OF MARY ASHWOODE'S WALK TO THE LONESOME WELL--AND OF WHAT SHE SAW
THERE--AND SHOWING HOW SCHEMES OF PERIL BEGAN TO CLOSE AROUND HER.
On the following evening, Mary Ashwoode, in the happy conviction 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 glowing 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 at her 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 interminable, 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,--
"What has alarmed you, Mary; what have you seen to agitate you so?"
"Oh! brother; have you deceived me; _is_ that fearful man still an
inmate of the house?" she said.
"No; I tell you 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, _he_ 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 Blarden is threescore good miles away."
"Brother, as surely as I see you, I saw him this night," she replied.
"I could not be mistaken; I saw him, and for several seconds before I
could move, such was the palsy of terror that struck me. I saw him, and
watched him advancing towards me--gracious heaven! 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 you; but this I will aver, that his
corporeal presence is removed some fifty miles from hence at this
moment; take some tea and get you to bed, child; you have got a fit of
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 together in earnest and
secret consultation in the parlour.
"Why did you 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."
"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 Shycock, 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'll 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 everything 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, 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
betimes in the morning."