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 OF THE 
 U N 1VER.51TY 
 or ILLINOIS 
 
 V I 
 
~^EX££i OF J. 
 
 S. LEFAXa, ESQ. 
 Wl' rc^et to announcs Hiak J. S. LeFann, Esq , 
 the distinguisheJ IrioJ uoTelist, dictl yesterday 
 moraing at liis residenctf in Meniou-sfiuare. Mr. 
 LeFanu's name has been for many years identified 
 with works of the highest literai-y merit, and his loss 
 will be deeply felt by a large circle of personal friends. 
 He Avaa a raembsr o! the I>-r, but from an early 
 period of life devoted himsoif to the Press, a pursuit 
 more con,^enial to his tastes and habits. He was 
 editor and chief proprietor of the Warder in its 
 palmy days, and subseriaently for some years of th€ 
 Eceminj jl/act/, and wroiie ^vith a brilliaocy and power 
 which were fully recognizid. He was a contributor 
 to the DubllH University Magazine at a time when it 
 wof tally maintained the ^reputation of the great seat 
 of scholarjihip, from whir-h it dL-rived its name. He 
 afterwagds became proprietor of it, bnt his other 
 pursuits distmcted his attoatioH, and prevented 
 the applicaUon of the ;:e«l and enterprise which 
 are essential to the %iccss3 of a jxiriodical 
 claimiiig to rank with the higher migaziues of the 
 day. Mr. LeFanu, in other paths of Iteijafcure, w»n 
 the highest distinction. He was ;the author of a 
 number of uoveJs, which were highly esteemed, and 
 some of tlhem have outlived many of their ablest 
 oompetitors. He was thoroughly acquainted with 
 Ireland, and presented its people with aU their varied 
 characteristics in a higher and truer light than 
 others who had undertaken to depict them. Besides 
 these works, he ^.vi-ote many pL.;ces In prose and 
 verse, which bore the stamp of his intellectual versa- 
 tility and vigour, whither in their genial 
 pleasantly, their subtle humom-, or satiric power. 
 Though he lived in Uterary sei-iision. and shrank 
 fi'om the prominence of forensic display, he possessed 
 qualities which would have obtained for liim high 
 distinction in pubfic life had he applied himself to 
 the study of his profession, or the active pursuit of 
 politics. He was a frequent speaker at the meetings 
 of the old Conservative Society, when it met in the 
 rooms now occupied by the Royal Irish Academy, in 
 D^wson-street, and divided with Mr. Butt — then an 
 ardent Conservative — the honours awarded to fenid 
 and effective eloquence. After devotmg himself, 
 however, to the Press, he abandoned the open field of 
 politics, and found mere agreeable occupation in a 
 purely literary life. Mr. Le Fauu was in his 58th 
 year. He was son of a dignitary of the Church of 
 Ireland (the Dean of Emly), and brother of W. Le 
 Fanu, Esq., Commissioner of Public Works. 
 
j 
 
 Digitized by the Internet Archive ] 
 
 in 2010 with funding from 1 
 
 University of Illinois Urbana-Champaign ] 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/cockanchorbeingc01lefa 
 
« 
 
« 
 
 # 
 
THE 
 
 COCK AND ANCHOR, 
 
 (JTj^ronule of (BVa Buhlin iilitj?. 
 
 IX THREE VOLUMES. 
 
 YOL. J. 
 
 DUBLIN 
 ^VILLIAM CURRY, JUN. AND COMPANY. 
 
 LONOMAN, BROWN, GREEN, AND LONGMANS, LONDON. 
 FRA8RS AND CO , EDINBURGH. 
 
 1845. 
 
thi'.iltm Priftted by J. S. Toin* aad ?«r». d Bacbrioi'v-wjift. 
 
223 
 
 A CHRONICLE 
 
 THE COCK AND ANCHOE. 
 
 ^ 
 
 ^ 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 mi 
 
 g THE COCK AND ANCHOR ITSELF TWO HOESEMEX AND A 
 
 ^ SUPPEK BY THE IX.V FIKE. 
 
 _J 
 
 Some time within the first ten years of the 
 last century, there stood in the fair city of 
 Dublin, and in one of those sinuous and 
 narrow streets which lay in the immediate 
 vicinity of the castle, a goodly and capacious 
 hostelr}^, snug and sound, and withal canying 
 in its aspect something staid and aristocratic, 
 and perhaps in nowise the less comfortable 
 that it was rated, in point of fashion, some- 
 what obsolete. Its structure was quaint and 
 antique ; so much so, that had its counter- 
 part presented itself within the precincts of 
 
 VOL. I. B 
 
2 THE COCK AND ANCHOR. [chap. i. 
 
 *' the Borougli," it might fairly have passed 
 itself off for the genuine old Tabard of Geoffry 
 Chaucer. 
 
