a couple of bottles of sack, and a good pitcher of
ale, to begin with, in the way of liquor."

" Well, it wouldn't be that bad," said Chancey. " What
meat have you on the spit, my good man ? "

" I don't exactly know, sir," replied the wondering domestic ;
" but I'll inquire."

" And see, my good man," continued Chancey, " ask them
whether there isn't some cold roast beef in the buttery ; and
if so, bring it up in a jiffy, for, I declare to G — d I'm un-
common hungry; and let the cook send up a hot joint
directly ; — and do you mind, my honest man, light a bit
of a lire here, for it's rather chill, and put plenty of dry
sticks "

" Give us the ale and the sack this instant minute, do you
see," said Mr. Grimes. " You may do the rest after."

" Yes. you may as well," resumed Chancey ; " for indeed
I'm lost with the drooth myself."

" Cut your stick, saucepan," said Mr. Grimes, authorita-
tively ; and the servant departed in unfeigned astonisment
to execute his various commissions.

Ashwoode threw himself into a seat, and in silence endea-
voured to collect his thoughts. Faint, sick, and stunned, he
nevertheless began gradually to comprehend every particular
of his position more and more fully — until at length all the
ghastly truth stood revealed to his mind's eye in vivid and
glaring distinctness. While Ashwoode was engaged in his
agreeable ruminations, Mr. Chancey and Mr. Grimes were
busily employed in discussing the substantial fare which his
larder had supplied, and pledging one another in copious
libations of generous liquor.

The Bargain. 199

CHAPTER XXXIX.

THE BARGAIN, AND TUB NEW CONFEDERATES.

AT length the evening came — darkness closed over the old
place, and as the appointed hour approached, Ashwoode
became more and more excited.

" 1 must," thought he, " keep every faculty intensely on the
stretch, to detect, if possible, the nature of their schemes.
Blarden and Chancey have unquestionably hatched some other

d d plot, though what worse can befall me ? J am netted

as completely as their worst malice can desire. It is now seven
o'clock. Another hour will determine all my doubts. Hark
you, sirrah ! " continued he, raising his voice, and addressing
a servant who had entered the chamber, " I expect a gentleman
upon particular business at eight o'clock. On his arrival
conduct him directly to this room."

He then relapsed into the same train of gloomy and agitated
thought.

Chancey and his burly companion both sat snugly before the
fire smoking their pipes in silent enjoyment, while their miser-
able host paced the room from wall to wall in mental torments
indescribable.

At length the weary interval expired, and within a few
minutes of the appointed hour, Nicholas Blarden was admitted
by the servant, and ushered into the chamber in which Ash-
woode expected his arrival.

" Well, Sir Henry," exclaimed Blarden, as he swaggered
into the room, " you seem a little flustered still — eh? Hope
you found your company pleasant. My friends' society is con-
sidered uncommon agreeable."

The visitor here threw himself into a chair, and continued —

" By the holy Saint Paul, as I rode up your cursed old dusky
avenue, I began to think the chances were ten to one you had
brought your throat and a razor acquainted before this. I
have known men do it under your circumstances — of course I
mean gentlemen, with fine friends and delicate habits, and who
could not stand exposure and all that kind of thing. I say,
Mr. Grimes, my sweet fellow, you may leave the room, but
keep within call, do ye mind. Mr. Chancey and I want to have
a little confidential conversation with my friend, Sir Henry.
Bundle out, and the moment you hear me call your name, bolt
in again like a shot."

Mr. Grimes, without answering, rose and lounged out of the
room.

" Chancey, shut that door," continued Blarden. " Shut it

200 The "Cock and A nchor"

tight, as tight as a drum. There, to your seat again. Now then,
Sir Henry, we may as well to business ; but first of all, sit
down. I have no objection to your sitting. Don't be shy."

Sir Henry Ashwoode did seat himself, and the three members
of this secret council drew their chairs around the table, each
with very different feelings.

" I take it for granted," said Blarden, planting his elbow
upon the table, and supporting his chin upon his hand, while
he fixed his baleful eyes upon the young man, " I take it for
granted, and as a matter of course, that you have been puzzling
your brains all day to come at the reason why I allow you to
be sitting in this house, instead of clapping your four bones
under lock and key, in another place."

He paused here, as if to allow his exordium to impress itself
upon the memory of his auditory, and then resumed, —

" And I take it for granted, moreover, that you are not quite
fool enough to imagine that I care one blast if you were strung
up by the hangman, and carved by the doctors, to-morrow —
eh?"

He paused again.

" Well, then, it's possible you think I have some end of my
own to serve, by letting the matter stand over this way. And

so I have, by . Y ou think right, if you never thought right

before. I have an object in view, and it lies with you whether
it's gained or lost. Do you mind ? "

" Go on — go on — go on," repeated Ashwoode, gloomily.

" What a devil of a hurry you're in," observed Blarden, with
a scornful chuckle. " But don't tear yourself ; you'll have it
all time enough. Now I'm going to do great things for you —
do you mind me ? I'm going, in the first place, to give you
your life and your character — such as it is ; and, what's more,
I'll not let you go to jail for debt neither. I'll not let you be
ruined ; for Nickey Blarden was never the man to do things
by halves. Do you hear all I'm saying ? "

" Yes, yes," said Ashwoode, faintly; "but the condition-
come to that — the condition."

"Well, I will come to that. I will tell you the terms,"
rejoined Blarden. " I suppose you need not be told that I am
worth a good penny, no matter how much. At any rate I'm
rich — that much you do know. Well, perhaps you'll think it
odd that I have not taken up a little to live more quiet and
orderly ; in short, that I have not sown my wild oats, and
settled down, and all that, and become what they call an orna-
ment to society — eh ? You, perhaps, wonder how it comes I
have not taken a rib — why I have not got married — eh ? Well,
I think myself it ** a wonder, especially for such an admirer of
the sex as I am, and I think it's a pity besides, and so I've
made up my mind to mend the matter, do you see, and to take

The Bargain. 201

a wife without loss of time. She must have family, for I
want that, and she must have beauty, for I would not marry
the queen without it — family and beauty. I don't ask money ;
I have more of my own than I well know what to do with.
Family and beauty is what T require. And I have settled the
thing in my own mind, that the very article I want, just the
thing to a nicety, is your sister— little, bright-eyed Mary —
sporting Molly. I wish to marry her, and her I'll have — and
that's the long and the short of the whole business."

" You — you marry my sister," exclaimed Ashwoode, return-
ing the fellow's insolent gaze with a look of indescribable
scorn and astonishment.

" Yes — I — I myself — I, Nicholas Blarden, with more gold
tha«i a man could count in three lives," shouted Blarden, re-
turning his gaze with a scowl of defiance — "J condescend to
marry the sister of a ruined, beggared profligate — a common
forger, who has one foot in the dock at this minute. Down
upon your marrow-bones, and thank me for my condescension
— down, I say.''

Overwhelmed with indignation and disgust, Ashwoode
could not answer. All his self-command was required to
resist his vehement internal impulse to strike the fellow to
the ground and trample upon him. This strong emotion,
however, had its spring in no generous source. No thought
or care for Mary's feelings or fate crossed his mind ; but only
the sense of insulted pride, for even in the midst of all his
misery and abasement, his hereditary pride of birth survived :
that this low, this entirely blasted, this branded ruffian should
dare to propose to ally himself with the Ashwoodes of Morley
Court — a family whose blood was as pure as centuries of
aristocratic transmission, and repeated commixture with that
of nobility, could make it — a family who stood, in considera-
tion and respect, one of the very highest of the country!
Could flesh and blood endure it ?

" Make your mind up at once — I have no time to spare ;
and just remember that the locality of your night's lodging
depends upon your decision," said Blarden, coolly, looking at
his watch. " If, unfortunately for yourself, you should resolve
against the connection, then you must have the goodness to
accompany us into town to-night, and the law takes its course
quietly with you, and your neck-bone must only reconcile
itself to an ugly bit of a twist. If otherwise, you're a made
man. Run the matter fairly over in your mind, and see
which of us two should desire the thing most. As for me, I
tell you plainly, it's a bit of a fancy — no more — and may pass
off in a day or two, for I don't pretend to be extraordinarily
steady in love affairs, and always had rather a roving eye ;
and if I should happen to cool, by , you'll be in a nice

2O2 The "Cock and Anchor"

hobble. So I think yon had best take the ball at the hop-
do you mind — and make no mouths at your good fortune."

Blarden paused, and looked at his huge ebased-gold watch
again, and laid it on the table, as if to measure Ashwoode's
deliberation by the minute. Meanwhile the young baronet
had ample time to recollect the desperate pressure of his
circumstances, which outraged pride had for a moment half
obliterated from his mind, and the process of remembrance
was in no small degree assisted by the heavy tread of the
constable, distinctly audible from the hall.

" Blarden," said Ashwoode, in a voice low and husky with
agitation, "'she'll never consent — you can't expect it: she'll
never marry you."

" I'm not talking of the girl's consent just now," replied
Blarden : " I'm asking only for yours in the first place. Am
I to understand that you're agreed ? "

" Yes," replied Ashwoode, sullenly ; " what is there left to
me, but to agree ? "

"Then leave me alone to gain her consent," retorted
Blarden, with a brutal smile. " I have a bit of a winning
way with me — a knack of my own — for coming round a girl ;
and if she don't yield to that, why we must only try another
course. When love is wanting, obedience is the next best
thing : although we can't charm her, she's no girl if we can't
frighten her— eh ? "

Ashwoode was silent.

"Now mind, I require your active co-operation," continued
Blarden ; " there's to be no shamming. I'm no greenhorn,
and know a loaded die from a fair one. It's not safe to try
hocus pocus with me, and if I don't get the girl, of course
you're no brother of mine, and must not expect me to forget
the old score that's between us. Do you understand me?
Unless you bring this marriage about, you must only take
the consequences, and I promise you they'll be of the very
ugliest possible description."

"Agreed, agreed; talk no more of it just now," said Ash-
woode, vehemently — " we understand one another. To-
morrow we may talk of it again ; meanwhile torment me no
more ! "

" Well, I have said my say," rejoined Blarden, " and have
nothing more to do but to inform you, that I intend passing
the night here, and, in short, to make a visit of a week or so,
for it's right the young lady should have an opportunity of
knowing my geography before she marries me ; and besides,
I have heard a great account of old Sir Eichard's cellar.
Chancey, do you tell my servant to bring my things up to the
room that Sir Henry will point out. Sir Henry, you'll see
about my room — have a bit of fire in it — see to it yourself,

The Bargain. 203

mind ; for do you mind, between ourselves, I think it's on
the whole your better course to be uncommonly civil to me.
Stir yourselves, gentlemen. And, Chaucey, hand Grimes his
fee, and let him be off. We'll try a jug of your claret, Sir
Henry, and a spatchcock, or some little thing of the kind,
and then to our virtuous beds — eh ? "

After a carousal protracted to nearly three hours, during
which Nickey Blarden treated his two companions to sundry
ballads, and other vocal efforts somewhat more boisterous
than elegant, and supplying frequent allusion, and not of the
most delicate kind, to his contemplated change of condition,
that interesting person proceeded somewhat unsteadily up-
stairs to his bed-chamber. With a supicion, which even his
tipsiness could not overcome, he jealously bolted the door
upon the inside, and laid his sword and pistols upon the
table by his bed, remembering that it was just possible that
his entertainer might conceive an expeditious project for
relieving himself of all his troubles, or at least the greater
part of them. These pleasant precautions taken, Mr. Blarden
undressed himself with all celerity and threw himself into
bed.

This gentleman's opinion of mankind was by no means
exalted, nor at all complimentary to human nature. Utter,
hardened selfishness he believed to be the master-passion of
the human race, and any appeal which addressed itself to
that, he looked upon as irresistible. In applying this rule to
Sir Henry Ashwoode he happened, indeed, to be critically
correct, for the young baronet was in very nearly all points
fashioned precisely according to honest Nickey's standard of
humanity. That gentleman experienced, therefore, no mis-
givings as to his young friend's preferring at all hazards to
remain at Morley Court, rather than quit the country, and
enter upon a life of vagabond beggary.

" No, no," thought Blarden, " he'll not take leg bail, just
because he can gain nothing earthly by it now ; the only
thing I can see that could serve him at all — that is, supposing
him to be against the match — is to cut my throat ; however,
I don't think he's wild enough to run that risk, and if he does
try it, by , he'll have the worst of the game."

Thus, after a day of unclouded triumph, did Mr. Blarden
compose himself to light and happy slumbers.

2O4 The "Cock and Anchor -."

CHAPTER XL.

DREAMS — FIRST IMPRESSIONS — THE MAN IN THE PLUM-COLOURED

SUIT.

THE sun shone cheerily through the casement of the quaint
and pretty little chamber which called Mary Ashwoode its
mistress. It was a fresh and sunny autumn morning ; the
last leaves rustled on the boughs, and the thrush and black-
bird sang their merry morning lays. Mary sat by the window,
looking sadly forth upon the slopes and woods which caught
the slanting beams of the ruddy sun.

"I have passed, indeed, a very troubled night — I have been
haunted with strange and fearful dreams. I feel very sorrow-
ful and uneasy — indeed, indeed I do, Carey."

"It's only the vapours, my lady," replied the maid; "a
glass of orange-flower water and camphor is the sovereignest
thing in the world for them."

" Indeed, Carey,'' continued the young lady, still gazing
sadly from the casement, " I know not why it is so — a foolish
dream, wild and most extravagant, yet still it will not leave
me. I cannot shake off this fear and depression. I will run
down stairs and talk with my dear brother — that may cheer
me."

She arose, ran lightly down the stairs, and entered the
parlour. The first object that met her gaze, standing full
before her, was a large and singularly ill-looking man, arrayed
in a suit of plum-coloured cloth, richly laced. It was Nicholas
Blarden. With a vulgar swagger, half abashed and half
impudent, the fellow acknowledged her entrance by retreating
a little and making an awkward bow, while a smile and a leer,
more calculated to frighten than to attract, lighted his coarse
and swollen features. The girl looked at this object with a
startled air, she felt that she had seen that sinister face before,
but where or when — whether waking or in a dream, she strove
in vain to remember.

