HASTE AND PERIL.
The rush of feet among the leaves grew every moment closer and closer
upon them, and now they heard the breathing of their pursuer--the
sounds came near--nearer--they approached--they reached them.
"Oh, God! they are up with us--they are upon us," said Mary, stumbling
blindly onward, and at the same moment she felt something laid heavily
upon her shoulder--she tottered--her strength forsook her, and she fell
helplessly among the branching roots of the old trees.
"My lady--oh, my lady--thank God, it's only the dog," cried Flora Guy,
clapping her hands in grateful ecstasies; and at the same time, Mary
felt a cold nose thrust under her neck and her chin and cheeks licked
by her old favourite, poor Rover. More dead than alive, she raised
herself again to her feet, and before her sat the great old dog, his
tail sweeping the rustling leaves in wide circles, and his
good-humoured tongue lolling from among his ivory fangs. With many a
frisk and bound the fine dog greeted his long-lost mistress, and seemed
resolved to make himself one of the party.
"No, no, poor Rover," said Mary, hurriedly--"we have rambled our last
together--home, Rover, home."
The old dog looked wonderingly in the face of his mistress.
"Home, Rover--home," repeated she, and the noble dog did credit to his
good training by turning dejectedly, and proceeding at a slow, broken
trot homeward, after stopping, however, and peeping round his shoulder,
as though in the hope of some signal relentingly inviting his return.
Thus relieved of their immediate fears, the two fugitives, weak,
exhausted, and breathless, reached the great gate, and found themselves
at length upon the high road. Here they ventured to check their speed,
and pursue their way at a pace which enabled them to recover breath and
strength, but still fearfully listening for any sound indicative of
pursuit.
The moon was high in the heavens, but the dark, drifting scud was
sailing across her misty disc, and giving to her light the character of
ceaseless and ever varying uncertainty. The road on which they walked
was that which led to Dublin city, and from each side was embowered by
tall old trees, and rudely fenced by unequal grassy banks. They had
proceeded nearly half-a-mile without encountering any living being,
when they heard, suddenly, a little way before them, the sharp clang of
horses' hoofs upon the road, and shortly after, the moon shining forth
for a moment, revealed distinctly the forms of two horsemen approaching
at a slow trot.
"As sure as light, my lady, it's they," said Flora Guy, "I know Sir
Henry's grey horse--don't stop, my lady--don't try to hide--just draw
the hood over your head, and walk on steady with me, and they'll never
mind us, but pass on."
With a throbbing heart, Mary obeyed her companion, and they walked side
by side by the edge of the grassy bank and under the tall trees--the
distance between them and the two mounted figures momentarily
diminishing.
"I say he's as lame as a hop-jack," cried the well-known voice of
Nicholas Blarden, as they approached--"hav'n't you an eye in your head,
you mouth, you--look there--another false step, by Jove."
Just at this moment the girls, looking neither to the right nor left,
and almost sinking with fear, were passing them by.
"Stop you, one of you, will you?" said Blarden, addressing them, and at
the same time reining in his horse.
Flora Guy stopped, and making a slight curtsey, awaited his further
pleasure, while Mary Ashwoode, with faltering steps and almost dead
with terror, walked slowly on.
"Have you light enough to see a stone in a horse's hoof, my dimber
hen?--have you, I say?"
"Yes, sir," faltered the girl, with another curtsey, and not venturing
to raise her voice, for fear of detection.
"Well, look into them all in turn, will you?" continued Blarden, "while
I walk the beast a bit. Do you see anything? is there a stone
there?--is there?"
"No, sir," said she again, with a curtsey.
"No, sir," echoed he--"but I say 'yes, sir,' and I'll take my oath of
it. D----n it, it can't be a strain. Get down, Ashwoode, I say, and
look to it yourself; these blasted women are fit for nothing but
darning old stockings--get down, I say, Ashwoode."
Without awaiting for any more formal dismissal, Flora Guy walked
quickly on, and speedily overtook her companion, and side by side they
continued to go at the same moderate pace, until a sudden turn in the
road interposing trees and bushes between them and the two horsemen,
they renewed their flight at the swiftest pace which their exhausted
strength could sustain; and need had they to exert their utmost speed,
for greater dangers than they had yet escaped were still to follow.
Meanwhile Nicholas Blarden and Sir Henry Ashwoode mended their pace,
and proceeded at a brisk trot toward the manor of Morley Court. Both
rode on more than commonly silent, and whenever Blarden spoke, it was
with something more than his usual savage moroseness. No doubt their
rapid approach to the scene where their hellish cruelty and oppression
were to be completed, did not serve either to exhilarate their spirits
or to soothe the asperities of Blarden's ruffian temper. Now and then,
indeed, he did indulge in a few flashes of savage exulting glee at his
anticipated triumph over the hereditary pride of Sir Henry, against
whom, with all a coward's rancour, he still cherished a "lodged hate,"
and in mortifying and insulting whom his kestrel heart delighted and
rioted with joy. As they approached the ancient avenue, as if by mutual
consent, they both drew bridle and reduced their pace to a walk.
"You shall be present and give her away--do you mind?" said Blarden,
abruptly breaking silence.
"There's no need for that--surely there is none?" said Ashwoode.
"Need or no need, it's my humour," replied Blarden.
"I've suffered enough already in this matter," replied Sir Henry,
bitterly; "there's no use in heaping gratuitous annoyances and
degradation upon me."
"Ho, ho, running rusty," exclaimed Blarden, with the harsh laugh of
coarse insult--"running rusty, eh? I thought you were broken in by this
time--paces learned and mouth made, eh?--take care, take care."
"I say," repeated Ashwoode, impetuously, "you can have no object in
compelling my presence, except to torment me."
"Well, suppose I allow that--what then, eh?--ho, ho!" retorted Blarden.
Sir Henry did not reply, but a strange fancy crossed his mind.
"I say," resumed Blarden, "I'll have no argument about it; I choose it,
and what I choose must be done--that's enough."
The road was silent and deserted; no sound, save the ringing of their
own horses' hoofs upon the stones, disturbed the stillness of the air;
dark, ragged clouds obscured the waning moon, and the shadows were
deepened further by the stooping branches of the tall trees which
guarded the road on either side. Ashwoode's hand rested upon the pommel
of his holster pistol, and by his side moved the wretch whose cunning
and ferocity had dogged and destroyed him--with startling vividness the
suggestion came. His eyes rested upon the dusky form of his companion,
all calculations of consequences faded away from his remembrance, and
yielding to the dark, dreadful influence which was upon him, he
clutched the weapon with a deadly gripe.
"What are you staring at me for?--am I a stone wall, eh?" exclaimed
Blarden, who instinctively perceived something odd in Ashwoode's air
and attitude, spite of the obscurity in which they rode.
The spell was broken. Ashwoode felt as if awaking from a dream, and
looked fearfully round, almost expecting to behold the visible presence
of the principle of mischief by his side, so powerful and vivid had
been the satanic impulse of the moment before.
They turned into the great avenue through which so lately the fugitives
had fearfully sped.
"We're at home now," cried Blarden; "come, be brisk, will you?" And so
saying, he struck Ashwoode's horse a heavy blow with his whip. The
spirited animal reared and bolted, and finally started at a gallop down
the broad avenue towards the mansion, and at the same pace Nicholas
Blarden also thundered to the hall door.