THE FRAY.
It now becomes our duty to return for a short time to Sir Henry
Ashwoode and Nicholas Blarden, whom we left in hot pursuit of the
trembling fugitives. The night was consumed in vain but restless
search, and yet no satisfactory clue to the direction of their flight
had been discovered; no evidence, not even a hint, by which to guide
their pursuit. Jaded by his fruitless exertions, frantic with rage and
disappointment, Nicholas Blarden at peep of light rode up to the hall
door of Morley Court.
"No news since?" cried he, fixing his bloodshot eyes upon the man who
took his horse's bridle, "no news since?"
"No, sir," cried the fellow, shaking his head, "not a word."
"Is Sir Henry within?" inquired Blarden, throwing himself from the
saddle.
"No, sir," replied the man.
"Not returned yet, eh?" asked Nicholas.
"Yes, sir, he did return, and he left again about ten minutes ago,"
responded the groom.
"And left no message for me, eh?" rejoined Blarden.
"There's a note, sir, on a scrap of paper, on the table in the hall, I
forgot to mention," replied the man--"he wrote it in a hurry, with a
pencil, sir."
Blarden strode into the hall, and easily discovered the document--a
hurried scrawl, scarcely legible; it ran as follows:--
"Nothing yet--no trace--I half suspect they're lurking in the
neighbourhood of the house. I must return to town--there are two
places which I forgot to try. Meet me, if you can--say in the old
Saint Columbkil; it's a deserted place, in the morning about ten or
eleven o'clock.
"HENRY ASHWOODE."
Blarden glanced quickly through this effusion.
"A precious piece of paper, that!" muttered he, tearing it across,
"worthy of its author--a cursed greenhorn; consume him for a _mouth_,
but no matter--no matter yet. Here, you rake-helly squad, some of you,"
shouted he, addressing himself at random to the servants, one of whom
he heard approaching, "here, I say, get me some food and drink, and
don't be long about it either, I can scarce stand." So saying, and
satisfied that his directions would be promptly attended to, he
shambled into one of the sitting-rooms, and flung himself at his full
length upon a sofa; his disordered and bespattered dress and
mud-stained boots contrasted agreeably with the rich crimson damask and
gilded backs and arms of the couch on which he lay. As he applied
himself voraciously to the solid fare and the wines with which he was
speedily supplied, a thousand incoherent schemes, and none of them of
the most amiable kind, busily engaged his thoughts. After many
wandering speculations, he returned again to a subject which had more
than once already presented itself. "And then for the brother, the
fellow that laid his blows on me before a whole play-house full of
people, the vile spawn of insolent beggary, that struck me till his arm
was fairly tired with striking--I'm no fool to forget such things--the
rascally forging ruffian--the mean, swaggering, lying bully--no
matter--he must be served out in style, and so he shall. I'll not hang
him though, I may turn him to account yet, some way or other--no, I'll
not hang him, keep the halter in my hand--the best trump for the last
card--hold the gallows over him, and make him lead a pleasant sort of
life of it, one way or other. I'll not leave a spark of pride in his
body I'll not thrash out of him. I'll make him meeker and sleeker and
humbler than a spaniel; he shall, before the face of all the world,
just bear what I give him, and do what I bid him, like a trained
dog--sink me, but he shall."
Somewhat comforted by these ruminations, Nicholas Blarden arose from a
substantial meal, and a reverie, which had occupied some hours; and
without caring to remove from his person the traces of his toilsome
exertions of the night past, nor otherwise to render himself one whit a
less slovenly and neglected-looking figure than when he had that
morning dismounted at the hall door, he called for a fresh horse, threw
himself into the saddle, and spurred away for Dublin city.
He reached the doorway of the old Saint Columbkil, and, under the
shadow of its ancient sign-board, dismounted. He entered the tavern,
but Ashwoode was not there; and, in answer to his inquiries, Mr.
Blarden was informed that Sir Henry Ashwoode had gone over to the "Cock
and Anchor," to have his horse cared for, and that he was momentarily
expected back.
Blarden consulted his huge gold watch. "It's eleven o'clock now, every
minute of it, and he's not come--hoity toity rather, I should say, all
things considered. I thought he was better up to his game by this
time--but no matter--I'll give him a lesson just now."
As if for the express purpose of further irritating Mr. Blarden's
already by no means angelic temper, several parties, composed of
second-rate sporting characters, all laughing, swearing, joking,
betting, whistling, and by every device, contriving together to produce
as much clatter and uproar as it was possible to do, successively
entered the place.
"Well, Nicky, boy, how does the world wag with you?" inquired a dapper
little fellow, approaching Blarden with a kind of brisk, hopping gait,
and coaxingly digging that gentleman's ribs with the butt of his
silver-mounted whip.
"What the devil brings all these chaps here at this hour?" inquired
Blarden.
"Soft is your horn, old boy," rejoined his acquaintance, in the same
arch strain of pleasantry; "two regular good mains to be fought
to-day--tough ones, I promise you--Fermanagh Dick against Long
White--fifty birds each--splendid fowls, I'm told--great betting--it
will come off in little more than an hour."
"I don't care if it never comes off," rejoined Blarden; "I'm waiting
for a chap that ought to have been here half an hour ago. Rot him, I'm
sick waiting."