" I say, Ashwoode, where's your manners ? " said Blarden,
turning angrily towards the young baronet, who was scarcely
less confounded at her sudden entrance than was the girl
herself. " What do you stand gaping there for ? Don't you
see the young lady wants to know who I am ? "

Blarden followed this vehement exhortation with a look
which at once recalled Ashwoode to his senses.

" Mary," said he, approaching, " this is my particular friend,
Mr. Nicholas Blarden. Mr. Blarden, my sister, Miss Mary
Ashwoode."

" Your most obedient humble servant, Mistress Mary," said

Dreams. 205

Blarden, with a gallant air. Wonderful beautiful weather ;

d • me, but it's like the middle of summer. I'm just going

out to take a bit of a tramp among the bushes and lead god-
desses," he added, not feeling, spite of all his effrontery, quite
at his ease in the presence of the elegant and high-born girl ;
and, more confounded and abashed by the simple dignity of
her artless nature than he ever remembered to have been
before, under any circumstances whatever, he made his exit
from the chamber.

" Who is that man ? " said the girl, drawing close to her
brother's side, and clinging timidly to his arm. " His face is
familiar to me — I have seen or dreamed of it before ; it has
been before me either in some troubled scene or dream. I
feel frightened and oppressed when he is near me. Who is
he, brother ? "

" Pshaw ! nonsense, girl," said her brother, in vain attempt-
ing to appear unconstrained and at his ease ; " he is a very
good, honest fellow, not, as you see, the most polished in the
world, but in essentials an excellent fellow ; you'll easily get
over your antipathy— his oddity of manner and appearance is
soon forgotten, and in all other points he is an admirable
fellow. Pshaw ! you have too much sense to hate a man for
his face and manner."

" I do not hate him, brother," said Mary, " how could I ?
The man has never wronged me ; but there is something in his
eye, in his air and expression, in his whole appearance, sinister
and terrible— something which oppresses and terrifies me. I
can scarcely move or breathe in his presence. I only hope
that I may never meet him so near again."

" Your hope is not likely to be realized, then," replied Ash-
woode, abruptly, " he makes a stay here of a week, or perhaps
more."

A silence followed, during which he revolved the expediency
of hinting at once at the designs of Blarden. As he thus
paused, moodily plotting how best to open the subject, the
unconscious girl stood beside him, and, looking fondly in his
face, she said, —

" Dear brother, you must not be so sad. When all's done,
what have we lost but some of the wealth which we can spare ?
We have still enough, quite enough. You shall live with your
poor little sister, and I will take care of you, and read to you,
and sing to you whenever you are sad ; and we will walk to-
gether in the old green woods, and be far happier and merrier
than ever we could have been in the midst of cold and heart-
less luxury and dissipation. Brother, dear brother, when shall
we go to Incharden ?"

" I can't say ; I — I don't know that we shall go there at all,"
replied he, shortly.

206 The "Cock and Anchor."

Deep disappointment clouded the poor girl's face for a
moment, but as instantly the sweet smile returned, and she
laid her hand affectionately upon her brother's shoulder, and
looked in his face.

" Well, dear brother, wherever you go, there is my home,
and there I will be happy— as happy as being with the only
creature that cares for me now can make me.3'

" Perhaps there are others who care for you — ay — even
more than I do," said the young man deliberately, and fixing
his eyes upon her searchingly, as he spoke.

" How, brother ; what do you mean ? " said the poor girl,
faintly, and turning pale as death. " Have you seen — have

you heard from " She paused, trembling violently, and

Ashwoode resumed, —

" No, no, child ; I have neither seen nor heard from anyone
whom you know anything of. Why are you so agitated?
Pshaw ! nonsense."

" I know not how it is, brother ; I am depressed, and easily
agitated to-day," rejoined she ; " perhaps it is that I cannot
forget a fearful dream which troubled me last night."

" Tut, tut, child," replied he ; "I thought you had other
matters to think of.''

" And so I have, God knows, dear brother," resumed she —
" so I have ; but this dream haunted me long, and haunts me
still ; it was about you. I dreamed that we were walking,
lovingly, hand in hand, among the shady walks in this old
place ; when, on a sudden, a great savage dog — just like the
old blood-hound you had shot last summer — came, with open
jaws and all its fangs exposed, springing towards us. I threw
myself, terrified, into your arms, but you grasped me, with
iron strength, and held me forth toward the frightful animal.
I saw your face ; it was changed and horrible. I struggled — I
screamed — and awakened, gasping with afright."

"A silly, unmeaning dream," said Ashwoode, slightly
changing colour, and turning from her. " You're not such a
child, surely, as to let that trouble you."

" No, indeed, brother," replied she, " I do not suffer it to
trouble my mind; but it has fastened somehow upon my
imagination, and spite of all I can do, the impression remains

There — there — see that horrible man staring in at us,

from behind the evergreens," she added, glancing at a large,
tufted laurel, which partially screened the unprepossessing
form of Nicholas Blarden, who was intently watching the
youthful pair as they conversed. Perhaps conscious that he
had been observed, he quitted his lurking-place, and plunged
deeper into the thick screen of foliage.

" Dear Henry," said she, turning imploringly toward her
brother, " there is something about that man which frightens

Dreams. 207

me ; my heart sickens whenever I see him. I feel like some
poor bird under the eye of a hawk. I do not feel safe when
he is looking at me ; there is some evil influence in his gaze
— something bad, satanic, in his look and presence ; I dread
him instinctively. For God's sake, dear, dear brother, do not
keep company with him — he will harm you — it cannot lead to
good."

"This is mere folly — downright raving," said Ashwoode,
vehemently, but with an uneasiness which he could not con-
ceal. " He is my guest, and will remain so for some weeks. I
must be civil to him — both of us must."

" Surely, dear brother — after all I have said — you will not
ask me to associate with him during his stay, since stay he
must," urged Mary.

" We ought not to consult our whims at the expense of
civility," retorted the baronet, drily.

" But surely my presence is not required," urged she.

" You cannot tell how that may be," replied Ashwoode,
abruptly, and then added, abstractedly, as he walked slowly
towards the door: "We often speak, we know not what; we
often stand, we know not where — necessity, fate, destiny —
whatever is, must be. Let this be our philosophy, Mary."

Wholly at a loss to comprehend this incoherent speech, his
sister remained silent for some minutes.

" Well, child, how say you P " exclaimed Ashwoode, turning
suddenly round.

" Dear brother," said she, " I would fain not meet that man
any more while he remains here. You will not ask me to
come down."

" A truce to this folly," exclaimed Ashwoode, with loud and
sudden emphasis. " You must — you must, I say, appear at
breakfast, at dinner, and at supper. You must see Blarden,
and talk with him — he's my friend — you must know him."
Then checking himself, he added, in a less vehement tone —
" Mary, don't act like a fool — you are none : these silly fancies
must not be indulged — remember, he's my friend. There,
there, be a good girl — no more folly."

He came over, patted her cheek, and then turned abruptly
from her, and left the room. His parting caress, however,
was not sufficient to obliterate the painful impression which
his momentary violence had left, for in that brief space of
angry excitement his countenance had worn the self-same
sinister expression which had appalled her in her last night's
dream.

208 The ( ' Cock and A nchor"

CHAPTER XLL

OF O'CONNOR AND A CERTAIN TRAVELLING ECCLESIASTIC — AND
HOW THE DARKNESS OVERTOOK THEM.

IT has become necessary, in order to a clear and chronologi-
cally arranged exposition of events to return for a little while
to our melancholy young friend, Edmond O'Connor, who,
with his faithful squire, Larry Toole, following in close atten-
dance upon his progress, was now returning from a last visit
to the poor fragment of his patrimony, the wreck of his father's
fortunes, and which consisted of a few hundred acres of wild
woodland, surrounding a small square tower half gone to
decay, and bidding fair to become in a few years a mere roof-
less ruin. He had seen the few retainers of his family who
still remained, and bidden them a last farewell, and was now
far in his second day's leisurely journey toward the city of
Dublin.

The sun was fast declining among the rich and glowing
clouds of an autumnal evening, and pouring its melancholy
lustre upon the woods and the old towers of Leixlip, as the
young man rode into that ancient town. How different were
his present feelings from those with which he had last
traversed the quiet little village — then his bright hopes and
cheery fancies had tinged every object vhe looked on with their
own warm and happy colouring ; but now, alas ! how mournful
the reverse. With the sweet illusions he had so fondly
cherished had vanished all the charm of all he saw ; the scene
was disenchanted now, and all seemed coloured in the sombre
and chastened hues of his own deep melancholy ; the river,
with all its brawling falls and windings, filled his ear with
plaintive harmonies, and all its dancing foam-bells, that
chased one another down its broad eddies, glancing in the
dim, discoloured light of the evening sun, seemed but so
many images of the wayward courses and light illusions of
human hope ; even the old ivy-mantled towers, as he looked
upon their time-worn front, seemed to have suffered a cen-
tury's decay since last he beheld them ; every scene that met
his eye, and every sound that floated to his ear on the still
air of evening, was alike charged with sadness.

At a slow pace, and with a heart oppressed, he passed the
little town, and soon its trees, and humble roofs, and blue
curling smoke were left far behind him. He had proceeded
more than a mile when the sun descended, and the dusky

A Certain Travelling Ecclesiastic. 209

twilight began to deepen. He spurred his horse, and at a
rate more suited to the limited duration of the little light
which remained, he rode at a sharp trot along the uneven
way toward Dublin. He had not proceeded far at this rate
when he overtook a gentleman on horseback, who was list-
lessly walking his steed in the same direction, and who, on
seeing a cavalier thus wending his way on the same route,
either with a view to secure good company upon the road, or
for some other less obvious purpose, spurred on also, and
took his place by the side of our young friend. O'Connor
looked upon his uninvited companion with a jealous eve, for
his right adventure of a few months since was forcibly re-
called to his memory by the circumstances of his present
situation. The person who rode by his side was, as well as
he could descry, a tall, lank man, with a hooked nose, heavy
brows, and sallow complexion, having something grim and
ascetic in the character of his face. After turning slightly
twice or thrice towards O'Connor, as if doubtful whether
to address him, the stranger at length accosted the young
man.

" A fair evening this, sir," said he, " and just cool enough
to make a brisk ride pleasant."

O'Connor assented drily, and without waiting for a renewal
of the conversation, spurred his horse into a canter, with the
intention of leaving his new companion behind. That per-
sonage was not, however, so easily to be shaken off; he, in
turn, put his horse to precisely the same pace, and remarked
composedly, —

" I see, sir, you wish to make the most of the light we've
left us ; dark riding, they say, is dangerous riding hereabout.
I suppose you ride for the city? "

O'Connor made no answer.

" I presume you make Dublin yonr halting-place ? " re-
peated the man.

"You are at liberty, sir," replied O'Connor, somewhat
sharply, " to presume what you please ; I have good reasons,
however, for not caring to bandy words with strangers.
Where I rest for the night cannot concern anybody but
myself."

"No offence, sir — no offence meant," replied the man, in
the same even tone, " and I hope none taken."

A silence of some minutes ensued, during which O'Connor
suddenly slackened his horse's pace to a walk. The stranger
made a corresponding alteration in that of his.

" Your pace, sir, is mine," observed the stranger. " We
may as well breathe our beasts a little."

Another pause followed, which was at length broken by
the stranger's observing,—

P

2 1 o The "Cock and A nchor"

"A lucky chance, in truth. A comrade is an important
acquisition in such a ride as ours promises to be."

" I already have one of my own choosing," replied O'Connor
drily ; " I ride attended."

" And so do I," continued the other, " and doubtless our
trusty squires are just as happy in the reuconter as are their
masters."

A considerable silence ensued, which at length was broken
by the stranger.

" Your reserve, sir," said he, " as well as the hour at which
you travel, leads me to conjecture that we are both bound on
the same errand. Am I understood ? "

" You must speak more plainly if you would be so," replied
O'Connor.

"Well, then," resumed he, "I half believe that we shall
meet to-night — where it is no sin to speak loyalty."

" Still, sir, you leave me in the dark as to your meaning,"
replied O'Connor.

" At a certain well of sweet water," said the man with
deliberate significance — " is it not so — eh — am I right P "

"No, sir," replied O'Connor, "your sagacity is at fault;
or else, it may be, your wit is too subtle, or mine too dull ;
for, if your conjectures be correct, I cannot comprehend
your meaning — nor indeed is it very important that I
should."

" Well, sir," replied he, " I am seldom wrong when I
hazard a guess of this kind ; but no matter — if we meet we
shall be better friends, I promise you."

They had now reached the little town of Chapelizod, and
darkness had closed in. At the door of a hovel, from which
streamed a strong red light, the stranger drew his bridle, and
called for a cup of water. A ragged urchin brought it forth.

"Pax Domini vobiscum" said the stranger, restoring the
vessel, and looking upward steadfastly for a minute, as if in
mental prayer, he raised his hat, and in doing so exhibited
the monkish tonsure upon his head; and as he sate there
motionless upon his horse, with his sable cloak wrapped in
ample folds about him, and the strong red light from the
hovel door falling upon his thin and well-marked features,
bringing into strong relief the prominences of his form and
attire, and shining full upon the drooping head of the tired
steed which he bestrode — this equestrian figure might have
furnished no unworthy study for the pencil of Schalken.

In a few minutes they were again riding side by side along
the street of the straggling little town.

" I perceive, sir," said O'Connor, " that you are a clergy-
man. Unless this dim light deceives me, I saw the tonsure
when you raised your hat just now."

A Certain Travelling Ecclesiastic. 2 1 1

"Your eyes deceived you not — I am one of a religious
order," replied the man, " and perchance not on that account
a more acceptable companion to you."

" Indeed you wrong me, reverend sir," said O'Connor.
" I owe you an apology for receiving your advances as I
have done ; but experience has taught me caution ; and until
I know something of those whom I encounter on the highway,
I hold with them as little communication as I can well avoid.
So far from being the less acceptable a companion to me by
reason of your sacred office, believe me, you need no better
recommendation. I am myself an humble child of the true
Church ; and her ministers have never claimed respect from me
in vain."

The priest looked searchingly at the young man ; but the
light afforded but an imperfect scrutiny.

" You say, sir," rejoined he after a pause, " that you
acknowledge our father of Rome — that you are one of those
who eschew heresy, and cling constantly to the old true
faith — that you are free from the mortal taint of Protestant
infidelity."

" That do I with my whole heart," rejoined O'Connor.