 The front of the building, facing the street, 
 rested upon a row of massive wooden blocks, 
 set endwise, at intervals of some six or eight 
 feet, and running parallel at about the same 
 distance, to the wall of the lower stoiy of the 
 house, thus forming a kind of rude cloister 
 or open corridor, running the whole length 
 of the building. 
 
 The spaces between these rude pillars were, 
 by a light frame-work of timber, converted 
 into a succession of arches ; and by an appli- 
 cation of the same ornamental process, the 
 ceiling of this extended porch was made to 
 carry a clumsy but not unpicturesque imita- 
 tion of groining. Upon this open-work of 
 timber, as we have already said, rested the 
 second story of the building ; protruding beyond 
 which again, and supported upon beams whose 
 projecting ends were carved into the semblance 
 of heads hideous as the fantastic monsters of 
 heraldry, arose the third story, presenting a 
 
CHAP. I.] THE TWO HORSEMEN. J 
 
 series of tall and fancifully -shaped gables, 
 decorated, like the rest of the building, with 
 an abundance of grotesque timber-work. A 
 wide passage, opening under the corridor which 
 we have described, gave admission into the 
 inn yard, surrounded partly by the building 
 itself, and partly by the stables and other 
 offices connected with it. Viewed from a 
 little distance, the old fabric presented by no 
 means an unsightly or ungraceful aspect : on 
 the contrary, its very irregularities and anti- 
 quity, however in reality objectionable, gave 
 to it an air of comfort and almost of dignity 
 to which many of its more pretending and 
 modern competitors might in vain have aspired. 
 Whether it was, that from the first the sub- 
 stantial fabric had asserted a conscious supe- 
 riority over all the minor tenements which 
 sun'ounded it, or that they in modest deference 
 had gradually conceded to it the prominence 
 which it deserved — whether, in short, it had 
 always stood foremost, or that the street had 
 slightly altered its course and gradually re- 
 ceded, leaving it behind, an immemorial and 
 
4 THE COCK AND ANCHOR. [cuAf. i. 
 
 immovable landmark by •which to measure 
 the encroachments of ages — certain it is, that 
 at the time we speak of, the sturdy hostelry 
 stood many feet in advance of the line of 
 houses which flanked it on either side, nar- 
 rowinor the street with a most aristocratic 
 indifference to the comforts of the pedestrian 
 public, thus forced to shift for life and limb, 
 as best they might, among the vehicles and 
 horses which then thronged the city streets — 
 no doubt too, often by the very difficulties 
 which it presented, entrapping the over-cautious 
 passenger, who preferred entering the harbour 
 which its hospitable and capacious doorway 
 offered, to encountering all the perils involved 
 in doubling the point. 
 
 Such as we have attempted to describe it, 
 the old building stood more than a century 
 since ; and when the level sunbeams at even- 
 tide glinted brightly on its thousand miniature 
 window panes, and upon the broad hanging 
 panel, which bore, in the brightest hues and 
 richest gilding, the portraiture of a Cock and 
 Anchor ; and when the warm, discoloured glow 
 
CHAP. I.] THE TWO HOIISKMEN. 5 
 
 of sunset touched the time-worn front of the 
 old building witli a rich and cheery blush, 
 even the most fastidious would have allowed 
 that the object was no unpleasing one. 
 
 A dark autumnal night had closed over 
 the old city of Dublin, and the wind was 
 blustering in hoarse gusts through the crowded 
 chimney-stacks — careering desolately through 
 the dim streets, and occasionally whirling some 
 loose tile or fragment of plaster from the house 
 tops — the streets were silent and deserted, 
 except when occasionally traversed by some 
 great man's can-iage, thundering and clattering 
 along the broken pavement, and by its passing 
 glare and rattle making the succeeding dark- 
 ness and silence but the more dreary. None 
 stirred abroad who could avoid it ; and with 
 the exception of such rare interruptions as we 
 have mentioned, the storm and darkness held 
 undisputed possession of the city. Upon this 
 ungenial night, and somewhat past the hour 
 of ten, a well-mounted traveller rode into the 
 narrow and sheltered yard of the " Cock and 
 Anchor ;" and having bestowed upon the groom 
 
b THE COCK AND ANCHOR. [chap. i. 
 
