Le Fanu Joseph Sheridan
The Cock and Anchor
CHAPTER XLIX
OLD SONGS – THE UNWELCOME LISTENER – THE BARONET'S PLEDGE
Next day Mary Ashwoode sat alone in the same room in which she had been so unpleasantly intruded upon on the evening before. The unkindness of her brother had caused her many a bitter tear during the past night, and although still entirely in the dark as to Blarden's designs, there was yet something in his manner during the brief moment of their yesterday evening's rencontre which alarmed her, and suggested, in a few hurried and fevered dreams which troubled her broken slumbers of the night past, his dreaded image in a hundred wild and fantastic adventures.
She sat, as we have already said, alone in the self-same room, and as mechanically she pursued her work, her thoughts were far away, and wherever they turned still were they clouded with anxiety and sorrow. Wearied at length with the monotony of an occupation which availed not even momentarily to draw her attention from the griefs which weighed upon her, she threw her work aside, and taking the guitar which in gayer hours had often yielded its light music to her touch, and trying to forget the consciousness of her changed and lonely existence in the happier recollections which returned in these once familiar sounds, she played and sang the simple melodies which had been her favourites long ago; but while thus her hands strayed over the chords of the instrument, and the low and silvery cadences of her sweet voice recalled many a touching remembrance of the past, she was startled and recalled at once from her momentary forgetfulness of the present by a voice close behind her which exclaimed, —
"Capital – never a better – encore, encore;" and on looking hurriedly round, her glance at once encountered and recognized the form and features of Nicholas Blarden. "Go on, go on, do," said that gentleman in his most engaging way, and with an amorous grin; "do – go on, can't you – by – , I'm half sorry I said a word."
"I – I would rather not," stammered she, rising and colouring; "I have played and sung enough – too much already."
"No, no, not at all," continued Blarden, warming as he proceeded; "hang me, no such thing, you were just going on strong when I came in – come, come, I won't let you stop."
Her heart swelled with indignation at the coarse, familiar insolence of his manner; but she made no other answer than that conveyed by laying down the instrument, and turning from it and him.
"Well, rot me, but this is too bad," continued he, playfully; "come, take it up again – come, you must tip us another stave, young lady – do – curse me if I heard half your songs, you're a perfect nightingale."
So saying he took up the guitar, and followed her with it towards the fireplace.
"Come, you won't refuse, eh? – I'm in earnest," he continued; "upon my soul and oath I want to hear more of it."
"I have already told you, sir," said Mary Ashwoode, "that I do not wish to play or sing any more at present. I am sure you are not aware, Mr. Blarden, that this is my private apartment; no one visits me here uninvited, and at present I wish to be alone."
Thus speaking, she resumed her seat and her work, and sat in perfect silence, her heaving breast and glowing cheeks alone betraying the strength of her emotions.
"Ho, ho! rot me, but she's sulky," cried Blarden, with a horse-laugh, while he flung the guitar carelessly upon the table; "sure you wouldn't turn me out – that would be very hard usage, and no mistake. Eh! Miss Mary?"
Mary continued to ply her silks in silence, and Blarden threw himself into a chair opposite to her.
"I like to rise you – hang me, if I don't," said Blarden, exultingly – "you are always a snug-looking bit of goods, but when your blood's up, you're a downright beauty – rot me, but you are – why the devil don't you talk to me – eh?" he added, more roughly than he had yet spoken.
Mary Ashwoode began now to feel seriously alarmed at the man's manner, and as her eyes encountered his gloating gaze, her colour came and went in quick succession.
"Confoundedly pretty, sure enough, and well you know it, too," continued he – "curse me, but you are a fine wench – and I'll tell you what's more – I'm more than half in love with you at this minute, may the devil have me but I am."
Thus speaking, he drew his chair nearer hers.
"Mr. Blarden – sir – I insist on your leaving me," said Mary, now thoroughly frightened.
"And I insist on not leaving you," replied Blarden, with an insolent chuckle – "so it's a fair trial of strength between us, eh? – ho, ho, what are you afraid of? – stick up to your fight – do then – I like you all the better for your spirit – confound me but I do."
He advanced his chair still nearer to that on which she was seated.
"Well, but you do look pretty, by Jove," he exclaimed. "I like you, and I am determined to make you like me– I am – you shall like me."
He arose, and approached her with a half amorous, half menacing air.