" Are you, moreover, one of those who still look with a holy
confidence to the return of better days ? When the present
order of things, this usurped government and abused autho-
rity, shall pass away like a dark dream, and fly before the
glory of returning truth. Do you look for the restoration of
the royal heritage to its rightful owner, and of these afflicted
countries to the bosom of mother Church ? "

" Happy were I to see these things accomplished," rejoined
O'Connor ; " but I hold their achievement, except by the in-
tervention of Almighty Providence, impossible. Methinks we
have in Ireland neither the spirit nor the power to do it. The
people are heartbroken ; and so far from coming to the field
in this quarrel, they dare not even speak of it above their
breath."

"Young man, you speak as one without understanding.
You know not this people of Ireland of whom you speak.
Believe me, sir, the spirit to right these things is deep and
strong in the bosoms of the people. What though they do
not cry aloud in agony for vengeance, are they therefore
content, and at their heart's ease ?

" * Quamvis tacet Herrnogenes, cantor taraen atque,
Optimus est modulator.'

Their silence is not dumbness — you shall hear them speak
plainly yet."

"Well, it may be so," rejoined O'Connor; "but be the
p 2

2 1 2 The "Cock and A nchor"

people ever so willing, another difficulty arises — where are the
men to lead them on ? — who are they ? "

The priest again looked quickly and suspiciously at the
speaker ; but the gloom prevented his discerning the features
of his companion. He became silent — perhaps half-repenting
his momentary candour, and rode slowly forward by O'Connor's
side, until they had reached the extremity of the town. The
priest then abruptly said, —

"I find, sir, I have been wrong in my conjecture. Our
paths at this point diverge, I believe. You pursue your way
by the river's side, and I take mine to the left. Do not follow
me. If you be what you represent yourself, my command
will be sufficient to prevent your doing so ; if otherwise, I ride
armed, and can enforce what I conceive necessary to my
safety. Farewell."

And so saying, the priest turned his horse's head in the
direction which he had intimated, rode up the steep ascent
which loomed over the narrow level by the river's side; and
his dark form quickly disappeared beyond the brow of the
dusky hill. O'Connor's eyes instinctively followed the re-
treating figure of his companion, until it was lost in the pro-
found darkness ; and then looking back for any dim intimation
of the presence of his trusty follower, he beheld nothing but
the dark void. He listened ; but no sound of horse's hoofs
betokened pursuit. He shouted — he called upon his squire by
name ; but all in vain ; and at length, after straining his voice
to its utmost pitch for six or ten minutes without eliciting
any other reply than the prolonged barking of halt" the village
curs in Chapelizod, he turned away, and pursued his course
alone, consoling himself with the reflection that his attendant
was at least as well acquainted with the way as was he him-
self, and that he could not fail to reach the " Cock and
A.nchor" whenever he pleased to exert himself for the pur-
pose.

CHAPTER XLII.

THE SQUIRES.

O'CONNOR had scarcely been joined by the priest, when Larry
Toole, who jogged quietly on, pipe in mouth, behind his master,
was accosted by his reverence's servant, a stout, clean-limbed
fellow, arrayed in blue frieze, who rode a large, ill-made horse,
and bumped listlessly .along at that easy swinging jog at

The Squires. 213

which our southern farmers are wont to ride. The fellow had
a shrewd eye, and a pleasant countenance withal to look upon,
and might be in years some five or six and thirty.

" God save you, neighbour," said he.

" God save you kindly," rejoined Mr. Toole graciously.

" A plisint evenin' for a quiet bit iv a smoke," rejoined the
stranger.

*' None better," rejoined Larry, scanning the stranger's
proportions, to see whether, in his own phrase, " he liked his
cut." The scrutiny evidently resulted favourably, for Larry
removed his pipe, and handing it to his new acquaintance,
observed courteously, " Maybe you'd take a draw, neighbour."

" I thank you kindly," said the stranger, as he transferred
the utensil from Larry's mouth to his own. " It's turning
cowld, I think. I wish to the Lord we had a dhrop iv some-
thing to warm us," observed he, speaking out of the unoccupied
corner of his mouth.

" We'll be in Chapelizod, plase God," said Larry Toole,
" in half an hour, an' if ould Tim Delany isn't gone undher
the daisies, maybe we won't have a taste iv his best."

" Are you follyin' that gintleman ? " inquired the stranger,
with his pipe indicating O'Connor, " that gintleman that the
masther is talking to ? "

" I am so," rejoined Larry promptly, " an' a good gintle-
man he is ; an' that's your masther there. What sort is he ? "

" Oh, good enough, as masthers goes — no way surprisin'
one way or th' other."

" Where are you goin* to ? " pursued Larry.

" I never axed, bedad," rejoined the man, " only to folly on,
wherever he goes— an' divil a hair I care where that is. What
way are you two goin' ? "

" To Dublin, to be sure," rejoined Larry. " I wisht we wor
there now. What the divil makes him ride so unaiqual —
sometimes cantherin', and other times mostly walkin' — it's
mighty nansinsical, so it is."

" By gorra, I don't know, anless fancy alone," rejoined the
stranger.

"Here's your pipe," continued he, after some pause, "an' I
thank you kindly, misther — misther — how's this they call
you? "

" Misther Larry Toole is the name I was christened by,"
rejoined the gentleman so interrogated.

"An' a rale illegant name it is," replied the stranger.
" The Tooles is a royal family, an' may the Lord restore them
to their rights."

" Amen, bedad," rejoined Larry devoutly.

"My name's Ned Mollowney," continued he, anticipating
Larry's interrogatory, "from the town of Ballydun, the

2 1 4 The " Cock and A nchor? '

plisintest spot in the beautiful county iv Tipperary. There
isn't it's aquil out for fine men and purty girls." Larry
sighed.

The conversation then took that romantic turn which best
suited the melancholy chivalry of Larry's mind, after which
ihe current of their mutual discoursing, by the attraction of
irresistible association, led them, as they approached the little
village, once more into suggestive commentaries upon the
bitter cold, and sundry pleasant speculations respecting the
creature comforts which awaited them under Tim Delany's
genial roof-tree.

" The holy saints be praised," said Ned Mollowney, " we're
in the village at last. The tellin' iv stories is the dhryest
work that ever a boy tuck in hand. My mouth is like a
cindher all as one."

" Tim Delany's is the second house beyant that wind in the
street," said Larry, pointing down the road as they advanced.
" We'll jist get down for a minute or two, an' have somethin'
warrum by the fire ; we'll overtake the gintlemen asy
enough."

" I'm agreeable, Mr. Toole," said the accommodating Ned
Mollowney. " Let the gintlemen take care iv themselves.
They're come to an age when they ought to know what they're
about."

" This is it," said Larry, checking his horse before a low
thatched house, from whose doorway the cheerful light was
gleaming upon the bushes opposite.

The two worthies dismounted, and entered the humble place
of entertainment. Tim Delany's company was singularly
fascinating, and his liquor was, if possible, more so — besides,
the evening was chill, and his hearth blazed with a fire, the
very sight of which made the blood circulate freely, and the
finger-tops grow warm. Larry Toole was prepossessed in
favour of Ned Mollowney, and Ned Mollowney had fallen in
love with Larry Toole, so that it is hardly to be wondered at
that the two gentlemen yielded to the combined seduction of
their situation, and seated themselves snugly by the fire, each
with his due allowance of stimulating liquor, and with a very
vague and uncertain kind of belief in the likelihood of their
following their masters respectively until they had made them-
selves particularly comfortable. It was not until after nearly
two hours of blissful communion with his delectable companion,
that Larry Tooie suddenly bethought him of the fact that he
had allowed his master, at the lowest calculation, time enough
to have ridden to and from the " Cock and Anchor " at least
half a dozen times. He, therefore, hurriedly bade good-night,
with many a fond vow of eternal friendship for the two com-
panions of his princely revelry, mounted his horse with some

The Squires. 215

little difficulty, and becoming every moment more and more
confused, and less and less perpendicular, found himself at
length — with an indistinct remembrance of having had several
hundred falls upon every possible part of his body, and upon
every possible geological substance, from soft alluvial mud up
to plain lime-stone, during the c >urse of his progress — within
the brick precincts of the city. The horse, with an instinctive
contempt for Mr. Toole's judgment, wholly disregarded that
gentleman's vehement appeals to the bridle, and quietly pur-
sued his well-known way to the hostelry of the " Cock and
Anchor."

Our honest friend had hardly dismounted, which he did
with one eye closed, and a hiccough, and a happy smile which
mournfully contrasted with his filthy and battered condition,
when he at once became absolutely insensible, from which con-
dition he did not recover till next morning, when he found
himself partially in bed, quite undressed, with the exception
of his breeches, boots, and spurs, which he had forgotten to
remove, and which latter, along with his feet, he had deposited
upon the pillow, allowing his head to slope gently downward
towards the foot of the bed.

As soon as Mr. Toole had ascertained where he was, and
begun to recollect how he came there, he removed his legs
from the pillow, and softly slid upon the floor. His first
solicitude was for his clothes, the spattered and villainous
condition of which appalled him ; his next was to endeavour
to remember whether or not his master had witnessed his
weakness. Absorbed in this severe effort of memory, he sat
upon the bedside, gazing upon the floor, and scratching his
head, when the door opened, and his friend the groom entered
the chamber.

" I say, old gentleman, you've been having a little bit of a
spree," observed he, gazing pleasantly upon the disconsolate
figure of the little man, who sat in his shirt and jack-boots,
staring at him with a woe- begone and bewildered air. " Why,
you had a bushel of mud about your body when you came in,
and no hat at all. Well, you had a pleasant night of it —
there's no denying that."

" No hat ; " said Larry desolately. " It isn't possible I
dropped my hat off my head unknownest. Bloody wars, my
hat ! is it gone in airnest ? "

" Yes, young gentleman, you came here bareheaded. The
hat is gone, and that's a fact," replied the groom.

" I thought my coat was bad enough ; but — oh ! blur-anagers,
my hat ! " ejaculated Larry with abandonment. " Bad luck
go with the liquor — tare-an-ouns, my hat ! "

" There's a shoe off the horse," observed the groom; "and
the seat is gone out of your breeches as clean as if it never

216 The "Cock and Anchor."

was in it. Well, but yon had a pleasant evening of it — you
had."

"An' my breeches desthroyed — ruined beyant cure! See,
Tom Berry, take a blundherbuz, will you, and put me out of
pain at wonst. My breeches ! Oh, divil go with the liquor !
Holy Moses, is it possible ? — my breeches ! "

In an agony of contrition and desperate remorse, Larry
Toole clasped his hands over his eyes and remained for some
minutes silent ; at length he said —

" An' what did the masther say ? Don't be keeping me in
pain — out with it at wonst."

" What master ? " inquired the groom.

" What masther? " echoed Mr. Toole—" why Mr. O'Connor,
to be sure."

" I'm sure I can't say," replied the man ; " I have not seen
him this month."

" Wasn't he here before me last night ? " inquired the little
man.

" No, nor after neither," replied his visitor.

" Do you mane to tell me that he's not in the house at all ? "
interrogated Mr. Toole.

"Yes," replied he, "Mr. O'Connor is not in the house;
the horse did not cross the yard this month. Will that do
you?"

" Be the hoky," said Larry, " that's exthramely quare. But
are you raly sure and quite sartin ? "

" Yes, I tell you yes," replied he.

" Well, well," said Mr. Toole, " but that puts me to the
divil's rounds to undherstand it — not come at all. What
in the world's gone with him — not come — where else could
he go to? Begorra, the whole iv the occurrences iv last
night is a blaggard mysthery. What the divil's gone with
him — where is he at all ? — why couldn't he wait a bit for me
an5 I'd iv tuck the best care iv him ? but gintlemen is
always anruly. What the divil's keepin' him ? I wouldn't
be surprised if he made a baste iv himself in some public-
house last night. A man ought never to take a dhrop more
than jist what makes him plisant — bad luck to it. Lend me
a breeches, an' I'll pray for you all the rest of my days. I
must go out at wonst an' look for him ; maybe he's at Mr.
Audley's lodgings — ay, sure enough, it's there he is. Bad
luck to the liquor. Why the divil did I let him go alone ?
Oh ! sweet bad luck to it," he continued in fierce anguish,
as he held up the muddy wreck of his favourite coat before
his aching eyes — " my elegant coat — bad luck to it again —
an' my beautiful hat— once more bad luck to it; an' my
breeches — oh ! it's fairly past bearin' — my elegant breeches !
Bad luck to it for a threacherous drop — an' the masther lost,

The Wild Wood.

and no one knows what's done with him. Up with that
poker, I tell you, and blow my brains out at once ; there's
nothing before me in this life but the divil's own delight —
finish me, I tell you, and let me rest in the shade. I'll never
hould up my head again, there's no use in purtendin'. Oh !
bad luck to the dhrink ! "

In this distracted frame of mind did Larry continue for
nearly an hour, after which, with the aid of some contribu-
tions from the wardrobe of honest Tom Berry, he clothed
himself, and went forth in quest of his master.

CHAPTER XLIII.

THE WILD WOOD — THE OLD MANSION-HOUSE OF FINISKEA —
SECRETS, AND A SURPRISE.

