THE DOUBLE FAREWELL.
Next day Mistress Betsy Carey bustled into her young mistress's chamber
looking very red and excited.
"Well, ma'am," said she, dropping a short indignant courtesy, "I'm come
to bid you good-bye, ma'am."
"How--what can you mean, Carey?" said Mary Ashwoode.
"I hope them as comes after me," continued the handmaiden, vehemently,
"will strive to please you in all pints and manners as well as them
that's going."
"Going!" echoed Mary; "why, this can't be--there must be some great
mistake here."
"No mistake at all, ma'am, of any sort or description; the master has
just paid up my wages, and gave me my discharge," rejoined the maid.
"Oh, the ingratitude of some people to their servants is past bearing,
so it is."
And so saying, Mistress Carey burst into a passion of tears.
"There _is_ some mistake in all this, my poor Carey," said the young
lady; "I will speak to my brother about it immediately; don't cry so."
"Oh! my lady, it ain't for myself I'm crying; the blessed saints in
heaven knows it ain't," cried the beautiful Betsy, glancing
devotionally upward through her tears; "not at all and by no means,
ma'am, it's all for other people, so it is, my lady; oh! ma'am, you
don't know the badness and the villainy of people, my lady."
"Don't cry so, Carey," replied Mary Ashwoode, "but tell me frankly what
fault you have committed--let me know why my brother has discharged
you."
"Just because he thinks I'm too fond of you, my lady, and too honest
for what's going on," cried she, drying her eyes in her apron with
angry vehemence, and speaking with extraordinary sharpness and
volubility; "because I saw Mr. O'Connor's man yesterday--and found out
that the young gentleman's letters used to be stopped by the old
master, God rest him, and Sir Henry, and all kinds of false letters
written to him and to you by themselves, to breed mischief between you.
I never knew the reason before, why in the world it was the master used
to make me leave every letter that went between you, for a day or more
in his keeping. Heaven be his bed; I was too innocent for them, my
lady; we were both of us too simple; oh dear! oh dear! it's a quare
world, my lady. And that wasn't all--but who do you think I meets
to-day skulking about the house in company with the young master, but
Mr. Blarden, that we all thought, glory be to God, was I don't know how
far off out of the place; and so, my lady, because them things has come
to my knowledge, and because they knowed in their hearts, so they did,
that I'd rayther be crucified than hide as much as the black of my nail
from you, my lady, they put me away, thinking to keep you in the dark.
Oh! but it's a dangerous, bad world, so it is--to put me out of the way
of tellin' you whatever I knowed; and all I'm hoping for is, that them
that's coming in my room won't help the mischief, and try to blind you
to what's going on;" hereupon she again burst into a flood of tears.
"Good God," said Mary Ashwoode, in the low tones of horror, and with a
face as pale as marble, "_is_ that dreadful man here--have you seen
him?"
"Yes, my lady, seen and talked with him, my lady, not ten minutes
since," replied the maid, "and he gave me a guinea, and told me not to
let on that I seen him--he did--but he little knew who he was speaking
to--oh! ma'am, but it's a terrible shocking bad world, so it is."
Mary Ashwoode leaned her head upon her hand in fearful agitation. This
ruffian, who had menaced and insulted and pursued her, a single glance
at whose guilty and frightful aspect was enough to warn and terrify,
was in league and close alliance with her own brother to entrap and
deceive her--Heaven only could know with what horrible intent.
"Carey, Carey," said the pale and affrighted lady, "for God's sake send
my brother--bring him here--I must see Sir Henry, your master--quickly,
Carey--for God's sake quickly."
The young lady again leaned her head upon her hand and became silent;
so the lady's maid dried her eyes, and left the room to execute her
mission.
The apartment in which Mary Ashwoode was now seated, was a small
dressing-room or boudoir, which communicated with her bed-chamber, and
itself opened upon a large wainscotted lobby, surrounded with doors,
and hung with portraits, too dingy and faded to have a place in the
lower rooms. She had thus an opportunity of hearing any step which
ascended the stairs, and waited, in breathless expectation, for the
sounds of her brother's approach. As the interval was prolonged her
impatience increased, and again and again she was tempted to go down
stairs and seek him herself; but the dread of encountering Blarden, and
the terror in which she held him, kept her trembling in her room. At
length she heard two persons approach, and her heart swelled almost to
bursting, as, with excited anticipation, she listened to their advance.
"Here's the room for you at last," said the voice of an old female
servant, who forthwith turned and departed.
"I thank you kindly, ma'am," said the second voice, also that of a
female, and the sentence was immediately followed by a low, timid knock
at the chamber door.
"Come in," said Mary Ashwoode, relieved by the consciousness that her
first fears had been delusive--and a good-looking wench, with rosy
cheeks, and a clear, good-humoured eye, timidly and hesitatingly
entered the room, and dropped a bashful courtesy.
"Who are you, my good girl, and what do you want with me?" inquired
Mary, gently.
