The old dog looked wonderingly in the face of his mistress.

"Home, Rover--home," repeated she, and the n.o.ble 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 gra.s.sy 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 hors.e.m.e.n 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 pa.s.s on."

With a throbbing heart, Mary obeyed her companion, and they walked side by side by the edge of the gra.s.sy 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 pa.s.sing 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 hors.e.m.e.n, 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 h.e.l.lish 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 antic.i.p.ated 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 coa.r.s.e 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 att.i.tude, 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.

CHAPTER LX.

THE UNTREASURED CHAMBER.

Their obstreperous summons at the door was speedily answered, and the two cavaliers stood in the hall.

"Well, all's right, I suppose?" inquired Blarden, tossing his gloves and hat upon the table.

"Yes, sir," replied the servant, "all but the lady's maid; Mr.

Chancey's been calling for her these five minutes and more, and we can't find her."

"How's this--all the doors locked?" inquired Blarden vehemently.

"Ay, sir, every one of them," replied the man.

"Who has the keys?" asked Blarden.

"Mr. Chancey, sir," replied the servant.

"Did he allow them out of his keeping--did he?" urged Blarden.

"No, sir--not a moment--for he was saying this very minute," answered the domestic, "he had them in his pocket, and the key of Miss Mary's room along with them; he took it from Flora Guy, the maid, scarce a quarter of an hour ago."

"Then all _is_ right," said Blarden, while the momentary blackness of suspicion pa.s.sed from his face, "the girl's in some hole or corner of this lumbering old barrack, but here comes Chancey himself, what's all the fuss about--who's in the upper room--the--the boudoir, eh?" he continued, addressing the barrister, who was sneaking downstairs with a candle in his hand, and looking unusually sallow.

"The Reverend Ebenezer and one of the lads--they're sitting there,"

answered Chancey, "but we can't find that little girl, Flora Guy, anywhere."

"Have you the keys?" asked Blarden.

"Ay, dear me, to be sure I have, except the one that I gave to little Bat there, to let you in this minute. I have the three other keys; dear me--dear me--what could ail me?" And so saying, Chancey slapped the skirt of his coat slightly so as to make them jingle in his pocket.

"The windows are all fast and safe as the wall itself--screwed down,"