O'CONNOR pursued his way towards the city, following the
broken horse-track, which then traversed the low grounds
which lie upon the left bank of the Liffey. The Phoenix Park,
or, as it was then called, the Koyal Park, was at the time 01
which we write a much wilder place than it now is. There
were no trim plantations nor stately clumps of tufted trees,
no signs of care or culture. Broad patches of shaggy thorn
spread with little interruption over the grounds, and regular
roads were then unknown. The darkness became momentarily
deeper and more deep as O'Connor pursued his solitary way ;
and the difficulty of proceeding grew every instant greater,
for the heavy rains had interrupted his path with deep sloughs
and pools, which became at length so frequent, and so difficult
of passage, that he was fain to turn from the ordinary track,
and seek an easier path along the high grounds which over-
hang the river. The close screen of the wild gnarled thorns
which covered the upper level on which he now moved, still
further deepened the darkness ; and he became at length so
entirely involved in the pitchy glcom, that lie dismounted, and
taking his horse by the head, led him forward through the
tangled brake, and under the knotted branches of the old
hoary thorns, stumbling among the briers and the crooked
roots, and every moment encountering the sudden obstruction,
either of some stooping branch, or the trunk of one of the old
trees; so that altogether his progress was as tedious and un-
pleasant as it well could be. His annoyance became the
greater as he proceeded ; for he was so often compelled to turn
aside, and change his course, to avoid these interruptions,
that in the utter darkness he began to grow entirely uncertain

The "Cock and Anchor?'

whether or not he was moving in the right direction. The
more he paused, and the of tener he reflected, the more entirely
puzzled and bewildered did he become. Glad indeed would
he have been that he had followed the track upon which he
had at first entered, and run the hazard of all the sloughs
and pools which crossed it ; but he was now embarked in
another route ; and even had he desired it, so perplexed was
he, that he could not have effected his retreat. Fully alive
to the ridiculousness, as well as the annoyance of his situation,
he slowly and painfully stumbled forward, conscious that if
only he could move for half an hour or thereabout consistently
in the same direction, he must disengage himself in some
quarter or another from the entanglement in which he was
involved. In vain he looked round him ; nothing but entire
darkness encountered him. In vain he listened for any
sound which might intimate the neighbourhood of any living
thing. Nothing but the hushed soughing of the evening
breeze through the old boughs was audible ; and he was
forced to continue his route in the same troublesome uncer-
tainty.

At length he saw, or thought he saw, a red light gleaming
through the trees. It disappeared — it came again. He
stopped, uncertain whether it was one of those fitful marsh-
fires which but mock the perplexity of benighted travellers ;
but no — this light shone clearly, and with a steady beam,
through the branches ; and towards it he directed his steps,
losing it now, and again recovering it, till at length, after a
longer probation than he had at first expected, he gained a
clear space of ground, intersected only by a few broken
hedges and ditches, but free from the close wood which had
so entirely darkened his advance. In this position he was
enabled to discern that the light which had guided him
streamed from the window of an old shattered house, partially
surrounded by a dilapidated wall, having a few ruinous out-
houses attached to it. In this building he beheld the old
mansion-house of Finiskea, which then occupied the ground
on which at present stands the powder-magazine, and which,
by a slight alteration in sound, though without any analogy
in meaning, has given its name to the Phoenix Park. The
light streamed through the diamond panes of a narrow case-
ment ; and still leading his horse, O'Connor made his way
over the broken fences towards the old house. As he ap-
proached, he perceived several figures moving to and fro in
the chamber from which the light issued, and detected, or
thought he did so, among them the remarkable form of the
priest who had lately been his companion upon the road. As
he advanced, someone inside drew a curtain across the window,
though, as O'Connor conjectured, wholly unaware of his

The Wild Wood. 21 9

approach, and thus precluded any further reconnoitering on
his part.

" At all events," thought he, " they can spare me some one
to put me upon my way. They can hardly complain if I
intrude upon such an errand."

With this reflection, he led his horse round the corner of
the building to the door, which was sheltered by a small porch
roofed with tiles. By the faint light, which in the open space
made objects partially discernible, he perceived two men, as it
appeared to him, fast asleep — half sitting and half lying on
the low step of the door. He had just come near enough to
accost them, when, somewhat to his surprise, he was seized
from behind in a powerful grip, and his arms pinioned to his
sides. A single antagonist he would easily have shaken off;
but a reinforcement was at hand.

"Up, boys — be stirring — open the door," cried the hoarse
voice of the person who held" O'Connor.

The two figures started to their feet ; their strength, com-
bined with the efforts of his first assailant, effectually mastered
O'Connor, and one of them shoved the door open.

" Pretty watch you keep," said he, as the party hurried
their prisoner, wholly without the power of resistance, into
the house.

Three or four powerful, large- limbed fellows, well armed,
were seated in the hall, and arose on his entrance. O'Connor
saw that resistance against such odds were idle, and resolved
patiently to submit to the issue, whatever it might be.

" Gentlemen that's caught peeping is sometimes made to see
more than they have a mind to," observed one of O'Connor's
conductors.

Another removed his sword, and having satisfied himself
that he had not any other weapon upon his person, ob-
served,—

"You may let his elbows loose ; but jist keep him tight by
the collar."

" Let the gentlemen know there's a bird limed," observed
the first speaker ; and one of the others passed from the narrow
hall to execute the mission.

After some little delay, O'Connor, who awaited the result with
more of curiosity and impatience than of alarm, was conducted
by two of the armed men who had secured him through a
large passage terminating in a chamber, which they also
traversed, and by a second door at its far extremity found
entrance into a rude but spacious apartment, floored with
tiles, and with a low ceiling of dark plank, supported by
ponderous beams. A large wood fire burned in the hearth,
beside which some half dozen men were congregated ; several
others were seated by a massive table, on which were writing

220 The "Cock and Anchor''

materials, with which two or three of them were busily em-
ployed ; a number of open letters were also strewn upon it,
and here and there a brace of horse-pistols or a carbine
showed that the party felt neither very secure, nor very
much disposed to surrender without a struggle, should their
worst anticipations be realized, in any attempt to surprise
them.

Most of those who were present bore, in their disordered
dress and mud-soiled boots, the evidence of recent travel.
They were lighted chiefly by the broad, uncertain gleam of
the blazing wood fire, in which the misty flame of two or three
wretched candles which burned upon the table shone pale and
dim as the last stars of night in the red dawn of an autumnal
sun. In this strong and ruddy light the groups of figures,
variously attired, some seated by the table, and others stand-
ing with their ample cloaks still folded around them, acquired
by the contrast of broad light and shade a character of
picturesqueness which had in it something wild and imposing.
This singular tableau occupied the further end of the room,
which was one of considerable length, and as the prisoner was
led forward to the bar of the tribunal, those who composed it
eyed him sternly and fixedly.

" Bind his hands fast," said a lean and dark-featured man,
with a singularly forbidding aspect and a deep, stern voice,
who sat at the head of the table with a pile of papers beside
him. Spite of O'Connor's struggles, the order was speedily
executed, and with such good-will that the blood almost
started from his nails.

" Now, sir," continued the same speaker, " who are you,
and what may your errand be ? "

" Before I answer your questions you must satisfy me that
you have authority to ask them," replied O'Connor. " "Who,
I pray, are you, who dare to seize the person, and to bind the
limbs of a free man? I shall know this ere one of your
questions shall have a reply."

" I have seen you, young sir, before — scarce an hour since,"
observed one of those who stood by the hearth. " Look at me,
and say do you remember my features ? "

" I do," replied O'Connor, who had no difficulty in recog-
nizing those of the priest who had parted from him so abruptly
on that evening — " of course I recollect your face ; we rode
side by side from Leixlip to-day."

" You recollect my caution too — you cannot have forgotten
that," continued the priest, menacingly. " You know how
peremptorily I warned you against following me, yet you have
dogged me here ; on your own head be the consequences — the
fool shall perish in his folly."

" I have not dogged you here, sir," replied O'Connor ; " I

The Wild Wood. 221

seek my way to Dublin. The river banks are so soft that a
horse had better swim than seek to keep them ; I therefore
took the upper ground, and after losing myself among the
woods, at length saw a light, reached it, and here I am."

The priest heard the statement with a sinister smile.

"A truce to these inventions, sir," said he. "It is indeed
possible that you speak the truth, but it is in the highest
degree probable that you lie ; it is, in a word, plain — satis-
factorily plain, that you followed me hither, as I suspected
you might have done; you have dogged me, sir, and you
have seen all that you sought to behold ; you have seen my
place of destination and my company. I care not with what
motive you have acted — that is between yourself and your
Maker. If you are a spy, which I shrewdly suspect, Pro-
vidence has defeated your treason, and punished the traitor;
if mere curiosity impelled you, you will remember that ill-
directed curiosity was the sin which brought death upon man-
kind, and cease to wonder that its fruits may be bitter to
yourself. What say you, young man ? "

" I have told you plainly how I happened to reach this
place," replied O'Connor ; " I have told you once — I will
repeat the statement no more ; and once again I ask, on what
authority you question me, and dare thus to bind my hands
and keep me here against my will ? '

"Authority sufficient to satisfy our own consciences," re-
joined the priest. "The responsibility rests not upon you;
enough it is for you to know that we have the power to detain
you, and that we exercise that power, as we most probably
shall another, still less conducive to your comfort."

" You have the power to make me captive, I admit,"
rejoined O'Connor — "you have the power to murder me,
as you threaten, but though power to keep or kill is all the
justification a robber or a bravo needs, methinks such an
argument should hardly satisfy a consecrated minister of
Christ."

The expression with which the priest regarded the young
man grew blacker and more truculent at this rebuke, and
after a silence of a few seconds he replied, —

" We are doubly authorized in what we do — ay, trebly
warranted, young traitor. God Almighty has given us the
instinct of self-defence, which in a righteous cause it is laud-
able to consult and indulge ; the Church, too, tells us in these
times to deal strictly with the malignant persecutors of God's
truth; and lastly, we have a royal warranty — the authority
of the rightful king of these realms, investing us with powers
to deal summarily with rebels and traitors. Let this satisfy
you."

" I honour the king," rejoined O'Connor, " as truly as any

222 The " Cock and A nchor! '

man here, seeing that my father lost all in the service of his
illustrious sire, but I need some more satisfactory assurance
of his delegated authority than the bare assertion of a violent
man, of whom I know absolutely nothing, and until you show
me some instrument empowering you to act thus, I will not
acknowledge your competency to subject me to an examina-
tion, and still resolutely protest against your detaining me
here."

" You refuse, then, to answer our questions ? " said the
hard-featured little person who sat at the far end of the
table.

" Until you show authority to put them, I peremptorily do
refuse to answer them," replied the young man.

The little person looked expressively at the priest, who
appeared to hold a high influence among the party. He
answered the look by saying, —

"His blood be upon his own head."

" Nay, not so fast, holy father ; let us debate upon this
matter for a few minutes, ere we execute sentence," said a
singularly noble-looking man who stood beside the priest.
" Remove the prisoner," he added, with a voice of command,
" and keep him strictly guarded."

" Well, be it so," said he, reluctantly.

The little man who sat at the head of the table made a
gesture to those who guarded O'Connor, and the order thus
given and sanctioned was at once carried into execution.

CHAPTER XLIV.

THE DOOM.

THE young man was conveyed from the chamber by his two
athletic conductors, the door closed upon the deliberations of
the stern tribunal who were just about to debate upon the
question of his life or death, and he was led round the corner
of a lobby, a few steps from the chamber where his judges
sat ; a stout door in the wall was pushed open and he himself
thrust through it into a cold, empty apartment, in perfect
darkness, and the door shut and barred behind him.

Here, in solitude and darkness, the horrors of his situation
rushed upon him with tremendous and overwhelming reality.
His life was in the hands of fierce and relentless men, by
whom, he had little doubt, he was already judged and con-
demned; bound and helpless, he must await, without the
power of hastening or of deferring bis fate by a single minute,

He made his way to the aperture

To face page 223.

The Doom. 223

the cold-blooded deliberations of the conclave who sat within.
Unable even to hear the progress of the debate on whose
result his life was suspended, a faint and dizzy sickness came
upon him, and the cold dew burst from every pore ; ghastly,
shapeless images of horror hurried with sightless speed across
his mind, and his brain throbbed with the fearful excitement
of madness. With a desperate effort he roused his energies ;
but what could human ingenuity, even sharpened by the pre-
sence of urgent and terrific danger, suggest or devise ? His
hands were firmly bound behind his back ; in vain he tugged
with all his strength, in the fruitless hope of disengaging the
cords which crushed them together. He groaned in downright
agony as, strength and hope exhausted, he gave up the des-
perate attempt ; nothing then could be done ; there remained
for him no hope — no chance. In this horrible condition he
walked with slow steps to and fro in the dark chamber, in
vain endeavouring to compose his terrible agitation.

" Were my hands but free," thought he, " I should let the
villains know that against any odds a resolute man may sell
his life dearly. But it is in vain to struggle ; they have bound
me here but too securely."

Thus saying, he leaned himself against the partition, to
await, passively, the event which he knew could not be far
distant. The surface against which he leaned was not that
of the wall — it yielded slightly to his pressure — it was a door.
With his knee and shoulder he easily forced it open, and
entered another chamber, at the far-side of which he distinctly
saw a stream of light, which, passing through a chink, fell
upon the opposite wall, and, at the same time, ne clearly heard
the muffled sound of voices in debate. He made his way to
the aperture through which the light found entrance, and as
he did so, the sound of the voices fell more and more distinctly
upon his ear. A small square, of about two feet each way,
was cut in the wall, affording an orifice through which, pro-
bably, the closet in which he stood was imperfectly lighted in
the daytime. A plank shutter was closed over this, and barred
upon the outside, through the imperfect joints of which the
light had found its way, and O'Connor now scanned the con-
tents of the outer chamber. It was that in which the assembly,
in whose presence he had, but a few minutes before, been
standing, were congregated. A low, broad-shouldered man,
whose dress was that of mourning, and who wore his own
hair, which descended in meagre ringlets of black upon either
side, leaving the bald summit of his head exposed, and who
added to the singularity of his appearance not a little by a
long, thick beard, which covered his chin and upper lip — this
man, who sat nearly opposite to the opening through which
O'Connor looked, was speaking and addressing himself to

224 The "Cock and Anchor''

some person who stood, as it appeared, divided by little more
than the thickness of the wall from the party whose life he
was debating.

"And against all this," continued the speaker, "what
weighs the life of one man — one life, at best useless to the
country, and useless to the king — at lest, I say ? What came
we here for P No light matter to take in hand, sirs ; to be
pursued with no small risk ; each comes hither, cinctus gladio,
in the cause of the king. That cause with our own lives we
are bound to maintain ; and why not, if need be, at the cost
of the lives of others ? No good can come of sparing this
fellow — at the best, no advantage to the cause : and, on the
other hand, should he prove a traitor, a spy, or even an idle
babbler, the heaviest damage may befall us. Tush, tush,
gentlemen, it is ill straining at gnats in such times. We are
here a court-martial, or no court at all. If I find that such
dangerous vacillation as this carries it in your councils, I
shall, for one,' henceforward hang my sword over the mantel-
piece, and obey the new laws. What ! one life against such
a risk — one execution, to save the cause and secure us all. To
us, who have served in the king's wars, and hanged rebels by
the round dozen — even on suspicion of being so — such in-
decision seems incredible. There ought not to be two words
about the matter. Put him to death."

