THE TWO CHANCES--THE BRIBED COURIER.
"I don't half like the girl you've picked up," said Nicholas Blarden,
addressing his favourite parasite, Chancey; "she don't look half sharp
enough for our work; she hasn't the cut of a town lass about her; she's
too like a milk-maid, too simple, too soft. I've confounded misgivings
she's no schemer."
"Well, well--dear me, but you're very suspicious," said Chancey. "I'd
like to know did ever anything honest come out of the 'Old Saint
Columbkil!' there wasn't a sharper little wench in the place than
herself, and I'll tell you that's a big word--no, no; there's not an
inch of the fool about her."
"Well, she can't do us much mischief anyway," said Blarden; "the three
others are as true as steel--the devil's own chickens; and mind you
don't let the door-keys out of your pocket. Honour's all very fine, and
ought not to be doubted; but there's nothing to my mind like a stiff
bit of a rusty lock."
Chancey smiled sleepily, and slapped the broad skirt of his coat twice
or thrice, producing therefrom the ringing clank which betoken the
presence of the keys in question.
"So then we're all caged, by Jove," continued Blarden, rapturously;
"and very different sorts of game we are too: did you ever see the
show-box where the cats and the rats and the little birds are all boxed
up together, higgledy-piggledy, in the same wire cage. I can't but
think of it; it's so devilish like."
"Well, well--dear me; I declare to God but you're a terrible funny
chap," said Chancey, enjoying a quiet chuckle; "but some way or
another," he continued, significantly, "I'm thinking the cat will have
a claw at the little bird yet."
"Well, maybe it will;" rejoined Blarden, "you never knew one yet that
was not fond of a tit-bit when he could have it. Eh?"
Thus playfully they conversed, seasoning their pleasantries with sack
and claret, and whatever else the cellars of Morley Court afforded,
until evening closed, and the darkness of night succeeded.
Mary Ashwoode and her maid sat prepared for the execution of their
adventurous project; they had early left the outer room in which we saw
them last, and retired into her bedchamber to avoid suspicion; as the
night advanced they extinguished the lights, lest their gleaming
through the windows should betray the lateness of their vigil, and
alarm the fears of their persecutors. Thus, in silence and darkness,
not daring to speak, and almost afraid to breathe, they waited hour
after hour until long past midnight. The well-known sounds of riotous
swearing and horse-laughter, and the heavy trampling of feet, as the
half-drunken revellers staggered to their beds, now reached their ears
in noises faint and muffled by the distance. At length all was again
quiet, and nearly a whole hour of silence passed away ere they ventured
to move, almost to breathe.
"Now, Flora, open the outer door softly," whispered Mary, "and listen
for any, the faintest sound; take off your shoes, and for your life
move noiselessly."
"Never fear, my lady," responded the girl in a tone as low; and
slipping off her shoes from her feet, she pressed her hand upon the
young lady's wrist, to intimate silence, and glided into the little
boudoir. With sickening anxiety the young lady heard her cross the
small chamber, now and then stumbling against some pieces of furniture
and cautiously groping her way; at length the door-handle turned, and
then followed a silence. After an interval of a few seconds the girl
returned.
"Well, Flora," whispered Mary, eagerly, as she approached, "is all
still?"
"Oh! blessed hour! my lady, the door's locked on the outside," replied
the maid.
"It can't be," said Mary Ashwoode, while her very heart sank within
her. "Oh! Flora, Flora--girl, don't say that."
"It is indeed, my lady--as sure as I'm a living soul, it is so,"
replied she fearfully; "and it was wide open when I came up. Oh!
blessed hour! my lady, what are we to do?"
"I will try; I will see; perhaps you are mistaken. God grant you may
be," said the young lady, making her way to the door which opened on to
the lobby. She reached it--turned the handle--pressed it with all her
feeble strength, but in vain; it was indeed securely locked upon the
outside; her project of escape was baffled at the very outset, and with
a heart-sickening sense of terror and dismay--such as she had never
felt before--she returned with her attendant to her chamber.
A night, sleepless, except for a few brief and fevered slumbers,
crowded with terrors, passed heavily away, and the morning found Mary
Ashwoode, pale, nervous, and feverish. She resolved, at whatever
hazard, to endeavour to induce one of the new servants to convey her
letter to Major O'Leary. The detection of this attempt could at worst
result in nothing worse than to precipitate whatever mischief Blarden
and his confederates had plotted, and which would if not so speedily,
at all events as surely overtake her, were no such attempt made.
"Flora," said she, "I am resolved to try this chance, I fear me it is
but a poor one; you, however, my poor girl, must not be compromised
should it fail; you must not be exposed by your faithfulness to the
vengeance of these villains; do you go into the next room, and I will
try what may be done."
So saying, she rang the bell, and in a few minutes it was answered by
the same man who had obeyed her summons on the day before. The man,
although arrayed in livery, had by no means the dapper air of a
professed footman, and possessed rather a villainous countenance than
otherwise; he stood at the door with one hand fumbling at the handle,
while he asked with an air half gruff and half awkward what she wanted.
She sat in silence for a minute like the enchanter whose spells have
been for the first time answered by the appearance of the familiar; too
much agitated and affrighted to utter her mandate; with a violent
effort she mastered her trepidation, and with an appearance of
self-possession and carelessness which she was far from feeling, she
said,--
"Can you, my good man, find a trusty messenger to carry a letter for me
to a friend in Dublin?"
The man remained silent for some seconds, twisted his mouth into
several strange contortions, and looked very hard indeed at her. At
length he said, closing the door at the same time, and speaking in a
low key,--
"Well, I don't say but I _might_ find one, but there's a great many
things would make it very costly; maybe you could not afford to pay
him?"
"I could--I would--see here," and she took a diamond ring from her
finger; "this is a diamond; it is of value--convey but this letter
safely and it is yours."
The man took the ring from the table where she laid it, and examined it
curiously.
"It's a pretty ring--it is," said he, removing it a little from his
eye, and turning it in different directions so as to make it flash and
sparkle in the light, "it _is_ a pretty ring, rayther small for my
fingers, though--it's a real diamond?"
"It is indeed, valuable--worth forty pounds at least," she replied.
"Well, then, here goes, it's worth a bit of a risk," and so saying he
deposited it carefully in a corner of his waistcoat pocket, "give me
the letter now, ma'am."
She handed him the letter, and he thrust it into the deepest abyss of
his breeches pocket.
"Deliver that letter but safely," said she, "and what I have given you
shall be but the earnest of what's to come, it is important--urgent--execute
but the mission truly, and I will not spare rewards."
The man gave two short nods of huge significance, accompanied with a
slight grunt.
"I say again, let me but have assurance that the message has been
done," repeated she, "and you shall have abundant reason to rejoice,
above all things dispatch--and--and--_secrecy_."
The man winked very hard with one eye, and at the same time with his
crooked finger drew his nose so much on one side, that he seemed intent
on removing that feature into exile somewhere about the region of his
ear; and having performed this elegant and expressive pantomime for
several seconds, he stooped forward, and in an emphatic whisper said,--
"_Ne-ver fear._"
He then opened the door and abruptly made his exit, leaving poor Mary
Ashwoode full of agitating hopes.