Complete Works of Sheridan Le Fanu (Illustrated), page 28
Mr. Grimes, without answering, rose and lounged out of the room.
“Chancey, shut that door,” continued Blarden. “Shut it 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, tomorrow — 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 —— . You 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 ornament 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 is 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 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 I 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, returning the fellow’s insolent gaze with a look of indescribable scorn and astonishment.
“Yes — I — I myself — I, Nicholas Blarden, with more gold than a man could count in three lives,” shouted Blarden, returning his gaze with a scowl of defiance— “I 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 consideration 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 tonight, 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 hobble. So I think you 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 chased-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 cooperation,” 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 Ashwoode, vehemently— “we understand one another. Tomorrow 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 Richard’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, 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, Chancey, 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 upstairs to his bedchamber. With a suspicion, 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 misgivings 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.
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 blackbird 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 sorrowful 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 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 goddesses,” he added, not feeling, spite of all his effrontery, quite at his ease in the presence of the elegant and highborn 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 attempting 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 Ashwoode, 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 together in the old green woods, and be far happier and merrier than ever we could have been in the midst of cold and heartless 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.
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.”
“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 bloodhound 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 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.”