"I'm the new maid, please your ladyship, that Sir Henry Ashwoode hired,
if it pleases you, ma'am, instead of the young woman that's just gone
away," replied she, her eyes staring wider and wider, and her cheeks
flushing redder and redder every moment, while she made another
courtesy more energetic than the first.
"And what is your name, my good girl?" inquired Mary.
"Flora Guy, may it please your ladyship," replied the newcomer, with
another courtesy.
"Well, Flora," said her new mistress, "have you ever been in service
before?"
"No, ma'am, if you please," replied she, "unless in the old Saint
Columbkil."
"The old Saint Columbkil," rejoined Mary. "What is that, my good girl?"
The ignorance implied in this question was so incredibly absurd, that
spite of all her fears and all her modesty, the girl smiled, and looked
down upon the floor, and then coloured to the eyes at her own
presumption.
"It's the great wine-tavern and eating-house, ma'am, in Ship Street, if
you please," rejoined she.
"And who hired you?" inquired Mary, in undisguised surprise.
"It was Mr. Chancey, ma'am--the lawyer gentleman, please your
ladyship," answered she.
"Mr. Chancey!--I never heard of him before," said the young lady, more
and more astonished. "Have you seen Sir Henry--my brother?"
"Oh! yes, my lady, if you please--I saw him and the other gentleman
just before I came upstairs, ma'am," replied the maid.
"What other gentleman?" inquired Mary, faintly.
"I think Sir Henry was the young gentleman in the frock suit of
sky-blue and silver, ma'am--a nice young gentleman, ma'am--and there
was another gentleman, my lady, with him; he had a plum-coloured suit
with gold lace; he spoke very loud, and cursed a great deal; a large
gentleman, my lady, with a very red face, and one of his teeth out. I
seen him once in the tap-room. I remembered him the minute I set eyes
on him, but I can't think of his name. He came in, my lady, with that
young lord--I forget _his_ name, too--that was ruined with play and
dicing, my lady; and they had a quart of mulled sack--it was I that
brought it to them--and I remembered the red-faced gentleman very well,
for he was turning round over his shoulder, and putting out his tongue,
making fun of the young lord--because he was tipsy--and winking to his
own friends."
"What did my brother--Sir Henry--your master--what did he say to you
just now?" inquired Mary, faintly, and scarcely conscious what she
said.
"He gave me a bit of a note to your ladyship," said the girl, fumbling
in the profundity of her pocket for it, "just as soon as he put the
other girl--her that's gone, my lady--into the chaise--here it is,
ma'am, if you please."
Mary took the letter, opened it hurriedly, and with eyes unsteady with
agitation, read as follows:--
"MY DEAR MARY,--I am compelled to fly as fast as horseflesh can
carry me, to escape arrest and the entire loss of whatever little
chance remains of averting ruin. I don't see you before leaving
this--my doing so were alike painful to us both--perhaps I shall be
here again by the end of a month--at all events, you shall hear of
me some time before I arrive. I have had to discharge Carey for
very ill-conduct I have not time to write fully now. I have hired
in her stead the bearer, Flora Guy, a very respectable, good girl.
I shall have made at least two miles away in my flight before you
read this. Perhaps you had better keep within your own room, for
Mr. Blarden will shortly be here to look after matters in my
absence. I have hardly a moment to scratch this line.
"Always your attached brother,
"HENRY ASHWOODE."
Her eye had hardly glanced through this production when she ran wildly
toward the door; but, checking herself before she reached it, she
turned to the girl, and with an earnestness of agony which thrilled to
her very heart, she cried,--
"Is he gone? tell me, as you hope for mercy, is he--_is_ he gone?"
"Who, who is it, my lady?" inquired the girl, a good deal startled.
"My brother--my brother: is he gone?" cried she more wildly still.
"I seen him riding away very fast on a grey horse, my lady," said the
maid, "not five minutes before I came up stairs."
"Then it's too late. God be merciful to me! I am lost, I have none to
guard me; I have none to help me--don't--don't leave me; for God's sake
don't leave the room for one instant----"
There was an imploring earnestness of entreaty in the young lady's
accents and manner, and a degree of excited terror in her dilated eyes
and pale face, which absolutely affrighted the attendant.
"No, my lady," said she, "I won't leave you, I won't indeed, my lady."
"Oh! my poor girl," said Mary, "you little know the griefs and fears of
her you've come to serve. I fear me you have changed your lot, however
hard before, much for the worst in coming here; never yet did creature
need a friend so much as I; and never was one so friendless before,"
and thus speaking, poor Mary Ashwoode leaned forward and wept so
bitterly that the girl was almost constrained to weep too for very
pity.
"Don't take it to heart so much, my lady; don't cry. I'll do my best,
my lady, to serve you well; indeed I will, my lady, and true and
faithful," said the poor damsel, approaching timidly but kindly to her
young mistress's side. "I'll not leave you, my lady; no one shall harm
you nor hurt a hair of your head; I'll stay with you night and day as
long as you're pleased to keep me, my lady, and don't cry; sure you
won't, my lady?"