"Well, come, I'll tell you how we'll pass the time. I'll toss you for
guineas, as many tosses as you like," rejoined the small gentleman,
accommodatingly. "What do you say--is it a go?"
"Sit down, then," replied Blarden; "sit down, can't you? and begin."
Accordingly the two friends proceeded to recreate themselves thus
pleasantly. Mr. Blarden's luck was decidedly bad, and he had been
already "physicked," as his companion playfully remarked, to the amount
of some five-and-twenty guineas, and his temper had become in a
corresponding degree affected, when he observed Sir Henry Ashwoode,
jaded, haggard, and with dress disordered, approaching the place where
he sat.
"Blarden, we had better leave this place," said Ashwoode, glancing
round at the crowded benches; "there's too much noise here. What say
you?"
"What do I say?" rejoined Blarden, in his very loudest and most
insolent tone--"I say you have made an appointment and broke it, so
stand there till it's my convenience to talk to you--that's all."
Ashwoode felt his blood tingling in his veins with fury as he observed
the sneering significant faces of those who, attracted by the loud
tones of Nicholas Blarden, watched the effect of his insolence upon its
object. He heard conversations subside into whispers and titters among
the low scoundrels who enjoyed his humiliation; yet he dared not answer
Blarden as he would have given worlds at that moment to have done, and
with the extremest difficulty restrained himself from rushing among the
vile rabble who exulted in his degradation, and compelling _them_ at
least to respect and fear him. While he stood thus with compressed lips
and a face pale as ashes with rage, irresolute what course to take, one
of the coins for which Blarden played rolled along the table, and
thence along the floor for some distance.
"Go, fetch that guinea--jump, will you?" cried Blarden, in the same
boisterous and intentionally insolent tone. "What are you standing
there for, like a stick? Pick it up, sir."
Ashwoode did not move, and an universal titter ran round the
spectators, whose attention was now effectually enlisted.
"Do what I order you--do it this moment. D---- your audacity, you had
better do it," said Blarden, dashing his clenched fist on the table so
as to make the coin thereon jump and jingle.
Still Ashwoode remained resolutely fixed, trembling in every joint with
very passion; prudence told him that he ought to leave the place
instantly, but pride and obstinacy, or his evil angel, held him there.
The sneering whispers of the crowd, who now pressed more nearly round
them in the hope of some amusement, became more and more loud and
distinct, and the words, "white feather," "white liver," "muff," "cur,"
and other terms of a like import reached Ashwoode's ear. Furious at the
contumacy of his wretched slave, and determined to overbear and humble
him, Blarden exclaimed in a tone of ferocious menace,--
"Do as I bid you, you cursed, insolent upstart--pick up that coin, and
give it to me--or by the laws, you'll shake for it."
Still Ashwoode moved not.
"Do as I bid you, you robbing swindler," shouted he, with an oath too
appalling for our pages, and again rising, and stamping on the floor,
"or I'll give you to the crows."
The titter which followed this menace was unexpectedly interrupted. The
young man's aspect changed; the blood rushed in livid streams to his
face; his dark eyes blazed with deadly fire; and, like the bursting of
a storm, all the gathering rage and vengeance of weeks in one
tremendous moment found vent. With a spring like that of a tiger, he
rushed upon his persecutor, and before the astonished spectators could
interfere, he had planted his clenched fists dozens of times, with
furious strength, in Blarden's face. Utterly destitute of personal
courage, the wretch, though incomparably a more powerful man than his
light-limbed antagonist, shrank back, stunned and affrighted, under the
shower of blows, and stumbled and fell over a wooden stool. With
murderous resolution, Ashwoode instantly drew his sword, and another
moment would have witnessed the last of Blarden's life, had not several
persons thrown themselves between that person and his frantic
assailant.
"Hold back," cried one. "The man's down--don't murder him."
"Down with him--he's mad!" cried another; "brain him with the stool."
"Hold his arm, some of you, or he'll murder the man!" shouted a third,
"hold him, will you?"
Overpowered by numbers, with his face lacerated and his clothes torn,
and his naked sword still in his hand, Ashwoode struggled and foamed,
and actually howled, to reach his abhorred enemy--glaring like a
baffled beast upon his prey.
"Send for constables, quick--_quick_, I say," shouted Blarden, with a
frantic imprecation, his face all bleeding under his recent discipline.
"Let me go--let me go, I tell you, or by the father that made me, I'll
send my sword through half-a-dozen of you," almost shrieked Ashwoode.
"Hold him--hold him fast--consume you, hold him back!" shouted Blarden;
"he's a forger!--run for constables!"
Several did run in various directions for peace officers.
"Wring the sword from his hand, why don't you?" cried one; "cut it out
of his hand with a knife!"
"Knock him down!--down with him! Hold on!"
Amid such exclamations, Ashwoode at length succeeded, by several
desperate efforts, in extricating himself from those who held him; and
without hat, and with clothes rent to fragments in the scuffle, and his
face and hands all torn and bleeding, still carrying his naked sword in
his hand, he rushed from the room, and, followed at a respectable
distance by several of those who had witnessed the scuffle, and by his
distracted appearance attracting the wondering gaze of those who
traversed the streets, he ran recklessly onward to the "Cock and
Anchor."