Pale as death, Mary Ashwoode arose also, and moved with hurried, trembling steps towards the door. He made a movement as if to intercept her exit, but checked the impulse, and contented himself with observing with a scowl of spite and disappointment, as she passed from the room, —
"Pride will have a fall, my fine lady – you'll be tame enough yet for all your tantarums, by Jove."
Breathless with haste and agitation, Mary reached the study, where she knew her brother was now generally to be found. He was there engaged in the miserable labour of looking through accounts and letters, in arranging the complicated records of his own ruin.
"Brother," said she, running to his side with the earnestness of deep agitation, "brother, listen to me."
He raised his eyes, and at a glance easily divined the cause of her excitement.
"Well," said he, "speak on – I hear."
"Brother," she resumed, "that man – that Mr. Blarden, came uninvited into my study; he was at first very coarse and free in his manner – very disagreeable and impudent – he refused to leave me when I requested him to do so, and every moment became more and more insolent – his manner and language terrified me. Brother, dear brother, you must not expose me to another such scene as that which has just passed."
Ashwoode paused for a good while, with the pen still in his fingers, and his eyes fixed abstractedly upon his sister's pale face. At length he said, —
"Do you wish me to make this a quarrel with Blarden? Was there enough to warrant a – a duel?"
He well knew, however, that he was safe in putting the question, and in anticipating her answer, he calculated rightly the strength of his sister's affection for him.
"Oh! no, no, brother – no!" she cried, with imploring terror; "dear brother, you are everything to me now. No, no; promise that you will not!"
"Well, well, I do," said Ashwoode; "but how would you have me act?"
"Do not ask this man to prolong his visit," replied she; "or if he must, at least let me go elsewhere while he remains here."
"You have but one female relative in Ireland with a house to receive you," rejoined Ashwoode, "and that is Lady Stukely; and I have reason to think she would not like to have you as a guest just now."
"Dear Harry – dear brother, think of some place," said she, with earnest entreaty. "I now feel secure nowhere; that rude man, the very sight of whom affrights me, will not forbear to intrude upon my privacy; alone – in my own little room – anywhere in this house – I am equally liable to his intrusions and his rudeness. Dear brother, take pity on me – think of some place."
"Curse that beast Blarden!" muttered Sir Henry Ashwoode, between his teeth. "Will nothing ever teach the ruffian one particle of tact or common sense? What good end could he possibly propose to himself by terrifying the girl?"
Ashwoode bit his lips and frowned, while he thought the matter over. At length he said, —
"I shall speak to Blarden immediately. I begin to think that the man is not fit company for civilized people. I think we must get rid of him at whatever temporary inconvenience, without actual rudeness. Without anything approaching to a quarrel, I can shorten his visit. He shall leave this either to-night or before seven o'clock to-morrow morning."
"And you promise there shall be no quarrel – no violence?" urged she.
"Yes, Mary, I do promise," rejoined Ashwoode.
"Dear, dear brother, you have set my heart at rest," cried she. "Yes, you are my own dear brother – my protector!" And with all the warmth and enthusiasm of unsuspecting love, she threw her arms around his neck and kissed her betrayer.
Mary had scarcely left the room in which Sir Henry Ashwoode was seated, when he perceived Blarden sauntering among the trees by the window, with his usual swagger; the young man put on his hat and walked quickly forth to join him; as soon as he had come up with him, Blarden turned, and anticipating him, said, —
"Well, I have spoken out, and I think she understands me too; at any rate, if she don't, it's no fault of mine."
"I wish you had managed it better," said Ashwoode; "there is a way of doing these things. You have frightened the foolish girl half out of her wits."
"Have I, though?" exclaimed Blarden, with a triumphant grin. "She's just the girl we want – easily cowed. I'm glad to hear it. We'll manage her – we'll bring her into training before a week – hang me, but we will."
"You began a little too soon, though," urged Ashwoode; "you ought to have tried gentle means first."
"Devil the morsel of good in them," rejoined Blarden. "I see well enough how the wind sits – she don't like me; and I haven't time to waste in wooing. Once we're buckled, she'll be fond enough of me; matrimony 'll turn out smooth enough – I'll take devilish good care of that; but the courtship will be the devil's tough business. We must begin the taming system off-hand; there's no use in shilly shally."
"I tell you," rejoined Ashwoode, "you have been too precipitate – I speak, of course, merely in relation to the policy and expediency of the thing. I don't mean to pretend that constraint may not become necessary hereafter; but just now, and before our plans are well considered, and our arrangements made, I think it was injudicious to frighten her so. She was talking of leaving the house and going to Lady Stukely's, or, in short, anywhere rather than remain here."