 who took the bridle of his steed such minute 
 and anxious directions as betokened a kind 
 and knightly tenderness for the comforts of 
 his good beast, he forthwith entered the public 
 room of the inn — a large and comfortable 
 chamber, having at the far end a huge hearth 
 overspanned by a broad and lofty mantel-piece 
 of stone, and now sending forth a warm and 
 ruddy glow, which penetrated in genial streams 
 to every recess and corner of the room, tinging 
 the dark wainscoating of the walls, glinting 
 red and brightly upon the burnished tankards 
 and flagons with which the cupboard was laden, 
 and playing cheerily over the massive beams 
 which traversed the ceiling. Groups of men, 
 variously occupied and variously composed, 
 embracing all the usual company of a well- 
 frequented city tavern — from the staid and 
 sober man of business, who smokes his pipe 
 in peace, to the loud, disputatious, half-tipsy 
 town idler, who calls for more flagons than 
 he can well reckon, and then quarrels with 
 mine host about the shot — were disposed, some 
 singly, others in social clusters, in cosey and 
 
CHAP. I.] THE TWO HORSEMEN. / 
 
 luxurious ease at the stout oak tables which 
 occupied the expansive chamber. Among these 
 the stranger passed leisurely to a vacant table 
 in the neighbourhood of the good fire, and 
 seating himself thereat, doffed his hat and 
 cloak, thereby exhibiting a finely proportioned 
 and graceful figure, and a face of singular 
 nobleness and beauty. He might have seen 
 some thirty summers — perhaps less — but his 
 dai'k and expressive featm'es bore a character 
 of resolution and of melancholy which seemed 
 to tell of more griefs and perils overpast than 
 men so young in the world can generally count. 
 The ncAv comer having thi'own his hat and 
 gloves upon the table at which he had placed 
 himself, stretched his stalworth limbs toward 
 the fire in the full enjoyment of its genial 
 influence, and advancing the heels of his huge 
 jack boots nearly to the bars, he seemed for 
 a time wholly lost in the comfortable contem- 
 plation of the red embers, which flickered, 
 glowed, and shifted before his eyes. From 
 his quiet reverie he w^as soon recalled by mine 
 host in person, who, with all courtesy, desired 
 
THE COCK AND ANCHOR. [chap. i. 
 
 to know "whether his honour wished supper 
 and a bed ?" Both questions were promptly 
 answered in the affirmative; and before many 
 minutes the young horseman was deep in the 
 discussion of a glorious pasty, flanked by a 
 flagon of claret, such as he had seldom tasted 
 before. He had scarcely concluded his meal, 
 when another traveller, cloaked, booted, and 
 spurred, and carrying under his arm a pair of 
 long horse pistols, and a heavy wliip, entered 
 the apartment, walked straight up to the fire- 
 place, and having obtained permission of the 
 cavalier already established there to take share 
 of his table, he deposited thereon the formidable 
 weapons which he carried, cast his hat, gloves 
 and cloak upon the floor, and threw himself 
 luxuriously into a capacious leather-bottomed 
 chair which confronted the cheery fire. 
 
 *' A bleak night, sir, and a dark, for a ride 
 of twenty miles," observed the stranger, ad- 
 dressing the younger guest. 
 
 " I can the more readily agree with you, sir," 
 replied the latter, " seeing that I myself have 
 ridden nigh forty, and am but just arrived." 
 
CHAF I.] Tin: TWO HORSEMEN. ■ \f 
 
 **Whew! that beats me hollow," cried the 
 other, with a kind of self-congratulatory shrug. 
 " You see, sir, we never know how to thank 
 our stars for the luck we have until we come 
 to learn what luck we might have had. 1 
 rode from Wicklow — pray, sir, if it be not too 
 bold a question, what line did you travel ?" 
 
 " The Cork road." 
 
 '• Ha ! that's an ugly line they say to travel 
 by night. You met with no interruption ?" 
 
 " Troth but I did, sir," replied the young 
 man, '' and none of the pleasantest either. I 
 was stopped, and put in no small peril, too." 
 
 " How ! stopped — stopped on the highway ! 
 By the mass, you outdo me in every point ! 
 Would you, sir, please to favour me, if 'twere 
 not too much trouble, with the facts of the 
 adventure — the particulars ?" 
 
 "Faith, sir," rejoined the young man, "as 
 far as my knowledge serves me, you are wel- 
 come to them all. AVhen 1 was still about 
 twelve miles from this, I was joined from a 
 bye-road by a well-mounted, and (as far as 1 
 could discern) a respectable-looking traveller, 
 
 B 2 
 
10 THE COCK AND ANCHOR. [chap. i. 
 
 who told me he rode for Dublm, and asked 
 to join company by the way. I assented ; 
 and we jogged on pleasantly enough for some 
 two or three miles. It was very dark " 
 
 " As pitch," ejaculated the stranger, paren- 
 thetically. 
 