Having thus acquitted himself, this somewhat unattractive
personage applied himself, with much industry and absorp-
tion, to the task of chopping, shredding, rolling up, and
otherwise preparing a piece of tobacco for the bowl of his
pipe.

"I confess," said someone whom O'Connor could not see,
" that in pleading what may be said on behalf of this young
man, I have no ground to go upon beyond a mere instinctive
belief in the poor fellow's honesty, and in the truth of his
story."

"Pardon me, sir," replied one in whose voice O'Connor
thought he recognized that of the priest, " if I say, that to
act upon such fanciful impressions, as if they were grounded
upon evidence, were, in nine cases out of every ten, the most
transcendent and mischievous folly. I repeat my own con-
viction, upon something like satisfactory evidence, that he is
not honest. I talked with the fellow this evening— perhaps
a little too freely — but in that conference, if he lied not, I
learned that he belonged to that most dangerous class — the
worst with whom we have to contend — the lukewarm, profess-
ing, passive Catholics — the very stuff of which the worst kind
of spies and informers are made. He, no doubt, guessed,
from what I said— for, to be plain with yon, I spoke too freely
by a great deal, in the belief, I know not how assumed, that

The Doom. 225

he was one of ourselves — he guessed, I say, something of the
nature of my mission, and tracked me hither — at all events,
by some strange coincidence, hither he came. It is for you
to weigh the question of probabilities."

" It matters not, in my mind, why or how he came hither,"
observed the ill-favoured gentleman, who sate at the head of the
table ; " he is here, and he hath seen our meeting, and could
identify many of us. This is too large a confidence to repose
in a stranger, and I. for one do not like it, and therefore I
say let him be killed without any more parley or debate."

The old man paused, and a silence followed. With an
agonized attention, O'Connor listened for one word or move-
ment of dissent; it came not.

" All agreed ? " said the bearded hero, preparing to light his
tobacco pipe at the candle. " Well, so I expected."

The little man who had spoken before him knocked sharply
with the butt of a pistol upon the table, and O'Connor heard
the door of the room open. The same person beckoned with
his hand, and one of the stalwart men who had assisted in
securing him, advanced to the foot of the board.

" Let a grave be digged in the orchard," said he, " and when
it is ready, bring the prisoner out and despatch him, Let it
be all done and the grave closed in half an hour.''

The man made a rude obeisance, and left the room in
silence.

Bound as he was, O'Connor traced the four walls of the
room, in the vague hope that he might discover some other
outlet from the chamber than that which he had just entered.
But in vain; nothing encountered him but the hard, cold
wall; and even had it been otherwise, thus helplessly man-
acled, what would it have availed him ? He passed into the
room into which he had been first thrust by the two guards,
and in a state little short of frenzy, he cast himself upon the
floor.

" Oh God ! " said he, "it is terrible to see death thus creep-
ing toward me, and not to have the power to help myself.
I am doomed — my life already devoted, and before another
hour I shall lie under the clay, a corpse. Is there nothing to
be done — no hope, no chance ? Oh, God ! nothing ! "

As he lay in this strong agony, he heard, or thought he
heard, the clank of the spade upon the stony soil without.
The work was begun — the grave was opened. Madly he
strained at the cords — he tugged with more than human might
— but all in vain. Still with horrible monotony he heard the
clank of the iron mattock tinkling and clanking in the gravelly
soil. Oh ! that he could have stopped his ears to exclude the
maddening sound. The pulses smote upon his brain like
floods of fire. With closed eyes, and teeth set, and hards

Q

226 The « Cock and A nchor."

desperately clenched, lie drew himself together, in the awful
spasms of uncontrollable horror. Suddenly this fearful
paroxysm departed, and a kind of awful calm supervened. It
was no dull insensibility to his real situation, but a certain
collectedness and calm self-possession, which enabled him to
behold the grim adversary of human kind, even arrayed in all
the terrors of his nearest approach, with a steady eye.

" After all, when all's done, what have I to lose ? Life had
no more joys for me — happy I could never more have been.
Why should the miserable dread death, and cling to life like
cowards ? What is it ? A brief struggle — the agony of a few
minutes — the instinctive yearnings of our nature after life ;
and this over, comes rest — eternal quiet."

He then endeavoured, in prayer, earnestly to commend his
spirit to its Maker. While thus employed lie heard steps
upon the hard tiles of the passage. His heart swelled as
though it would burst. He rightly guessed their mission. The
bolt was slowly drawn ; the dusky light of a lantern streamed
into the room, and revealed upon the threshold the forms of
three tall men.

" Lift him up — rise him, boys,5' said he who carried the
lantern.

" You must come with us," said one of the two who advanced
to O'Connor.

Resistance was fruitless, and he offered none. A cold,
sick, overwhelming horror unstrung his joints and dimmed
his sight. He suffered them to lead him passively from the
room.

CHAPTER XLV.

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 something unreal, incredible ; he walked in an
appalling dream ; in vain he strove to fix his thoughts
myriads and myriads of scenes and incidents, never remem-
bered since childhood's days, now with strange distinctness

The Man in the Cloak. 227

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 funeral 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 drink-
ing, 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 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 tho man, doggedly.

" And how may that have been ? " interrogated the gentle-
man 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.

" Ee-conduct the prisoner to the council-board," said the
stranger, in a tone of command.

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.

" G-od 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.

2

228 The "Cock and Anchor."

should escape ; and unaccountable though it may appear, in
this hope he felt more unmanned and agitated than lie had
done but a few moments before, in the apparent certainty of
immediate and inevitable destruction.

The salutation of O'Hanlon was warmly, almost enjbhusi-
astically, returned, and after this interchange of friendly
greeting, and a few brief questions and answers touching com-
paratively 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 my way hither
I encountered him ; we rode and conversed together ; and con-
jecturing 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 mad-
ness."

"Young man," said O'Hanlon, turning to O'Connor, " what
say you to this P "

" 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 place, and without the slighest
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.''

The Man in the Cloak. 229

" 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 has spoken I believe. He is the son of one
who risked his life a 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
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 nowhere.''

A silence of some seconds followed this unexpected declara-
tion.

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

" So say I," added the person who sat with the papers by
him at the extremity or 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 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'flanlon
"on matters which concern you nearly. You will remain here
— you can have a chamber. Farewell for the present. Con-
duct 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 guide through a narrow, damp-stained
corridor, with tiled flooring, and up a broad staircase, with
heavy oaken balustrades, and steps whose planks seemed worn

230 The "Cock and A nchor"

by the tread of centuries ; and then along another passage,
more cheerless still than the first — several of the narrow win-
dows, by which in the daytime it was lighted, had now lost every
vestige of glass, and even of the wooden framework 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 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 pen-
sioner, 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. Baflled
in these latter speculations, he applied himself to examine the
old chamber in which he sat, and to endeavour to trace the
half-obliterated pattern of the tattered hangings. These occu-
pations, 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 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.

The Double Conference. 231

CHAPTER XLVI.

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 ones are content to meet it when
it comes, knowing well that it will come often enough, unin-
vited 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 very welcome. I
care not for anything 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
fortunes of the rightful heir of the throne of England and of
Ireland, met here together not without great peril.'"'

" I had conjectured as much from what I myself witnessed,3'
rejoined O'Connor.

" Well, then, I tell you this — the cause is not a hopeless
one ; the exiled king has warm, zealous, 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

232 The "Cock and Anchor."

— 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 embolden the malignant
rebels of the sister country to imitate their example, and so
overawe the Parliament, and frustrate their beneficent inten-
tions. 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 practic-
able—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 their glasses, and thrown
a fresh supply of wood upon the fire, he continued, —

" 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," replied
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.

"Yes — unless I've been strangely practised on — he has
villainously deceived alike you and his own sister — pretending
friendship, he has sowed distrust between you."

The Double Conference. 233

" 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 your-
self," replied O'Haulon ; "you cannot hear it to-night, how-
ever, 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— T 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.

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 fatigues 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 Parucci, 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.

234 The "Cock and Anchor."

O'Connor assented.

" Ah ! yees," said the Neapolitan, with a winning smile ;
" he has see me vary often. Signer 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.

" Ah ! did he not guess ? " rejoined the Neapolitan ; "per
crilla ! the deception succeed, then — vary coniug faylow was
old Sir Kichard — 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 meesfortune."

" Parucci, 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. Audley, I
think he is call — saw Sir Bichard — 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
Parucci.

" 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 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 Parucci, 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

The Double Conference. 235

is 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 Ash-
woode's villainy, and thinking only of the high-born principal,
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, —

"Bring me to Sir Henry Ashwoode — where is he ? I must
speak with him."

" I cannot breeng you to him now," replied Parucci, 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 very 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."

Signer Parucci 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 ex-
posures, and which had beside reduced the question of Sir
Henry's life or death to an even chance.

236 The "Cock and A nchor."

CHAPTER XLVII.

" THE JOLLY BOWLERS '' — THE DOUBLE FRAY AND THE PLIGHT.

AT the time of which we write, there lay at the southern
extremity of the city of Dublin, a bowling-green of fashionable
resort, 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. Thitherward O'Connor
and O'Hanlon, having left their horses at the "Cock and
Anchor," were 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 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-grey is his horse ; sangue
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 engaged," 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 ; " 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, gentle-
men," 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

" The Jolly Bowlers:' 237

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 groups passed them by
and took their departure, but O'Connor's eye in vain sought
among them the form of young Ashwoode.

" I see the grey 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 door-way 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, some-
what 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."

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 in-
stantly 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 menacingly in my
way ? Move aside and let me pass, or your rashness shall cost
you dearly."

238 The "Cock and* A nchor"

" Ashwoode — Sir Henry — you well know there is one con-
sideration 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. " Tarn aside, sirrah, and
leave my path open, or by the you shall rue it."

" I will 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 Ash-
woode, whose constitutional pugnacity began to be thoroughly
aroused. " Turn aside, sirrah ! How dare you confront
gentlemen — insolent beggar, how dare you ! "

Yielding to the furious impulse of the moment, Sir Henry
Ashwoode drew his sword, and with the naked blade struck his
antagonist 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 pos-
sessed 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 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

" The Jolly Bowlers."

239

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 his action impaired ; the
consequences of this were soon exhibited. Ashwoode lunged
twice or thrice rapidly, and one of these passes, being im-
perfectly parried, took effect in his opponent's breast. O'Con-
nor 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 stag-
gered 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 door, I will
send my sword through your excellency's body."

240 The "Cock and A nckor"

So saying, O'Hanlon drew his weapon, and keeping occa-
sional 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 in-
trusion. What think you, while our friends are thus engaged,
were we, for warmth and exercise sake, likewise to cross our
blades ? Will your lordship condescend to gratify a simple
gentleman so far?"

" Out upon you, fellow ; know you who T 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 re-
ligion ; and a traitor in politics. I know thee — who doth
not ? "

" Landlord," said Wharton, turning toward that personage,
who, with amazement, irresolution, 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 , I'll spur thee with my sword-
point."

" Stir not, if you would keep your life," said O'Hanlon, in
a tone which the half- stupefied 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 thou-
sand 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 himself into an attitude of defence, he
attacked 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 an-
tagonist, O'Hanlon, without stopping to look about him

The Stained Ruffles. 241

hastily lifted his fallen and senseless companion from the
pavement and bore hiin 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 pro-
verbially ready at all times to aid an escape from the fangs of
justice, and without pausing 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. Ash-
woode 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 him-
self 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 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.

CHAPTER XLVIII.

THE STAINED EUFFLES.

WE must now return for a brief space to Morley Court. The
apartment which lay beneath what had been Sir Richard Ash-
woode'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

B,

242 The "Cock and Anchor!'

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 indi-
cating the habitual presence of 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 land-
scape, 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 arrang-
ing some books in the little book-case.

" Well, I declare and purtest, I can't rightly remember,"
rejoined the maid, cocking her head on one side reflectively,
and tapping her eyebrow to assist her recollection. "I don't
think, my lady, he named any hour precisely ; 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, 1 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
tog-ether at least for this evening. Come, Harry, come."

So saying she led him, passive and gloomy, to the fireside,
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.

The Stained Ruffles. 243

"Why are you so silent and thoughtful, brother ? has anything
happened to vex you P "

"Nothing," said he, glancing at her with a strange ex-
pression— "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 natter me. Have you, Harry — have you heard or
seen anything 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.

" 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 ! — 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

244 The " Cock and A nchor? '

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 hart 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 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, brother," 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 he, vehemently,
" that I may not invite my friends to my own house ; or that

The Stained Ruffles. 245

if I dare to do so, they shall necessarily be exposed to the con-
stant 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 bad 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."

"Ho 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 a
chair, covered her eyes with her hands, and burst into an
agony of weeping.

" Well, but she is a fine wench," cried Nicholas Blarden,
as soon as she had disappeared. " The tantarums become
her better than good humour ; " so saying, he half filled Ash-
woode'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

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 speak-
ing to her ; you have not as yet even hinted at your inten-
tions, 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

246 The "Cock and Anchor"

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 an-
other 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 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 hint."

" 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 lika 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 she sha'n'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 P "

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.

CHAPTER XLIX.

OLD SONGS — THE UNWELCOME LISTENER— THE BAEONET's
PLEDGE.

NEXT day Mary Ashwoode sat 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

Old Songs. 247

something in his manner during the brief moment of their
yesterday evening's rencontre which alarmed her, and sug-
gested, in a 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 sat, as we have already said, alone in the self-same
room, and as mechanically she pursued her work, her thoughts
were far away, and wherever they turned still were they
clouded with anxiety and sorrow. Wearied at length with the
monotony of an occupation which • availed not even momen-
tarily 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
forgetf ulness 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 recog-
nized the form and features of Nicholas Blarden. " Go on,
go on, 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, play-
fully; "come, take it up again — come, you must tip us
another stave, young lady— do— curse me ii: I heard half your
songs, you're a perfect nightingale."

So saying he took up the guitar, and followed her with it
towards the fireplace.

" Come, you won't refuse, eh ?— I'm in earnest," he con-
tinued ; " upon my soul and oath I want to hear more of it."

248 The "Cock and A nchor."

" I have already told you, sir," said Mary Ashwoode, " 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 sat
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 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."

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

" Well, but you do look pretty, 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, and moved with
hurried, trembling steps towards the door. He made a move-
ment 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."