"Threaten to run away, did she?" cried Blarden, with a whistle of surprise which passed off into a chuckle.
"Yes, in plain terms, she said so," rejoined Ashwoode.
"Then just turn the key upon her at once," replied Blarden – "lock her up – let her measure her rambles by the four walls of her room! Hang me, if I can see the difficulty."
Ashwoode remained silent, and they walked side by side for a time without exchanging a word.
"Well, I believe I'm right," cried Blarden, at length; "I think our game is plain enough, eh? Don't let her budge an inch. Do you act turnkey, and I'll pay her a visit once a day for fear she'd forget me – I'll be her father confessor, eh? – ho, ho! – and between us I think we'll manage to bring her to before long."
"We must take care before we proceed to this extremity that all our agents are trustworthy," said Ashwoode. "There is no immediate danger of her attempting an escape, for I told her that you were leaving this either to-night or to-morrow morning, and she's now just as sure as if we had her under lock and key."
"Well, what do you advise? Can't you speak out? What's all the delay to lead to?" said Blarden.
"Merely that we shall have time to adjust our schemes," replied Ashwoode; "there is more to be done than perhaps you think of. We must cut off all possibility of correspondence with friends out of doors, and we must guard against suspicion among the servants; they are all fond of her, and there is no knowing what mischief might be done even by the most contemptible agents. Some little preparation before we employ coercion is absolutely indispensable."
"Well, then, you'd have me keep out of the way," said Blarden. "But mind you, I won't leave this; I like to have my own eye upon my own business."
"There is no reason why you should leave it," rejoined Ashwoode. "The weather is now cold and broken, so that Mary will seldom leave the house; and when she remains in it, she is almost always in the little drawing-room with her work, and books, and music; with the slightest precaution you can effectually avoid her for a few days."
"Well, then, agreed – done and done – a fair go on both sides," replied Blarden, "but it must not be too long; knock out some scheme that will wind matters up within a fortnight at furthest; be lively, or she shall lead apes, and you swing as sure as there's six sides to a die."
CHAPTER L
THE PRESS IN THE WALL
Larry Toole, having visited in vain all his master's usual haunts, returned in the evening of that day on which we last beheld him, to the "Cock and Anchor," in a state of extreme depression and desolateness.
"By the holy man," said Larry, in reply to the inquiries of the groom, who encountered him at the yard gate, "he's gone as clane as a whistle. It's dacent thratement, so it is – gone, and laves me behind to rummage the town for him, and divil a sign of him, good or bad. I'm fairly burstin' with emotions. Why did he make off with himself? Why the devil did he desart me? There's no apology for sich minewvers, nor no excuse in the wide world, anless, indeed, he happened to be dhrounded or dhrunk. I'm fairly dry with the frettin'. Come in with me, and we'll have a sorrowful pot iv strong ale together by the kitchen fire; for, bedad, I want something badly."
Accordingly the two worthies entered the great old kitchen, and by the genial blaze of its cheering hearth, they discussed at length the probabilities of recovering Larry's lost master.
"Usedn't he to take a run out now and again to Morley Court?" inquired the groom; "you told me so."
"By the hokey," exclaimed Larry, with sudden alacrity, "there is some sinse in what you say – bedad, there is. I don't know how in the world I didn't think iv going out there to-day. But no matter, I'll do it to-morrow."
And in accordance with this resolution, upon the next day, early in the forenoon, Mr. Toole pursued his route toward the old manor-house. As he approached the domain, however, he slackened his pace, and, with extreme hesitation and caution, began to loiter toward the mansion, screening his approach as much as possible among the thick brushwood which skirted the rich old timber that clothed the slopes and hollows of the manor in irregular and stately masses. Sheltered in his post of observation, Larry lounged about until he beheld Sir Henry emerge from the hall door and join Nicholas Blarden in the tête-à-tête which we have in our last chapter described. Our romantic friend no sooner beheld this occurrence, than he felt all his uneasiness at once dispelled. He marched rapidly to the hall door, which remained open, and forthwith entered the house. He had hardly reached the interior of the hall, when he was encountered by no less a person than the fair object of his soul's idolatry, the beauteous Mistress Betsy Carey.
"La, Mr. Laurence," cried she, with an affected start, "you're always turning up like a ghost, when you're least expected."