 '*And what little scope of vision I might 
 have had," continued the younger travellei', 
 "was well nigh altogether obstructed by the 
 constant flapping of my cloak, blown by the 
 storm over my face and eyes. I suddenly 
 became conscious that we had been joined by 
 a third horseman, who, in total silence, rode 
 at my other side." 
 
 '' How and when did he come up with 
 you?" 
 
 " I can't say," replied the narrator — " nor 
 did his presence give me the smallest uneasiness. 
 He who had joined me first, all at once called 
 out that his stirrup strap was broken, and 
 hallo'd to me to rein in until he should repair 
 the accident. This I had hardly done, when 
 some fellow, whom I had not seen, sprung from 
 behind upon my horse, and clasped my arms so 
 
CHAF. I.] THE T^VO HORSEMEN 
 
 u 
 
 tightly to my body, that so far from making use 
 of them, I could hardly breathe. The scoundrel 
 who had dismounted caught my horse by the 
 head and held him firmly, while my hitherto 
 silent companion clapped a pistol to my ear." 
 
 " The devil !" exclaimed the elder man — 
 "that was check-mate with a vengeance." 
 
 "Why, in truth, so it turned out," rejoined 
 his companion; "though I confess my first 
 impulse was to balk the gentlemen of the 
 road, at any hazard ; and with this view I 
 plied my spurs rowel deep, but the rascal 
 who held the bridle was too old a hand to 
 be shaken off by a plunge or two. He swung 
 with his whole weight to the bit, and literally 
 brought poor Kowley's nose within an inch of 
 the road. Finding that resistance was utterly 
 vain, and not caring to squander what little 
 brains I have upon so paltry an adventure, I 
 acknowledged the jurisdiction of the gentle- 
 man's pistol, and replied to his questions." 
 
 " You proved your sound sense by so doing," 
 observed the other. " But what was their 
 purpose ?" 
 
12 THE COCK AND ANCHOR. [chap, i, 
 
 '' As for as I could gather," replied the 
 younger man, 'Hhey were upon the look-out 
 for some particular person, I cannot say whom ; 
 for, either satisfied by my answers, or having 
 otherwise discovered their mistake, they released 
 me without taking any thing from me but my 
 sword, which, however, I regret much, for it 
 was my father's ; and having blown the priming 
 from my pistols, they wished me the best of 
 good luck, and so we parted, without the 
 smallest desu-e on my part to renew the in- 
 timacy. And now, sir, you know just as much 
 of the matter as I do myself." 
 
 " And a very serious matter it is, too," 
 observed tlie stranger, with an emphatic nod. 
 " Landlord ! a pint of mulled claret — and spice 
 it as I taught you — d'ye mind ? A very grave 
 matter — do you think you could possibly identify 
 those men ?" 
 
 '^ Identify them ! how the devil could I? — 
 it was dark as pitch — a cat could not have seen 
 them." 
 
 "But was there no mark — no peculiarity 
 discernible, even in the dense obscurity — 
 
CHAP. I.] THE TWO HORSEMEN. 13 
 
 nothing about any of them, such as you mi gin 
 know again ?" 
 
 "Nothing — the very outUne was indistinct. 
 I could merely see that they were shaped Uke 
 men." 
 
 *' Truly, truly, that is much to be lamented," 
 said the elder gentleman ; '' though, fifty to 
 one," he added, devoutly, " they'll hang one 
 day or another — let that console us. Mean- 
 time, here comes the claret." 
 
 So saying, the new comer rose from his seat, 
 coolly removed his black matted peruke from 
 his shorn head, and replaced it by a dark velvet 
 cap, Avhich he dre^v from some mysterious nook 
 in his breeches pocket ; then, hanging the wig 
 upon the back of his chair, he wheeled the 
 seat round to the table, and for the first time 
 offered to his companion an opportunity of 
 looking him fairly in the face. If he were a 
 beHever in the influence of first impressions, 
 he had certainly acted wisely in defen-ing the 
 exhibition until the accjuaintance had made 
 some progress, for his countenance was, in 
 sober truth, anything but attractive — a pair 
 
