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
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 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 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 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 conceal. "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?" 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.