"By the powers of Moll Kelly!" rejoined Larry, with fervour, "it's more and more beautiful, the Lord be merciful to us, you're growin' every day you live. What the divil will you come to at last?"
"Well, Mr. Toole," rejoined she, relaxing into a gracious smile, "but you do talk more nonsense than any ten beside. I wonder at you, so I do, Mr. Toole. Why don't you have a discreeterer way of conversation and discourse?"
"Och! murdher! – heigho! beautiful Betsy," sighed Larry, rapturously.
"Did you walk, Mr. Toole?" inquired the maiden.
"I did so," rejoined Larry.
"Young master's just gone out," continued the maid.
"So I seen, jewel," replied Mr. Toole.
"An' you may as well come into the parlour, an' have some drink and victuals," added she, with an encouraging smile.
"Is there no fear of his coming in on me?" inquired Larry, cautiously.
"Tilly vally, man, who are you afraid of?" exclaimed the handmaiden, cheerily. "Come, Mr. Toole, you used not to be so easily frightened."
"I'll never be afraid to folly your lead, most beautiful and bewildhering iv famales," ejaculated Mr. Toole, gallantly. "So here goes; folly on, and I'll attind you behind."
Accordingly, they both entered the great parlour, where the table bore abundant relics of a plenteous meal, and Mistress Betsy Carey, with her own fair hands, placed a chair for him at the table, and heaping a plate with cold beef and bread, laid it before her grateful swain, along with a foaming tankard of humming ale. The maid was gracious, and the beef delicious; his ears drank in her accents, and his throat her ale, and his heart and mouth were equally full. Thus, in a condition as nearly as human happiness can approach to unalloyed felicity, realizing the substantial bliss of Mahomet's paradise, Mr. Toole ogled and ate, and glanced and guzzled in soft rapture, until the force of nature could no further go on, and laying down his knife and fork, he took one long last draught of ale, measuring, it is supposed, about three half-pints, and then, with an easy negligence, wiping the froth from his mouth with the cuff of his coat, he addressed himself to the fair dame once more, —
"They may say what they like, by the hokey! all the world over; but divil bellows me, if ever I seen sich another beautiful, fascinating, flusthrating famale, since I was the size iv that musthard pot – may the divil bile me if I did," ejaculated Mr. Toole, rapturously throwing himself into the chair with something between a sigh and a grunt, and ready to burst with love and repletion.
The fair maiden endeavoured to look contemptuous; but she smiled in spite of herself.
"Well, well, Mr. Toole," she exclaimed, "I see there is no use in talking; a fool's a fool to the end of his days, and some people's past cure. But tell me, how's Mr. O'Connor?"
"Bedad, it's time for me to think iv it," exclaimed Larry, briskly. "Do you know what brought me here?"
"How should I know?" responded she, with a careless toss of her head, and a very conscious look.
"Well," replied Mr. Toole, "I'll tell you at once. I lost the masther as clane as a new shilling, an' I'm fairly braking my heart lookin' for him; an' here I come, trying would I get the chance iv hearing some soart iv a sketch iv him."
"Is that all?" inquired the damsel, drily.
"All!" ejaculated Larry; "begorra. I think it's enough, an' something to spare. All! why, I tell you the masther's lost, an' anless I get some news of him here, it's twenty to one the two of us 'ill never meet in this disappinting world again. All! I think that something."
"An' pray, what should I know about Mr. O'Connor?" inquired the girl, tartly.
"Did you see him, or hear of him, or was he out here at all?" asked he.
"No, he wasn't. What would bring him?" replied she.
"Then he is gone in airnest," exclaimed Larry, passionately; "he's gone entirely! I half guessed it from the first minute. By jabers, my bitther curse attind that bloody little public. He's lost, an' tin to one he's in glory, for he was always unfortunate. Och! divil fly away with the liquor."
"Well, to be sure," ejaculated the lady's maid, with contemptuous severity, "but it is surprising what fools some people is. Don't you think your master can go anywhere for a day or two, but he must bring you along with him, or ask your leave and licence to go where he pleases forsooth? Marry, come up, it's enough to make a pig laugh only to listen to you."
Just at this moment, and when Larry was meditating his reply, steps were heard in the hall, and voices in debate. They were those of Nicholas Blarden and of Sir Henry Ashwoode. Larry instantly recognized the latter, and his companion both of them.
"They're coming this way," gasped Larry, with agonized alarm. "Tare an' ouns, evangelical girl, we're done for. Put me somewhere quick, or begorra it's all over with us."