14 THE COCK AND ANCHOR. [chap. i. 
 
 of grizzled brows overshadowed eyes of quick 
 and piercing black, rather small, and unusually 
 restless and vivid — the mouth was wide, 
 and the jaw so much underhung as to amount 
 almost to a deformity, giving to the lower 
 part of the face a character of resolute ferocity 
 which was not at all softened by the keen 
 fiery glance of his eye — a massive projecting 
 forehead, marked over the brow Avith a deep 
 scar, and furrowed by years and thought, added 
 not a little to the stern and commanding ex- 
 pression of the face. The complexion was 
 swarthy ; and altogether the countenance was 
 one of that sinister and unpleasant kind Avhich 
 the imagination associates with scenes of cruelty 
 and terror, and which might appropriately take a 
 prominent place in the foreground of a feverish 
 dream. The young traveller had seen too many 
 ugly sights, in the course of a roving life of 
 danger and adventure, to remember for a mo- 
 ment the impression which his new companion's 
 visage was calculated to produce. They chatted 
 together freely ; and the elder (who, by the 
 way, exhibited no very strong Irish peculiarities 
 
CHAP, i] THE TWO HORSEMEN. 15 
 
 of accent or idiom, any more than did the other) 
 when he bid his companion good night, left him 
 under the impression that, however forbidding 
 his aspect might be, his physical disadvantages 
 were more than counterbalanced by the shreA\'d, 
 quick sagacity, coiTcct judgment, and wide 
 range of experience, of which he appeared pos- 
 sessed. 
 
in THE COCK AND ANCHOR. [chap. ii. 
 
 CHAPTEE II. 
 
 A BED IN THE COCK. ANI* ANX'HOR A LANTEHN AND AN UGLY 
 
 VISITOR BY THE BED-SIDE. 
 
 Leaving the public room to such as chose to 
 push their revels beyond the modesty of mid- 
 night, our young friend betook himself to his 
 chamber ; where snugly deposited in one of 
 the snuggest beds which the «'Cock and An- 
 chor" aiForded, with the ample tapestry cur- 
 tains drawn from post to post, while the rude 
 wind buffet ted the casements and moaned 
 through the antique chimney-tops, he was 
 soon locked in the deep dreamless slumber of 
 fatigue. 
 
 How long this sweet oblivion may have 
 lasted it were not easy to say ; some hours, 
 however, had no doubt intervened, when tlie 
 sleeper was startled from his repose by a noise 
 at his chamber door. The latch was raised, 
 
CHAP. II.] THE LANTERN. 17 
 
 and some one bearing a shaded light entered 
 the room and cautiously closed the door again. 
 In the belief that the intruder was some guest 
 or domestic of the inn who either mistook the 
 room or was not aware of its occupation, the 
 young man coughed once or twice slightly in 
 token of his prer^ence, and observing that his 
 signal had not the desired effect, he inquired 
 rather sharply, 
 
 "Who is there?" 
 
 The only answer returned was a long 
 " Hist !" and forthwith the steps of the un- 
 seasonable visitor were directed to the bedside. 
 The person thus disturbed had hardly time to 
 raise himself half upright when the curtains 
 at one side were drawn apart, and by the im- 
 perfect light which forced its way through 
 the horn enclosure of a lantern, he beheld 
 the bronzed and sinister features of his fire- 
 side companion of the previous evening. The 
 stranger was arrayed for the road, with his 
 cloak and cocked hat on. Both parties, the 
 visited and the visitor, for a time remained 
 silent and in the same fixed attitude. 
 
18 THE COCK AND ANCHOR. [chap. ii. 
 
 " Pray, sir," at length inquired the person 
 thus abruptly intruded upon, ^' to what spe- 
 cial good fortune do I owe this most unlooked- 
 for visit ?" 
 
 The elder man made no reply; but delibe- 
 rately planted the large dingy lantern which 
 he carried upon the bed in which the young 
 man lay. 
 
 " You have tarried somewhat too long over 
 the wine-cup," continued he, not a little pro- 
 voked at the coolness of the intruder. " This, 
 sir, is not your chamber ; seek it elsewhere. I 
 am in no mood to bandy jests. You will con- 
 sult your own ease as Avell as mine by quitting 
 this room with all dispatch." 
 
 " Young gentleman," replied the elder man 
 in a low firm tone, *' I have used short cere- 
 mony in disturbing you thus. To judge from 
 your face you are no less frank than hardy. 
 You will not require apologies when you have 
 heard me. When I last night sate with you 
 I observed about you a token long since fami- 
 liar to me as the light — you wear it on your 
 finojer — it is a diamond rin<?. That rins: be- 
 
CHAP. II.] THE LANTERN. 19 
 
 longed to a dear friend of mine — an old com- 
 rade and a tried friend in an hundred griefs and 
 perils : the owner was Richard O'Connor. I 
 have not lieard from him for ten years or more. 
 Can you say how he fares ?" 
 
 " The brave soldier and good man you have 
 named was my father," replied the young man 
 mom-nfuUy. 
 
 " JVas r repeated the stranger. •' Is he 
 then no more — is he dead ?" 
 