Old Songs. 249

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 com-
plicated records of his own ruin.

"Brother," said she, running to his side with the earnest-
ness of deep agitation, " brother, listen to me."

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

"Well," 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

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 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 everything to me now. No,
no ; promise that you will not ! ''

" Well, well, I do,'' said Ashwoode; "but how would you
have me act ? ''

4< 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.3'

" Dear Harry — dear brother, think of some place," said she,
with earnest entreaty. " I now feel secure nowhere ; that
rude man, the very sight of whom affrights me, will not
forbear to intrude upon my privacy ; alone — in my own little
room — anywhere in this house — 1 am equally liable to his
intrusions and his rudeness. Dear brother, take pity on me —
think of some place/'

" Curse that beast Blarden ! " muttered Sir Henry Ash-
woode, between his teeth. "Will nothing ever teach the
ruffian one particle of tact or common sense ? What good

250 The "Cock and Anchor."

end could he possibly propose to himself by terrifying the
girl?"

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 anything 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 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 Ash-
woode 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 /tare 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."

"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 haven't time to waste in wooing. Once we're buckled, she'll
be fond enough of me ; matrimony '11 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 pre-
cipitate— 1 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

Old Songs. 251

her so. She was talking of leaving the house and going to
Lady Stukely's, or, in short, anywhere rather than remain
here."

" Threaten to run away, did she ? " cried 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 P
— 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 trustworty," 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 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 corre-
spondence 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 might 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 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."

252 The " Cock and A nchor"

CHAPTER L.

THE PRESS IN THE WALL.

LARRY TOOLE, haying 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, and divil a
sign of him, good or bad. I'm fairly burstin' with emotions.
Why did he make off with himself ? Why the devil did he
desart me? There's no apology for sich minewvers, nor no
excuse in the wide world, anless, indeed, he happened to
be dhrounded or 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, bedad, I want something
badly."

Accordingly the two worthies entered the great old kitchen,
and by the genial blaze of its cheering hearth, they dis-
cussed 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 siiise 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 brush-
wood which skirted the 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 tete-a-tete 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

The Press in the Wall. 253

hardly reached the interior of the hall, when he was encoun-
tered 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 into 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
hewildhering iv famales,'' ejaculated 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 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 ate, and glanced and guzzled in soft rapture, until
the force of nature could no further go on, 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, —

" They may say what they like, by the hokey ! all the world

254 The "Cock and Anchor.33

over ; but divil bellows me, if ever I seen sich another beau-
tiful, fascinating, flusthrating famale, since I was the sizeiv
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 contemptuous ; 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' for him ; an' here I come, trying would I get the
chance iv hearing some soart iv a sketch iv him.'5

" 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 something."

"An5 pray, what should J 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 airnest," 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 maid, with con-
temptuous severity, tl but it is surprising what fools some
people is. Don't you think your master can go anywhere 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 Ash-
woode. Larry instantly recognized the latter, and his com-
panion both of them.

" They're coming this way," gasped Larry, with agonized

The Press in the Wall. 255

alarm. " Tare an' ouns, evangelical girl, we're done for. Put
me somewhere quick, or begorra it's all over with uy."

"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 cupboard or
press, whose doors opened in the panelling of the wall, and
fumbling with frightful agitation among her keys, she suc-
ceeded 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 equili-
brium, 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.

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 time 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, ac-
quiesced.

" 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 anything but a soothing influence upon the
backbone, so that his whole weight rested against the door
of his narrow prison, and was chiefly sustained by his breast-

256 The "Cock and A nckor."

bone 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 dis-
comforts 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 murmur-
ings. Meanwhile young Ashwoode 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, making the interrogatory
by a sharp application of the head of his cane to the very
panel 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,holyPether!"

" Did you hear anything queer ? ' inquired Blarden, with
some consternation. " Anyone calling out ? "

" No," said Ashwoode.

" Well, see what the nerves is," cried Blarden, " by , I'd

Irave 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 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

coocurred — " 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 ca.rds."

The Press in the Wall. 257

" 1 can't open the locker," replied she, readily, " for the
young mistress put the key astray, sir — I'll ran and look for
it, if you please, sir."

" God bless you," murmured Larry, with fervent gratitude.

" Hand me that bunch of keys from under your apron,"
said Blarden, " ten to one we'll find some one among them
that'll open it."

" There's no use in trying, sir," replied the girl, very much
alarmed, " it's a pitiklar spart of a lock, and has a pitiklar
key — you'll ruinate it, sir, if you go for to think to open it 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 ; 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.

" Come in here, Chancey," said Mr. Blarden, 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 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 gherkin. 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
key -hole.

" Bravo, Gordy.by ," cried Blarden, " I never knew you

fail yet — you're as cute as a pet fox, you are."

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,

258 "The Cock and Anchor."

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 Betsy 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 villain," ejaculated Mistress Betsy Carey
— "don't suffer nor allow him to speak — bring him to the

Samp, gentlemen — oh ! the lying villain — kick him put, Mr.
hancey — 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 thank-
ful— 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, skulking villain,"
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 talk-
ing here — he's dangerous — the Turk."

" Oh ! the villainy 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 con-
cealing the prisoner.

" Now, Mr. Toole," said Ashwoode, addressing that person*
age, " 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 remonstrances to
induce him to expedite his retreat — he made a contrite bow to
Sir Henry — cast a look of melancholy reproach at the beauti-
ful Betsy, who, with a heightened colour, was withdrawing
from the scene, and then with sudden nimbleness, effected his
retreat.

Flora Guy. 259

"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."

"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 suc-
cessor without loss of time. So much for Mistress Carey."

CHAPTER LI.

FLORA GUY.

" WHY, 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."

"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 carefully, one whom we can rely upon — do you choose
her ? "

" Why, I'm no great judge of such cattle," rejoined Blarden.
" 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 sat 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 Blarden ;
" speak out — can you find us such a one as we want ? she
must be a regular knowing devil, and no mistake — as sly as
yourself — a dead hand at a scheming game like this — a deep
one."

s 2

260 The "Cock and Anchor."

" 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 inter-
rogatory, " 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 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

Flora Guy. 261

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 twelve-
month ? "

" 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," re-
joined Chancey ; " I have an elegant place for you — upon my
conscience I have — up at Morley Court, with Sir Henry Ash-
woode ; 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 P "

" 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-cloth 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.

262 The "Cock and A nchor."

" 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 respect-
able 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."

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 LIT.
OF MARY ASHWOODE'S WALK TO THE LONESOME WELL — AND or

WHAT SHE SAW THERE — AND SHOWING HOW SCHEMES OF
PERIL BEGAN TO CLOSE AROUND HER.

ON the following evening, Mary Ashwoode, in the happy con-
viction 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 glow-

Mary Ashwoode's Walk. 263

ing 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 stems of the
wild trees, and the graceful ivy clusters, and the time-worn
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 ather
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
loud short breathing of one exerting his utmost speed. On —
on she flew with dizzy haste ; the distance seemed intermin-
able, 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, —

264 The "Cock and A nchor"

" What has alarmed yon, Mary ; what have you seen to
agitate yon so ? "

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

"No; 1 tell yon 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, lie 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
Blardenis threescore good miles away."

" Brother, as surely as I see you, 1 saw him this night," she
replied. " I could not be mistaken ; I saw him, and for several
seconds befoie I could move, such was the palsy of terror that
struck me. I saw him, and watched him advancing towards
me — gracious he.aven ! 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 yon ; but this I
will aver, that his corporeal presence is removed some fifty
miles from hence at this moment ; take some tea and get yon
to bed, child ; you have got a fit ot' 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 closeted to-
gether in earnest and secret consultation in the parlour.

" Why did yon 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.''

Mary Ashwoode' s Walk. 265

"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 Shy-
cock, 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."

"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 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,

266 The "Cock and Anchor:'

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 be-
times in the morning."

CHAPTER LIII.

THE DOUBLE FAREWELL.

NEXT day Mistress Betsy Carey bustled into her young mis-
tress'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 Ash-
woode.

" I hope them as comes after me," continued the hand-
maiden, vehemently, "will strive to please you in all pints
and manners as well as them that's going.1'

" 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 imme-
diately ; 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.

The Double Farewell. 267

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.

" 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 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 wains-
cotted lobby, surrounded with doors, and hung with portraits,
too dingy and faded to have a place in the lower rooms. She

268 The "Cock and A nchor."

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 pro-
longed 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.

" 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 conscious-
ness 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 P '' 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.

" 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 modesty, 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.

The Double Farewell. 269

" Mr. Chancey ! — I never heard of him before," said the

Smng lady, more and more astonished. " Have you seen Sir
enry — my brother ? "

" Oh ! yes, my lady, if you please— I saw him and the other
gentleman just before I came upstairs, ma'am," replied the
maid.

" What other gentleman P " 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

?uart of mulled sack — it was I that brought it to them — and
remembered the red-faced gentleman very well, for he was
turning round over his shoulder, and putting out his tongue,
making 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 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 away 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."

270 The "Cock and Anchor."

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 grey 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.

" Don't take it to heart so much, my lady ; don't cry. I'll
do my best, ruy 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

The Double Farewell.

271

of my sorest trouble ; and may God reward you as richly as I
would my poor means could," said Mary, with the same in-
tense 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, that man
I fear — fear him more than ever yet I dreaded any living
thing — more than I thought I could fear anything 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 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 everything 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 ! " 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.

" 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

272 The "Cock and A nchor"

pale when the red-faced man said that j but he did not speak,
only kept biting his lips and saying nothing."

"Then, indeed, my case is hopeless,''3 said Mary, faintly,
while all expression, save that of vacant terror, faded from her
face ; '' give me some counsel — advise me, for God's sake, in
this terrible hour. What shall I do ? "

" Ah, my lady, I wish to the blessed saints I could," rejoined
the girl ; " haven't you some friends in Dublin ; couldn't I go
for them ? "

"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 sat 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 establish-
ment 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 enemies; 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,"

The Two Chances — The Bribed Courier. 273
CHAPTER LIV.

THE TWO CHANCES — THE BRIBED COUKIER.

" 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 a
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 anything honest come
out of the * Old Saint Columbkil ! ' there wasn't a sharper little
wench in the place than herself, and I'll 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 anyway," said Blarden ;
"the three others are as 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 ;
out 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 betoken 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 show-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 think-
ing the cat will have a claw at the little bird yet."

" 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 sat prepared for the execu-
tion 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 ex-
tinguished 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

T

274 The "Cock and Anchor''

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 dis-
tance. 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 p"

" Oh ! blessed hour ! my lady, the door's locked on the out-
side," replied the maid.

" It can't be," said Mary Ashwoode, while her very heart
sank within her. " Oh ! Flora, 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 to 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 re-
solved, 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 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

The Two Chances — the Bribed Courier. 275

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 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 sat 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 agitated 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 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."

T 2

276

The "Cock and Anchor "

The man gave two short nods of huge significance, accom-
panied 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 dispatch — and — and —
secrecy."

The man winked very hard with one eye, and at the
same time with his crooked finger drew his nose so much on
one side, that he seemed intent on removing that feature

into exile somewhere about the region of his ear; and
having performed this elegant and expressive pantomime for
several seconds, he stooped forward, and in an emphatic
whisper said, —

" Ne-verfear."

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

The Fearful Visitant. 277

CHAPTER LV.

THE FEARFUL VISITANT.

Two or three days had passed, during which Mary had ascer-
tained 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 laid open it would have been im-
possible to attempt an escape without encountering some one
of those whose chief object was to keep her in close confine-
ment, 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 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 P 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 ex-
tremity— has he, too, my last friend, forsaken me — will they
leave me here to misery — oh, that 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 intru-
sions 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

278 The "Cock and Anchor?

friendless and forsaken abandonment to his mercy — and
when these imminent fears were for an instant hnshed, a
thousand agonizing thoughts, arising from the partial revela-
tions 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 estrangement, and that the coolness
of indifference had not touched the heart of him she so fondly
loved visited her mind, a thousand bright, bat 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 sunset, when Mary Ashwoode
heard the measured tread of several persons approaching her
room. With an instinctive consciousness of her peril, she
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, when 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 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 anti-
cipation 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 Blarden,
grimly, addressing Flora Guy, who had placed herself a little
in advance of her young mistress, and who stood mute and
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 infor-
mation to give you, and then a bit of advice after it; 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

The Fearful Visitant. 279

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 anything ;
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 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 plaister 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 liear 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 P "

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 arras.

Spite of all that was base in his character, the young man

280 The "Cock and A nchor."

was go 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 P " said Blarden, furiously,
addressing Ashwoode, "what do you stand there huggir ^ 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 sat
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. Blarden and
Chancey having accomplished the object of their mission,
departed to the lower regions to enjoy whatever good cheer
Morley Court afforded.

CHAPTER LYI.

EBENEZEB, SHYCOCK.

IN pursuance of the arrangements which Mr. Blarden had, on
the evening before, announced to his intended victim, Gordon
Chancey was despatched early 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 theatrical 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 panel with
the dusky and faded similitude of two great keys crossed, now
scarcely discernible through the ancient dust and soot. The
shop itself was a chaotic depository of old locks, holdfasts,

Ebenezer Shy cock. 281

chisels, crowbars, 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
candlestick into a cannon, inquired, —

" 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 neces-
sary caution, by the way, as he might otherwise have been
easily engulfed therein and broken either his neck or his
leg, after descending through the lath and 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 Eeverend Ebenezer at home, my dear?" inquired
the barrister.

" He is, and he isn't," rejoined the female, oracularly.
11 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.

" 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,

282 The "Cock and A nchor."

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 ? "

" Tolerably well. But what is it you want with me ? out
with it, spooney. Any job in my line, eh ? " inquired the
clergyman.

" Yes, indeed, doctor," replied Chancey, "and a very good
job ; you're wanted to marry a gentleman and a 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 mili-
tant 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

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."

" Dear me, dear me, doctor," said Chancey, " how can you
think I'd go for to bring two guineas along with me ? "

" If you haven'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 bed-posts."

With this injunction, and bearing the crumpled document,
which the reverend divine had given him, as his credentials
with the pawnbroker, 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 sat at the
window, " that chap's made of money. I had a pint with him
once in Clarke's public — round the corner there. His name's

Ebenezer Shy cock. 283

Chancey, and he does half the bills in town — a regular Jew
chap."

