THE STAINED RUFFLES.
We must now return for a brief space to Morley Court. The apartment
which lay beneath what had been Sir Richard Ashwoode'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 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 indicating 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
landscape, 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 arranging 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, I 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 together 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. Why are you so silent
and thoughtful, brother? has anything happened to vex you?"
"Nothing," said he, glancing at her with a strange expression--"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 flatter 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 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 hurt 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 if I dare to do so, they
shall necessarily be exposed to the constant 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 had 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."
"No 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 Ashwoode'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 back, 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 speaking to her; you have
not as yet even hinted at your intentions, 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 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 another 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 like 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?"
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.