Cock and Anchor

COCK AND ANCHOR

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 horselaugh, 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.

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“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 movement 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.”

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 complicated records of his own ruin.

“Brother,” said she, running to his side with the earnestness 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 passed.”

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, –

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“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?”

“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.”

“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 – I 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 Ashwoode, between his teeth. “Will nothing ever teach the ruffian one particle of tact or common sense? What good 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 rude-

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ness. Without anything approaching to a quarrel, I can shorten his visit. He shall leave this either to-night or before seven o’clock tomorrow 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 Ashwoode 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 have 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 ‘ll turn out smooth enough – I’ll take devilish good care

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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 precipitate – I 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 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? – 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 trustworthy,” 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.

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CHAPTER L

THE PRESS IN THE WALL

Larry Toole, having 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 discussed 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 sinse 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.”

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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 brushwood 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 tête-à-tête 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 hardly reached the interior of the hall, when he was encountered 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.

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“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 bewildhering 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 over; but divil bellows me, if ever I seen sich another beautiful, fascinating, flusthrating famale, since I was the size iv 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.

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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.”

“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.” “An’ pray, what should I 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 contemptuous severity, “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

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