So saying, the Reverend Ebenezer Shycock, LL.D., un-
ceremoniously 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 scanty articles of his 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 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 con-
tained the pure element, were deposited on a chair — for
tables were singularly scarce in the reverend doctor's establish-
ment.

"Now, my beloved fellow-sinner, mix like a Trojan!" ex-
claimed 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 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 dilapi-
dated 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 — pro-

284 The "Cock and A nchor"

ceeded 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
reverend companion in the precise nature of the service re-
quired of him, and, as far a.s was necessary, communicated the
circumstances of the whole case, they traversed the interval
which separated Dublin city from the manor of Morley
Court.

CHAPTER LVII.

THE CHAPLAIN'S ARRIVAL AT MORLEY COURT — THE KEY — AND
THE BOOZE IN THE BOUDOIR.

THE hall door was opened to the summons of the two gentle-
men 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 honeymoon. 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. 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 clergyman 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

The Chaplain's Arrival at Morley Court. 285

I have to go into town — some matters that must be wound up
before the evening's entertainment begins — we'll be out, how-
ever, at eight o'clock or so. And mind this," he continued,
gripping the barrister's shoulder in his hand with an energizing
pressure, and speaking into his ear to secure attention, " you
know that little room upstairs 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 conies 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
Eeverend 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 come home. Do you hear me, old scarecrow," he
continued, poking the reverend doctor somewhere about the
region of the abdomen with the hilt of his sword, which he
was adjusting at his side, and addressing himself to that

fentleman, "if I find you drunk when I return this evening,
'11 make it your last bout — I'll tap the brandy, old tickle
pitcher, and stave the cask, and send you to seek your for-
tune in the other world. Mind my words — I'm not given to
joking when I have real business on hand ; and faith, you'll
find me as ready to do as to promise."

So saying, he left the room.

" A rnm cove, that, upon my little word," said the Eeverend
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,

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, sat down before the hearth, and in a voice
whose tone nearly resembled that of a raven labouring under
an ati'ection 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 license, and
whose words were such as even the ' Old St. Columbkil' would

286 The " Cock arid A nchor"

hardly have tolerated. This performance over — which, by the
way, Chancey relished in hia 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 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 stupefied. Flora Guy sat
in the window, sometimes watching the pale face of the
wretched lady, and at others looking out upon the old wood-
lands 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 P " 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 momentary flash of
hope faded from her face, and was succeeded by a pale-
ness 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 encourage-
ment.

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 downstairs 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

The Chaplain's Arrival at Morley Court. 287

encountered her before she had well reached the hall ; 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 whatever 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
Ashwoode 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 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 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 duln-ess and apathy upon the young lady, and a seeming
insensibility to everything — to hope, to danger — to all, in
short, which had intensely interested every faculty of mind

288 The "Cock and Anchor :"

and feeling but the day before — which frightened and dis-
mayed 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 sat by the young lady's side, with a
heart full of dark 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 Shycock
were determined to make themselves comfortable in their new
quarters. 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, sat themselves down and commenced their jolly
vigils.

Chancey possessed the rare faculty of preserving his charac-
teristic cunningthroughouteveryphaseand 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 im-
portant occasion; he therefore conducted his assaults upon
the bottle with a very laudable abstemiousness. Not so, how-

The Chaplain's Arrival at Morley Court. 289

ever, 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 influence of brandy, and
of descending almost at a single bound from the loftiest alti-
tude 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, con-
sequently 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
energies, 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
1 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 rise, but tumbled back— with an expres-
sion of the most heavenly benevolence — into his chair, knock-
ing 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 condition of the couple-beggar ; " he'll
never be fit for his work to-night.''

^ " Fifteen minutes, neither more nor less," 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

u

290 The "Cock and Anchor"

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 near to the fire, and filling his pipe anew with tobacco,
leaned back in the chair, crossed his legs, and more than halt
closing his eyes, prepared himself luxuriously for what he
called " a raal elegant draw of particular pigtail."

CHAPTER LVIII.

THE SIGNAL.

FLORA GUY peeped eagerly through the keyhole of her lady's
chamber into the little apartment in which the two boon com-
panions were seated. After reconnoitring for a very long
time, she moved lightly to her mistress's side, and said, in a
low but distinct tone, —

" Now, my lady, you must get up and rouse yourself — for
God's sake, mistress dear, sha.ke 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,'3 replied the maid, " but the parson gentle-
man 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."

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 eying 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 them-
selves P " rejoined she, with an indignant toss of her head ;
"why then, I tell you what it is, Mr. Chancey, I'm tired to
death, BO 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."

The Signal. 291

" 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, 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 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," re-
joined Chancey, " both of them elegant ; you must have
whichever 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.

" 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,
u "2

2Q2 The "Cock and Anchor."

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 HI 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 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 raythur 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-
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 brisk-
ness, and proceeding to mingle the ingredients in the little
saucepan, " for 1 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,5'
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

The Signal. 293

visage of the stupefied drunkard who sat bolt upright before
him ; " no, no, we don't know the minute he may be wanted ;
he'll have to perform the 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, overturned 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, clapping
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 con-
jured, the barrister, in obedience to her vociferous appeal,
made some indistinct passes at the saucepan with the poker,
which he had grasped at the first alarm ; the damsel, without
daring to look directly where every feeling would have riveted
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 quick-witted 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 andquickly ; 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 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,3' rejoined the
barrister, extending his hand to receive the key of the now
vacant chamber.

294 The "Cock and A nchor^

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

" My lady, are you there ? " 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 stepped
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 ring-
ing 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
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? ''in-
quired she, saucily, " you needn't go up now, for I've got your
message ; bring up clean cups and a clean saucepan, for
everything'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 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 Signal. 295

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 de-
parted, 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 preat hall, and thence along a narrow passage 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?" in-
quired 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 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
round 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."

296 The " Cock and A nchorT

They did pause, and distinctly, between them and the old
mansion, they heard, among the dry leaves with which in
places the gronnd was strewn, the tread of steps pursuing at
headlong speed.

" 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.

CHAPTER LIX.

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 ap-
proached— they reached them.

" Oh, God ! they are up with us — they are upon us,5' 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 ecstasies;
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 herself again to
her feet, and before her sat 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, after 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

Haste and Peril. 297

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 disc, 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 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.

" 1 say he's as lame as a hop-jack," cried the well-known
voice of Nicholas Blarden, as they approached — " hav'n'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 curtsey, 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 curtsey, 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 curtsey.
" No, sir,'' echoed he—" but I say ' yes, sir,' and I'll take
my oath of it. D — n it, it can't be a strain. Get down, Ash-
woode, I say, and look to it yourself ; these blasted women
are fit for nothing but darning old stockings — get down, I say,
Ashwoode."

Without awaiting for any more formal dismissal, Flora

298 The "Cock and Anchor''

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.

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 ex-
hilarate their spirits or to soothe 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.

" 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 Ashwood, 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, save the
ringing of their own horses' hoofs upon the stones, disturbed

The Untreasured Chamber. 299

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 cal-
culations of consequences faded away from his remem-
brance, 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 some-
thing 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 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 P " 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.

CHAPTER LX.

THE UNTREASURED CHAMBER.

THEIR obstreperous 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 and
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.

300 The " Cock and A nchor. ' '

" Mr. Chancey, sir," replied the servant.

" 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 downstairs with a
candle in his hand, and looking unusually sallow.

"The Eeverend 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 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, lookingrather 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 apa-
thetic 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, or • ." The

aposiopesis 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.

The Untreasured Chamber. 301

" 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 handkerchief, and marked, too— it's the young
lady's own — give me the key of the lady's chamber," con-
tinued 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."

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 sat 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 back-
ward. With tremendous force he descended with his head
upon the bar of the grate, and thence to the hearthstone ;
there, breathless, powerless, and to all outward seeming a
livid corpse, lay the devil's cast-off servant, the red 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 stupid
drunkard — who, disturbed by the fearful hubbub, was just
beginning to open his.eyes — and leaving that reverend person-
age 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 blasphe-
mous imprecation, he aided the preparations himself, and with
hands that trembled, with eagerness and rage, he drew the

302 The "Cock and A nchor"

girths, and buckled the bridles, and in almost less than a
minute, the four horses were led out upon the broken pave-
ment 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.

CHAPTER LXI.

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 ? "

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 observa-
tion, " 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 countryman, with a short pipe in his mouth,
who, with folded arms, sat listlessly upon the shaft.

The Cart and the Straw. 303

" Honest man, God bless you, and give us a bit of a lift,"
said Flora Guy ; " we've come a 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 standstill.

"Never say it twiste,5' said he; "get up, and welcome.
Wait a bit, till I give the straw a turn for yees ; not for it ;
step on the wheel ; don't be in dread, he won't move."

So saying, he assisted Mary Ashwoode into the rude vehicle,
and not without wondering cariosity, 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 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 re-
sumed his seat upon the shaft, and once more the cart was
in motion.

Meanwhile, the sharp and rapid clang of the hoofs ap-
proached, 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 con-
veyance in which 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 see," replied the man, carelessly ;

304 The "Cock and Anchor''

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 girls 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 — 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 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 ! 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,
f oung 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 them-
selves.

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

" I wisht I could aim as much every day as aisily," said the
man, securing his prize ; " that chap has raal villiany in

The Cart and the Straw. 305

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 Ash-
woode ; " ray 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 any-
tning 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 door- way of " The Bleeding Horsa" — 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 boosing within ; and feeling some return of
confidence in the consciousness that they were in the neigh-
bourhood of persons who could, and probably would, protect

306 The "Cock and Anchor"

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 iny 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 person-
age ; " 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 "

The Cart and the Straw. 307

" 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'fc
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 un-
feigned 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
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 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 withyou 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 despond-
ing ; 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

x 2

308 The "Cock and A nchor."

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, con-
ducted 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 pres-
sure 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 rest-
lessly and fearfully she awaited the return of her courier.

CHAPTER LXII.

THE COUNCIL — SHOWING WHAT ADVICE MR. ATJDLEY GAVE, AND
HOW IT WAS TAKEN.

HARRY 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

The Council. 309

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 your are at this moment in circum-
stances 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 good-natured
simplicity, apparent in all he said and did, effectually removed,
and the whole case, in all its bearings, and with all its cir-
cumstances, was plainly put before him. During the narra-
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
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 V "

" I have, indeed, one relative,'' rejoined she, but "

" Who is it P " interrupted Audley.

" An uncle," replied Mary.

" His name, my dear — his name ? " inquired the old gentle-
man, impatiently.

3 10 The "Cock and Anchor."

" 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 P— near the high road from Dublin ?
— near any town ? — easily got at P " inquired be, with extra-
ordinary 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, re-
porting 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 dis-
tressed, 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 protec-

Parting. 311

tion ? " 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 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.

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 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.

" Larry,5' 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 T am very certain must
soon occur, he will go directly thither ; so be you sure to meet

3 1 2 The " Cock and A nchor."

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 Ash-
woode and her trusty companion, confused and bewildered by
the rapidity with which events had 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 our readers 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 irre-
gularly 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, 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 occupy-
ing 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,

Parting. 313

exhibiting a second storey with three narrow windows in front,
and over its doorway, from which a large pig, under the
stimulus of a broomstick, was majestically issuing, a sign-
board, the admiration of connoisseurs for miles round, pre-
senting 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, swallow-
ing, in his surprise, a whole potato, 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 ; everybody did something wrong, and nobody
anything right ; the dog was kicked and the cat scalded, and
in short, never was 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 Moron ey'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.

" 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 gentleman ; see how he
houlds her hand for fear she'd thrip comin' out. Oh ! 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.

3 14 The "Cock and Anchor r

" 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 ! she's a rale good lady,'' remarked another.

" 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' P "

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 ; he'll show you the way, and keep the dogs off,
for they all knows him up at the great house. Here, Shaw-
neen ; this gintleman wants to be showed the way up to the
g-eat house ; and don't let the dogs near him ; do you mind ?
e 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 Ash woode 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, —

" Twenty or thirty years ago there wasn't such a fox-hunter

Mistress Martha and Black M'Guinness. 315

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 P " inquired Flora.

" No, none of his family," answered she ; " no one at all, you
may say ; there's no one does anything 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."

CHAPTER LXIV.

MISTRESS MAETHA AND BLACK M'GUINNESB.

MR. AUDLEY, 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 overhead like the vast and airy
aisles of some huge Gothic pile, and after a short walk of some
two 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 a 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

316 The "Cock and Anchor."

simply through its waters, forced, as best they might, to pick
their steps upon the moss-grown stones that peeped above the
clear devious current. 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. Eank weeds and grass
had forced their way through the pavement of the courtyard,
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 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 courtyard, 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, Motheradauua, 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 clangour 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 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 man-
sion and was ready to gratify his curiosity legitimately, by

Mistress Martha and Black M' Guinness. 317

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,'' observed the man,
scratching his head. "He's upstairs 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 sat himself down in the deep recess of the window to
take breath. He well 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 ;
ho 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 un-
pleasant 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
heightened 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, pray,
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 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.

3i8 The "Cock and Anchor?

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

"He dislikes transacting business or speaking of it him-
self," said she. " He always employs his own man, Mr.
M'Guinness. I'll call Mr. M'Guinness, that you may com-
municate the matter to him."

" You must excuse me," said Mr. Audley. " My instruc-
tions 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 unexpected 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 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 his 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 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. Audley 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

The Conference. . 319

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 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
upstairs.

CHAPTER LXV.

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 bed-room. Its arrange-
ments 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 the 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 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 sat, Oliver French himself,
propped up by the pillows : he was a corpulent man, with a
generous double chin ; a good-natured grey eye twinkled
under a bushy, grizzed 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.

3 2O The " Cock and A nchor?

" 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 abomin-
ably 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 sha'n't, however, prevent my doing you reason, sir,"
replied he, with alacrity. " M'Guinness, two glasses. I drink,
sir, to our better acquaintance. Now, M'Guinness, you may
leave the room."

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 your-
self 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. Audley. " You are aware, I
presume, that Sir Richard has been some time dead."

" Ha ! actually gone to hell P — 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

The Conference. 321

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 toward the family had undergone no favourable
change.

" Well, sir," resumed Mr. Audley, after a considerable in-
terval, " I cannot wonder at the strength of your feelings in
this matter, more especially 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 BVench 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 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 indigna-
tion."