So the poor girl in her own simple way strove to comfort and encourage
her desolate mistress.
It is a wonderful and a beautiful thing how surely, spite of every
difference of rank and kind and forms of language, the words of
kindness and of sympathy--be they the rudest ever spoken, if only they
flow warm from the heart of a fellow-mortal--will gladden, comfort, and
cheer the sorrow-stricken spirit. Mary felt comforted and assured.
"Do you be but true to me; stay by my side in this season of my sorest
trouble; and may God reward you as richly as I would my poor means
could," said Mary, with the same intense earnestness of entreaty.
"There is kindness and truth in your face. I am sure you will not
deceive me."
"Deceive you, my lady! God forbid," said the poor maid, earnestly; "I'd
die before I'd deceive you; only tell me how to serve you, my lady, and
it will be a hard thing that I won't do for you."
"There is no need to conceal from you what, if you do not already know,
you soon must," said Mary, speaking in a low tone, as if fearful of
being overheard; "that red-faced man you spoke of, that talked so loud
and swore so much, that man I fear--fear him more than ever yet I
dreaded any living thing--more than I thought I _could_ fear anything
earthly--him, this Mr. Blarden, we must avoid."
"Blarden--Mr. Blarden," said the maid, while a new light dawned upon
her mind. "I could not think of his name--Nicholas Blarden--Tommy, that
is one of the waiters in the 'Columbkil,' my lady, used to call him
'red ruin.' I know it all now, my lady; it's he that owns the great
gaming house near High Street, my lady; and another in Smock Alley; I
heard Mr. Pottles say he could buy and sell half Dublin, he's mighty
rich, but everyone says he's a very bad man: I couldn't think of his
name, and I remember everything about him now; it's all found out. Oh!
dear--dear; then it's all a lie; just what I thought, every bit from
beginning to end--nothing else but a lie. Oh, the villain!"
"What lie do you speak of?" asked Mary; "tell me."
"Oh, the villain!" repeated the girl. "I wish to God, my lady, you were
safe out of this house----"
"What is it?" urged Mary, with fearful eagerness; "what lie did you
speak of? what makes you now think my danger greater?"
"Oh! my lady, the lies, the horrible lies he told me to-day, when Sir
Henry and himself were hiring me," replied she. "Oh! my lady, I'm sure
you are not safe here----"
"For God's sake tell me plainly, what did they say?" repeated Mary.
"Oh, ma'am, what do you think he told me? As sure as you're sitting
there, he told me he was a mad-doctor," replied she; "and he said, my
lady, how that you were not in your right mind, and that he had the
care of you; and, oh, my God, my lady, he told me never to be
frightened if I heard you crying out and screaming when he was alone
with you, for that all mad people was the same way----"
"And was Sir Henry present when he told you this?" said Mary, scarce
articulately.
"He was, my lady," replied she, "and I thought he turned pale when the
red-faced man said that; but he did not speak, only kept biting his
lips and saying nothing."
"Then, indeed, my case is hopeless," said Mary, faintly, while all
expression, save that of vacant terror, faded from her face; "give me
some counsel--advise me, for God's sake, in this terrible hour. What
shall I do?"
"Ah, my lady, I wish to the blessed saints I could," rejoined the girl;
"haven't you some friends in Dublin; couldn't I go for them?"
"No--no," said she, hastily, "you must not leave me; but, thank God,
you have advised me well. I have one friend, and indeed only one, in
Dublin, whom I may rely upon, my uncle, Major O'Leary; I will write to
him."
She sat down, and with cold trembling hands traced the hurried lines
which implored his succour; she then rang the bell. After some delay it
was answered by a strange servant; and, after a few brief inquiries, to
her unutterable horror she learned that all who remained of the old
faithful servants of the family had been dismissed, and persons whose
faces she had never seen before, hired in their stead.
These were prompt and decisive measures, and ominously portended some
sinister catastrophe; the whole establishment reduced to a few
strangers, and--as she had too much reason to fear--tools and creatures
of the wretch Blarden. Having ascertained these facts, Mary Ashwoode,
without giving the letter to the man, dismissed him with some trivial
direction, and turning to her maid, said,--
"You see how it is; I am beset by enemies; may God protect and save me;
what shall I do? my mind--my senses, will forsake me. Merciful heaven!
what will become of me?"
"Shall I take it myself, my lady?" inquired the maid.
Mary raised herself eagerly, but with sudden dejection, said,--
"No--no; it cannot be; you must not leave me. I could not bear to be
alone here; besides, they must not think you are my friend; no, no, it
cannot be."
"Well, my lady," said the maid decisively, "we'll leave the house
to-night; they'll not be on their guard against that, and once beyond
the walls, you're safe."
"It is, I believe, the only chance of safety left me," replied Mary,
distractedly; "and, as such, it shall be tried."