 *' Even so," replied the young man sadly. 
 
 *' I knew it — I felt it. When I saw that 
 jewel last night something smote at my heart 
 and told me, that tlie hand that wore it once 
 was cold. Ah me ! it was a fiiendly and a 
 brave hand. Through all the wars of King 
 James" (and so saying he touched his hat) 
 '' we were together, companions in arms and 
 bosom friends. He was a comely man and a 
 strong; no haixlship tired him, no difficulty 
 dismayed him ; and the merriest fellow he was 
 that ever trod on Irish ground. Poor O'Con- 
 nor ! in exile ; away, far away from the coun- 
 try he loved so well ; among foreigners too. 
 
20 THE COCK AND ANCHOR. [chap. ii. 
 
 Well, well, wheresoever they have laid thee 
 there moulders not a truer nor a braver heart 
 in the fields of all the world." 
 
 He paused, sighed deeply, and then con- 
 tinued, 
 
 " Sorely, sorely are thine old comrades put 
 to it, day by day, and night by night, for com- 
 fort and for safety — sorely vexed and pillaged. 
 Nevertheless — over-ridden, and despised, and 
 scattered as we are, mercenaries and beggars 
 abroad, and landless at home — still something 
 whispers in my ear that there will come at last 
 a retribution, and such a one as will make this 
 perjured, corrupt, and robbing ascendancy a 
 warning and a wonder to all after times. Is 
 it a common thing, think you, that all the 
 gentlemen, all the chivalry of a v/hole country 
 — the natural leaders and protectors of the 
 people — should be stripped of their birthright, 
 ay, even of the poor privilege of seeing in this 
 their native country, strangers possessing the 
 inheritances which are in all right their own ; 
 cast abroad upon the world ; soldiers of fortune, 
 selling their blood for a bare subsistence ; many 
 
CHAP. II.] THE L.ANTERN. 21 
 
 of them dying of want ; and all because for 
 honour and conscience' sake they refused to 
 break the oath which bound them to a ruined 
 prince. Is it a slight thing, think you, to 
 visit with pains and penalties such as these, 
 men guilty of no crimes beyond those of fide- 
 lity and honour !" 
 
 The stranger said this with an intensity of 
 passion, to which the low tone in which he 
 spoke but gave an additional impressiveness. 
 After a short pause he again spoke — 
 
 " Young gentleman," said he, " you may 
 have heard your father — whom the saints re- 
 ceive ! — speak, when talking over old recol- 
 lections, of one Captain O'Hanlon, who shared 
 with him the most eventful scenes of a peri- 
 lous time. He may, I say, have spoken of 
 such a one." 
 
 '* He has spoken of him," replied the young 
 man ; ** often and kindly too." 
 
 "I am that man," continued the stranger ; 
 " your father's old friend and comi'ade ; and 
 right glad am I, seeing that I can never hope 
 to meet him more on this side the grave, to 
 
22 THE COCK AND ANCHOR. [chap. n. 
 
 renew, after a kind, a friendship which I much 
 prized, now in the person of his son. Give 
 me your hand, young gentleman : I pledge 
 you mine in the spirit of a tried and faithful 
 friendship. I inquire not what has brought 
 you to this unhappy country ; I am sure it 
 can be nothing which lies not within the eye 
 of honour, so I ask not concerning it ; but 
 on the contrary, I will tell you of myself 
 what may surprise you — what will, at least, 
 show that I am ready to trust you freely. 
 You were stopped to-night upon the Southern 
 road, some ten miles from this. It was / who 
 stopped you." 
 
 O'Connor made a sudden but involuntary 
 movement of menace ; but without regarding 
 it, O'Hanlon continued, 
 
 " You are astonished, perhaps shocked — you 
 look so ; but mind you, there is some difference 
 between stopping men on the highway, and 
 robbing them when you have stopped them. 
 I took you for one who we were informed 
 would pass that way, and about the same 
 hour — one who can-ied letters from a pre- 
 
CHAP. II.] THE LANTERN. 23 
 
 tended friend — one whom I have long sus- 
 pected, a half-feced, cold-hearted friend, carried 
 letters, I say, from such a one to the Castle 
 here ; to that malignant, perjured reprobate 
 and apostate, the so-called Lord Wharton — 
 as meet an ornament for a gibbet as ever yet 
 made a feast for the ravens. I was mistaken : 
 here is your sword ; and may you long wear 
 it as well as he from whom it was inherited." 
 Here he raised the weapon, the blade of which 
 he held in his hand, and the young man saw it 
 and the hilt flash and glitter in the dusky light. 
 " And take the advice of an old soldier, young 
 friend," continued O'Hanlon, '' and when you 
 are next, which I hope may not be for many a 
 long day, overpowered by odds and at their 
 mercy, do not by fruitless violence tempt them 
 to disable you by a simpler and less pleasant 
 process than that of merely taking your sword 
 and unpriming your pistols. Many a good 
 man has thrown away his life by such boyish 
 foolery. Upon the table by your bed you 
 will in the morning find your rapier, and God 
 grant that it and you may long prove fortunate 
 
