"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 ap.r.o.n 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, G.o.d 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 G.o.d, 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 G.o.d," 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 G.o.d's sake send my brother--bring him here--I must see Sir Henry, your master--quickly, Carey--for G.o.d'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 antic.i.p.ation, 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. G.o.d 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 G.o.d'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 a.s.sured.

"Do you be but true to me; stay by my side in this season of my sorest trouble; and may G.o.d 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! G.o.d 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!"