"What's to be done, merciful Moses? Where can you go?" ejaculated the terrified girl, surveying the room with frantic haste. "The press. Oh! thank God, the press. Come along, quick, quick, Mr. Toole, for gracious goodness sake."
So saying, she rushed headlong at a kind of cupboard or press, whose doors opened in the panelling of the wall, and fumbling with frightful agitation among her keys, she succeeded at length in unlocking it, and throwing open its door, exhibited a small orifice of about four feet and a half by three in the wall.
"Now, Mr. Toole, into it, as you vally your precious life – quick, quick, for the love of heaven," ejaculated the maiden.
Larry was firmly persuaded that the feat was a downright physical impossibility; yet with a devotion and desperation which love and terror combined alone could inspire, he mounted a chair, and, supported by all the muscular strength of his soul's idol, scrambled into the aperture. A projecting shelf about half way up threw his figure so much out of equilibrium, that the task of keeping him in his place was no light one. By main strength, however, the girl succeeded in closing the door and locking her visitor fairly in, and before her master entered the chamber, Mr. Toole became a close prisoner, and the key which confined him was safely deposited in the charming Betsy's pocket.
Blarden roared lustily to the servants, and with sundry impressive imprecations, commanded them to remove every vestige of the breakfast of which the prisoner had just clandestinely partaken. Meanwhile he continued to walk up and down the room, whistling a lively ditty, and here and there, at particularly sprightly parts, drumming with his foot in time upon the floor.
"Well, that job's done at last," said he. "The room's clean and quiet, and we can't do better than take a twist at the cards. So let's have a pack, and play your best, d'ye mind."
This was addressed to Ashwoode, who, of course, acquiesced.
"Oh, bloody wars, I'm in for it," murmured Larry, "they'll be playin' here to no end, and I smothering fast, as it is; I'll never come out iv this pisition with my life."
Few situations could indeed be conceived physically more uncomfortable. A shelf projecting about midway pressed him forward, exerting anything but a soothing influence upon the backbone, so that his whole weight rested against the door of his narrow prison, and was chiefly sustained by his breast-bone and chin. In this very constrained attitude, and afraid to relieve his fatigue by moving even in the very slightest degree, lest some accidental noise should excite suspicion and betray his presence, the ill-starred squire remained; his discomforts still further enhanced by the pouring of some pickles, which had been overturned upon an upper shelf, in cool streams of vinegar down his back.
"I could not have betther luck," murmured he. "I never discoorsed a famale yet, but I paid through the nose for it. Didn't I get enough iv romance, bad luck to it, an' isn't it a plisint pisition I'm in at last – locked up in an ould cupboard in the wall, an' fairly swimming in vinegar. Oh, the women, the women. I'd rather than every stitch of cloth on my back, I walked out clever an' clane to meet the young masther, and not let myself be boxed up this way, almost dying with the cramps and the snuffication. Oh, them women, them women!"
Thus mourned our helpless friend in inarticulate murmurings. Meanwhile young Ashwoode opened two or three drawers in search of a pack of cards.
"There are several, I know, in that locker," said Ashwoode. "I laid some of them there myself."
"This one?" inquired Blarden, making the interrogatory by a sharp application of the head of his cane to the very panel against which Larry's chin was resting. The shock, the pain, and the exaggerated loudness of the application caused the inmate of the press, in spite of himself, to ejaculate, —
"Oh, holy Pether!"
"Did you hear anything queer?" inquired Blarden, with some consternation. "Anyone calling out?"
"No," said Ashwoode.
"Well, see what the nerves is," cried Blarden, "by – , I'd have bet ten to one I heard a voice in the wall the minute I hit that locker door – this – weather don't agree with me."
This sentence he wound up by administering a second knock where he had given the first; and Larry, with set teeth and a grin, which in a horse-collar would have won whole pyramids of gingerbread, nevertheless bore it this time with the silent stoicism of a tortured Indian.
"The nerves is a – quare piece of business," observed Mr. Blarden – a philosophical remark in which Larry heartily concurred – "but get the cards, will you – what the – is all the delay about?"
In obedience to Ashwoode's summons, Mistress Betsy Carey entered the room.
"Carey," said he, "open that press and take out two or three packs of cards."
"I can't open the locker," replied she, readily, "for the young mistress put the key astray, sir – I'll run and look for it, if you please, sir."