24 THE COCK AND ANCHOR. [chap. ii. 
 
 companions." He was turning to go, but re- 
 collecting himself, he added, "One word before 
 I go. I am known here as Mr. Dwyer — re- 
 member the name, Dwyer — I am generally to 
 be heard of in this place. Should you at any 
 time during your stay in this city require the 
 assistance of a friend who has a cheerful wil- 
 lingness to serve you, and who is not perhaps 
 altogether destitute of power, you have only to 
 leave a billet in the hand of the keeper of this 
 inn, and if I be above ground it will reach 
 me — of course address it under the name I have 
 last mentioned — and so, young gentleman, fare 
 you well." So saying, he grasped the hand of 
 his new friend, shook it warmly, and then turn- 
 ing upon his heel strode swiftly to the door, 
 and so departed, leaving O'Connor with so 
 much abruptness as not to allow him time to 
 utter a question or remark on what had passed. 
 The excitement of the inter vicAv speedily 
 passed away, the fatigues of the preceding day 
 were persuasively seconded by the soothing 
 sound of the now abated wind and by the 
 utter darkness of the chamber, and the young 
 
CHAP. II.] THE LANTERN. 25 
 
 man was soon deep in the forgetfulness of sleep 
 once more. When the broad, red light of the 
 morning sun broke cheerily into Lis room, 
 streaming through the chinks of the old shut- 
 ters, and penetrating through the voluminous 
 folds of the vast curtains of rich, faded damask 
 which surmounted the huge hearse-like bed in 
 which he lay, so as to make its inmate aware 
 that the hour of repose was past and that of 
 action come, O'Connor remembered the cir- 
 cumstances of the interview w^hich had been 
 so strangely intruded upon him but as a dream ; 
 nor was it until he saw the SAvord which he had 
 believed uTCCoverably lost lying safely upon the 
 table, that he felt assured that the visit and its 
 purport were not the creation of his slumbering 
 fancy. In reply to his questions when he de- 
 scended, he was informed by mine host of the 
 " Cock and Anchor," that Mr. Dwyer had left 
 the inn-yard upon his stout hack, a good hour 
 before daybreak. 
 
 VOL. I. 
 
26 THE COCK AND ANCHOR. [chap. hi. 
 
 CHAPTEK III. 
 
 THE LITTLE MAN IN BLUE AND SILVER. 
 
 Among the loungers who loitered at the door 
 of the '' Cock and Anchor," as the day wore 
 on there appeared a personage, whom it behoves 
 us to describe. This was a small man, with 
 a very red face and little grey eyes — he wore 
 a cloth coat of sky blue, with here and there 
 a piece of silver lace, laid upon it without 
 much regard to symmetry ; for the scissors- 
 had evidently displaced far the greater part 
 of the original decorations, whose primitive 
 distribution might be traced by the greater 
 freshness of the otherwise faded cloth which 
 they had covered, as well as by some stray 
 threads, which stood like stubbles here and 
 there to mark the ravages of the sickle. One 
 hand was buried in the deep flap pocket of a 
 waistcoat of the same hue and material, and 
 
THE LITTLE MAN, ETC. 
 
 bearing also, in like manner, the evidences 
 of a very decided retrenchment in the article 
 of silver lace. These symptoms of economy, 
 however, in no degree abated the evident 
 admiration with which the wearer every noAv 
 and then stole a glance on what remained of its 
 pristine splendours — a glance which descended 
 not ungraciously upon a leg in whose fascina- 
 tions its owner reposed an implicit faith. His 
 right hand held a tobacco-pipe, which, although 
 its contents were not ignited, he carried with 
 a luxurious nonchalance ever and anon to the 
 corner of his mouth, where it afforded him 
 sundry imaginary puffs — a cheap and fanciful 
 luxury, in Avhich my Irisli readers need not 
 be told their humbler countrymen, fur lack of 
 better, are wont to indulge. He leaned against 
 one of the stout wooden pillars on which the 
 front of the building was reared, and interlarded 
 his economical pantomime of pipe-smoking with 
 familiar and easy conversation with certain of 
 the out-door servants of the inn — a familiarity 
 which argued not any sense of superiority pro- 
 portionate to the pretension of his attire. 
 