" 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 Mr. 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. Plead my apology for not going myself
to meet her — as God knows T 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— Grod bless you, for believing that such an ill-con-

y

322 The "Cock and Anchor?

ditioned 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 gripped Audley's hand, and the
old gentleman, with a heart overflowing with exultation and
delight, retraced his steps to the little village, absolutely
bursting with impatience to communicate the triumphant
result of his visit.

CHAPTER LXVI.

THE BED-CHAMBER.

BLACK M'GUINNESS and Mistress Martha had listened in vain
to catch the purport of Mr. Audley's communication. Unfor-
tunately 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 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 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 depen-
dents.

Mr. Audley returned ere the preparations were well com-
pleted, 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 affection-
ate and hearty welcome was accepted by the poor grieved
girl. He would scarcely, for the whole evening, allow her to

The Bed-Chamber.

323

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 new delicacy; he himself enforcing his
solicitations by eating and drinking in almost unbroken con-
tinuity 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 combina-
tions, 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 impressive 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, Esq., 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.

" 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. Oh — oh, 0 — 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, stimu-

y 2

324 The "Cock and Anchor?

lated 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 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 con-
ductress, which inclined her as much as possible to assent to
whatever proposition she might be inclined to advance, with-
out 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 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 gleri and the falls of Glashangower. If
she could stay a week she might see everything."

" Oh ! indeed, it's a lovely place," observed Flora, eva-
sively.

" That old gentleman, that Mr. Audley, your young mis-
tress's father, or — or uncle, or whatever he is" — Mistress
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 everything 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 the master,
Mr. French; didn't you tell me so?" asked the painted
Abigail.

The Bed-Chamber.

325

" 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 1
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.

" Italy, ma'am, I don't know," replied Flora.

The old painted termagant shot a glance at her of no plea-
sant 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.

41 What's 'your young lady's name ? " asked 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 disagree-
able symptoms of emotion at this announcement ; she bit her
lips and dropped her eyelids lower than usual, to conceal the
expression which gleamed to 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 again. Dear me ! who'd have thought of the
Ashwoodes 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 stalwart dame, with astound-
ing 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,

326 The "Cock and Anchor?'

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.

" Well, Mora," 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, how-
ever, 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,3' 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 everything to your liking. I suppose
your own maid has settled everything according to your fancy.
Of course, she knows best how to please you. I'm very
delighted 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 on 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 disposi-
tion, 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 everyone 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 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 anything —

The Expulsion.

327

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 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.

" Hoo ! hoo ! " she screamed, " you think I am 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.

CHAPTER LXVII.

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 sat in his capacious
chair by the fireside, with his muffled legs extended upon a
pile of pillows, a table loaded with the materials of his pro-
tracted 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, everything in
which he came in contact.

" 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 ; d — n away, sir, pray, do."

" What do you mean by talking that way, you scoundrel P "
exclaimed old French.

" Scoundrel ! " repeated M'Guinness, overturning a small
table, and all thereupon, with a crash upon the floor, and

328 The "Cock and Anchor."

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."

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 sha'rit 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 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 threaten-
ingly.

" 5fou 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.

" Why, what the devil — your own servants — your own
man and woman ! " exclaimed Mr. Audley. " I beg your

The Expulsion. 329

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, you are the amiable and remarkably quiet
gentlewoman with whom I was to-day honoured by an inter-
view ? 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 something 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 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 are black in the 'face; Til not stir,"
retorted M'Guinness.

Mr. Audley pulled the bell with a sustained f 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 them-
selves at the door.

"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, and
do you assist him, sir, away !

With unqualified amazement in their faces, the men pro-
ceeded to obey their orders. .

" So, so," said Oliver, still out of breath with anger,
11 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

330 The "Cock and A nchor."

you to give me a glass of noyeau — let me recommend that to
you, Mr. Audley, it has the true flavour — iiay, 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; very good health, sir; a pleasant pair of
furies ! — just give me the legs of that woodcock while we are
waiting."

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 Mr. M'Guinness —
mind you go along with them to the village, and let them be
set down at Moroney's public-house ; everything 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 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

The Expulsion. 331

affection, and a kindliness about her, which all, from the
master down to the humblest servant, felt and loved ; 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 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 — 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, man-
aged to induce him to prolong his stay from week to week.
These concessions were not, however, made without corre-
sponding 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

332 The "Cock and Anchor"

their sympathies ; they were both staunch Tories, both ad-
mirable 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
indulged 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.

CHAPTER LXVIII.

THE FRAY.

IT now becomes onr dnty 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 bloodshot eyes upon
the man who took his horse's bridle, " no news since? ''

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

" Is Sir Henry within ? " inquired Blarden, throwing him-
self 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.'3

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 —

The Fray. 333

there are two places which I forgot to try. Meet me, if you
can — say in the old Saint Columbia 1; it's a deserted place, in
the morning about ten or eleven o'clock.

"HENRY ASHWOODE.''

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 him-
self at random to the servants, one of whom he heard ap-
proaching, " 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 him-
self at his full length upon a sofa ; his disordered and bespat-
tered dress and mud-stained boots contrasted 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 than once already presented itself. " And
then for the brother, the fellow that laid his blows on me
before a 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 Blar-
den arose from a substantial meal, and a reverie, which
had occupied some hours; and without caring to remove
from his person 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.

334 The "Cock and Anchor"

He reached the doorway of the old Saint Oolumbkil, 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. Blar-
den's already by no means angelic temper, several parties,
composed of second-rate sporting characters, all laughing,
swearing, joking, betting, whistling, and by every device, con-
triving 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, aad coaxingly digging that gen-
tleman'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 regulur 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. Eot him, I'm sick waiting."

" 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 them-
selves 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, hag-
gard, and with dress disordered, approaching the place where
he sat.

" Blarden, we had better leave this place," said Ashwoode,

The Fray. 335

glancing round at the crowded benches ; " there's too much
noise here. What say you ? "

" What do I say P " rejoined Blarden, in his very loudest
and most insolent tone — " I say you have made an appoint-
ment and broke it, so 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 en-
joyed 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 for 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."

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 on 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 round 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 over-
bear and humble him, Blarden exclaimed in a tone of ferocious
menace, —

" Do as I bid you, you cursed, insolent 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

3 36 The "Cock and A nckor."

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 bis
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
fell over a wooden stool. With murderous resolution, Ash-
woode instantly drew his sword, and another moment would
have witnessed the last of Blarden's life, had not several
persons thrown them selves 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 ; tl 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.

" 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.

" Wring the sword from his hand, why don't you ? " cried
one ; " cut it out of his hand 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,"

The Bolted Window. 337

CHAPTER LXIX.

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 astonish-
ment at the distracted, pale, and bleeding figure before
him.

" Where have you put my horse ? " said Ashwoode.

" The boy's whispiog 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 it worth your while. My life — my life depends on

" 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 satisfac-
tory.

" 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 heela 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 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 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!"

338 The "Cock and Anchor''

" 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.'3

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; bat as he reached it, he perceived the
entrance of some four or five 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 sprang 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.''

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, stagger-
ing back, while two or three more of his companions thrust
themselves in at. the door.

Ashwoode had hardly disengaged his sword, when a tre-
mendous 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, Grotty? 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. Houldhim, Teague,

The Bolted Window. 339

for he's the devil's bird. Never mind it, Grotty. Devil 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 insensi-
bility 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.

We need not follow Ashwoode through the dreadful pre-
liminaries which terminated in his trial. In vain did he
implore an interview with Nicholas Blarden, his relentless
prosecutor. It were needless to enter into the evidence for
the prosecution, and that for the defence, together with the
points made arguments, and advanced by the opposing coun-
sel ; it is enough to know that the case was conducted with
much ability on both sides, and that the jury, having de-
liberated 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 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 de-
graded and awful situation preserved, nevertheless, in his out-
ward 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 Ash-
woode himself would have seemed, to the careless observer, the
least interested 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 handker-
chief often to his face, keeping it almost constantly at his

z 2

34-Q The "Cock and Anchor?

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 and collectedness, and his voice was un-
broken 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 dis-
persion 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 table, have sworn my life away — perjurers pro-
cured 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 1 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 pro-
nounced guilty, I am altogether innocent. I am a 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.

The Baronefs Room. 341

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."

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 dread-
ful apprehensions. This was the recall of Wharton from the
viceroy alty 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 re-
commend the prisoner to the mercy of the Crown ; and the
viceroy accordingly, in his turn, refused to entertain any
application for the commutation 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 conscious-
ness, 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 other-
wise summoned to his aid.

CHAPTER LXX.
THE BARONET'S BOOM.

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,

342 The "Cock and A nchor"

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 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 scarcely the power of walking a
hundred steps, without the extremest exhaustion and lassi-
tude. 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?"

" 1'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 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."

The Baronet's Room. 343

" 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 your-
self."

"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."

" 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 acquaint-
ance 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 P '' 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 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

344 The "Cock and Anchor''

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
lodging from the old city gaol— a sombre, stern, and melan-
choly-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
questions, 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 turnkey paused at one of the
narrow doors opening from the dusky corridor, and unclosing
it, said, —

" A gentleman, sir, to see you."

" Request him to corne in," replied a voice, which, though
feebler than it used to be, O'Connor had no difficulty in re-
cognizing. 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 significance 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

The Farewell. 345

closed the door, and he and Sir Henry Ashwoode were left
alone. A silence of some minutes, which neither party dared
to break, ensued.

CHAPTER LXXI.

THE FAREWELL.

O'CONNOR was the first to speak. In a low voice, which
trembled with agitation, he said, —

" Sir Henry Ashwoode, I have come here in answer to a
note which reached me but a few minutes since. You desired
a conference with me ; it there any commission with which you
would wish to charge me ? — if so, let me know it, and it shall
be done.'5

" None, none, Mr. O'Connor, thank you," rejoined Ash-
woode, recovering his characteristic self-possession, and con-
tinuing 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."

Another silence followed, during which Sir Henry Ash-
woode 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,'3 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 — everybody
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, 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,''

346

The "Cock and Anchor."

he screamed, pointing to the foot of the bed, " with all those
infernal cloths and fringes about his face, morning and
evening. Ah, G-od ! 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? for-ever is a
long day. As I'm a living man, he's with me every night —
there — there is 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

The Farewell. 347

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 many things, a vessel of water was placed,
and filling some out into a cracked cup, he added to it 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 poison myself — isn't it 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 P 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 sha'n't believe me guilty, no, they sha'n't. Look ye,
sir, I have one good feeling left," he resumed, vehemently ;
" I will not let my name suffer. If the most resolute 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 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 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

348 The " Cock and Anchor?

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 —
nervons. I'm more myself now.3'

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 we. 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."

" 1 ask forgiveness nowhere," 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 P — 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 yon, then, for the sake 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 toward 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 upou
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.

The Rope and the Riot. 349

Tired and agitated, O'Connor threw himself into the first
coach he met, and was deposited safely in the "Cock and
Anchor.'' It were vain to attempt to describe the ecstasies
and transports of honest Larry Toole at the unexpected re-
covery 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, re-
solved 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.

CHAPTER LXXII.

THE EOPE 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 arrange-
ments for the fearful scene. With a minute elaborateness he
finished his toilet, and dressed himself in a grave, but particu-
larly 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 con-
finement ; 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 over-
whelming horror of his situation. He seemed to observe and

350 The " Cock and A nckor."

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 dusky 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 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 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 sat 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 they forced their way onward, and staring

The Rope and the Riot. 35 1

with coarse and eager curiosity whenever they could into the
vehicle in which Ashwoode sat. All the 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 signifi-
ficantly denominated " Gallows Hill," situated in the neigh-
bourhood 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 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 recep-
tion. 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, 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, look-
ing round 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 was guilty. It was said that Mr. Blarden, the prose-

352 The "Cock and Anchor."

cutor, 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.

Gladly do we leave this hateful scene, and 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 wretched-
ness. 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 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 curls 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 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

The Rope and the Riot. . 353

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 dispatch, bear-
ing in mind a wholesome remembrance of 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 dismounted — 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.
Spellbound 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 heard no more. He dared not say whether it

A a

354 The "Cock and Anchor "

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 hor&e now crossed the brook ;
O'Connor remounted, and followed the shadowy track; but
again he was destined to meet with interruption ; the pathway
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 him-
self 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 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 galloped 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 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.

CHAPTER LXXIII.

THE LAST LOOK.

TIME had flowed on smoothly in the qniet old place, 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

His horse, snorting loudly, checked his pace."

To face page 354.

The Last Look. 355

look upon her without sorrowful forebodings, without mis-
givings 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
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 pre-
vailed 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 Ardgillagb, 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 voke told her that Mr. Audley wished much to
see her, and she, with her own sweet, sad smile, bade her bring
him to her bedside.

Twice the old man essayed to enter, and twice he stayed
to weep bitterly as a child. At length he commanded com-
posure enough to enter, and stood by the bedside, 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.

" 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

A a 2

The "Cock and Anchor "

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.

" 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 sank 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 hoper
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 was
cold for ever — the brief but sorrowful trial was over — the
desolate mourner was gone to the land where the pangs of
grief, the tumults of passion, regrets, and cold neglect are felt
no more.

Her favourite bird, with gay wings, 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 an angelic grace to the
offices of charity, where are they ?

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 — words cannot tell, nor
imagination conceive, the depth — the wildness — the desolation
of that woe.

Conclusion . 357

CONCLUSION".

SOME fifteen years ago there was still to be seen in the little
mined church which occupies a corner in what yet remains of
the once magnificent domain of Ardgillagh, side by side among-
the tangled weeds, two gravestones ; 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 they were,
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, in such a resting-place as most mortals would
fain repose in when their race is done.

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 omelette 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 somehow or other considerably before
that event Larry Toole succeeded in prevailing on the honest
handmaiden to marry him, and altnough, 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, 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 occa-
sional 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 un-
doubtedly certain that they used to beat, scratch, and pinch

35§ The "Cock and Anchor"

«ach 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 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 memor-
able 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 morning, in a corner
under St. Andoen'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 pro-
cure, 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.

GILBERT AND BIVINGTON, LD., ST. JOHN'S HOUSE, CLEBKBNWELL,

r

F'L ^-k- i

PR Le Fanu, Joseph Sheridan

4879 The Cock and Anchor

L7C6

1895

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