"God bless you," murmured Larry, with fervent gratitude.
"Hand me that bunch of keys from under your apron," said Blarden, "ten to one we'll find some one among them that'll open it."
"There's no use in trying, sir," replied the girl, very much alarmed, "it's a pitiklar soart of a lock, and has a pitiklar key – you'll ruinate it, sir, if you go for to think to open it with a key that don't fit it, so you will – I'll run and look for it if you please, sir."
"Give me that bunch of keys, young woman; give them, I tell you," exclaimed Blarden.
Thus constrained, she reluctantly gave the keys, and among them the identical one to whose kind offices Mr. O'Toole owed his present dignified privacy.
"Come in here, Chancey," said Mr. Blarden, addressing that gentleman, who happened at that moment to be crossing the hall – "take these keys here and try if any of them will pick that lock."
Chancey accordingly took the keys, and mounting languidly upon a chair, began his operations.
It were not easy to describe Mr. Toole's emotions as these proceedings were going forward – some of the keys would not go in at all – others went in with great difficulty, and came out with as much – some entered easily, but refused to turn, and during the whole of these various attempts upon his "dungeon keep," his mental agonies grew momentarily more and more intense, so much so that he was repeatedly prompted to precipitate the dénouement, by shouting his confession from within. His heart failed him, however, and his resolution grew momentarily feebler and more feeble – he would have given worlds at that moment that he could have shrunk into the pickle-pot, whose contents were then streaming down his back – gladly would he have compounded for escape at the price of being metamorphosed for ever into a gherkin. His prayers were, however, unanswered, and he felt his inevitable fate momentarily approaching.
"This one will do it – I declare to God I have it at last," drawled Chancey, looking lazily at a key which he held in his hand; and then applying it, it found its way freely into the key-hole.
"Bravo, Gordy, by – ," cried Blarden, "I never knew you fail yet – you're as cute as a pet fox, you are."
Mr. Blarden had hardly finished this flattering eulogium, when Chancey turned the key in the lock: with astonishing violence the doors burst open, and Larry Toole, Mr. Chancey, and the chair on which he was mounted, descended with the force of a thunderbolt on the floor. In sheer terror, Chancey clutched the interesting stranger by the throat, and Larry, in self-defence, bit the lawyer's thumb, which had by a trifling inaccuracy entered his mouth, and at the same time, with both his hands, dragged his nose in a lateral direction until it had attained an extraordinary length and breadth. In equal terror and torment the two combatants rolled breathless along the floor; the charming Betsy Carey screamed murder, robbery, and fire – while Ashwoode and Blarden both started to their feet in the extremest amazement.
"How the devil did you get into that press?" exclaimed Ashwoode, as soon as the rival athletes had been separated and placed upon their feet, addressing Larry Toole.
"Oh! the robbing villain," ejaculated Mistress Betsy Carey – "don't suffer nor allow him to speak – bring him to the pump, gentlemen – oh! the lying villain – kick him out, Mr. Chancey – thump him, Sir Henry – don't spare him, Mr. Blarden – turn him out, gentlemen all – he's quite aperiently a robber – oh! blessed hour, but it's I that ought to be thankful – what in the world wide would I do if he came powdering down on me, the overbearing savage!"
"Och! murder – the cruelty iv women!" ejaculated Larry, reproachfully – "oh! murdher, beautiful Betsy."
"Don't be talking to me, you sneaking, skulking villain," cried Mistress Carey, vehemently, "you must have stole the key, so you must, and locked yourself up, you frightful baste. For goodness gracious sake, gentlemen, don't keep him talking here – he's dangerous – the Turk."
"Oh! the villainy iv women!" repeated Larry, with deep pathos.
A brief cross-examination of Mistress Carey and of Larry Toole sufficed to convict the fair maiden of her share in concealing the prisoner.
"Now, Mr. Toole," said Ashwoode, addressing that personage, "you have been once before turned out of this house for misconduct – I tell you, that if you do not make good use of your time, and run as fast as your best exertions will enable you, you shall have abundant reason to repent it, for in five minutes more I will set the dogs after you; and if ever I find you here again, I will have you ducked in the horse-pond for a full hour – depart, sirrah – away – run."
Larry did not require any more urgent remonstrances to induce him to expedite his retreat – he made a contrite bow to Sir Henry – cast a look of melancholy reproach at the beautiful Betsy, who, with a heightened colour, was withdrawing from the scene, and then with sudden nimbleness, effected his retreat.