28 THE COCK AND ANCHOR. [chap. ar. 
 
 '« And so," said the little man, turning, with 
 an aristocratic ease, towards a stout fellow in a 
 jerkin, Avith bluff visage and folded arms, who 
 stood beside him, and addressing him in a most 
 melodious brogue — " and so, for sartain, you 
 have but ^ve single gintlemen in the house — 
 mind, I say single gintlemen — for, divil carry me 
 if ever I take up with a family again — it doesn't 
 answer — it don't shoot me — I was never made for 
 a family, nor a family for me — I can't stand their 
 
 b y regularity ; and," with a sigh of profound 
 
 sentiment, and lowering his voice, he added — 
 ''and, the maid-sarvants — no, divil a taste — 
 they don't answer — they don't shoot. My dis- 
 pisition, Tom, is tindher — tindher to imbecility 
 — I never see a petticoat but it flutters my heart 
 — the short and the long of it is, I'm ahvays 
 falling in love— and sometimes the passion is not 
 retaliated by the object, and more times it is — 
 but, in both cases, I'm aiqually the victim — for 
 my intintions is always honourable, and of 
 course nothin' comes of it. My life was fairly 
 frettin' away in a dhrame of passion among 
 the housemaids — I felt myself witherin' away 
 
CHAP. III.] THE LITTLE MAN, ETC. 29 
 
 like a flower in autumn — I was losing my relish 
 for every thing, from bacon and table-dhrink 
 upwards — dangers were thickening round me — 
 I had but one way to execrate myself — I gave 
 notice — I departed, and here I am." 
 
 Having wound up the sentence, the speaker 
 leaned forward and spat passionately on the 
 ground — a pause ensued, which was at length 
 broken by the same speaker. 
 
 " Only two out of the five," said he, reflec- 
 tively, "only two unprovided with sarvants." 
 
 *' And neither of 'em," rejoined Tom, a blunt 
 English groom, " very likely to want one. 
 The one is a la-wyer, with a hack as lean as 
 himself, and more holes, I warrant, than half- 
 pence in his breeches pocket. He's out a-looking 
 for lodgings, I take it." 
 
 *' He's not exactly what I want," rejoined 
 the little man. " What's th'other like ?" 
 
 " A gentleman, every inch, or Fm no judge," 
 replied the groom. " He came last night, and 
 as likely a bit of horseflesh under him as ever 
 my two hands wisped down. He chucked me 
 
30 THE COCK AND ANCHOR. [ciiai'. hi, 
 
 a crown piece this morning, as if it had been 
 no more nor a cockle shell — he did." 
 
 "By gorra, he'll do I" exclaimed the little man, 
 energetically. " It's a bargain — I'm his man." 
 
 "Ay, but you mayn't answer, brother; he 
 mayn't take you," observed Tom. 
 
 " Wait a hit— jist wait a bit, till he sees me." 
 replied he of the blue coat. 
 
 " Ay, wait a bit," persevered the groom, 
 coolly — " wait a bit, and when he does see 
 you, it strikes me wery possible he mayn't like 
 your cut." 
 
 "Not like my cut!" exclaimed the little 
 man, as soon as he had recovered breath ; for 
 the bare supposition of such an occurrence 
 involved in his opinion so utter and astounding 
 a contradiction of all the laAvs by which human 
 antipathies and affections are supposed to be 
 regulated, that he felt for a moment as if his 
 wdiole previous existence had been a dream and 
 an illusion. " Not like my cut T' 
 
 " No," rejoined the groom, with perfect im- 
 perturbability. 
 
CHAP. Ill] THE LITTLE MAN, ETC. 31 
 
 The little man deigned no other reply than 
 that conveyed in a glance of the most inex- 
 pressible contempt, which, having wandered 
 over the person and accoutrements of the 
 unconscious Tom, at length settled upon his 
 own lower extremities, where it gradually 
 softened into a gaze of melancholy complacency, 
 while he muttered, with a pitying smile, '* Not 
 like my cut — not like it I" and then, turning 
 majestically toward the groom, he observed, 
 with laconic dignity — 
 
 " I humbly consave the gintleman has an eye 
 in his head." 
 
 This rebuke had hardly been administered, 
 when the subject of their conference in person 
 passed from the inn into the street. 
 
 '' There he goes," observed Tom. 
 
 " And here / go after him," added the can- 
 didate for place ; and in a moment he was 
 following O'Connor with rapid steps through 
 the narrow streets of the town, southward. 
 It occuiTcd to him, as he hurried after his 
 intended master, that it might not be amiss 
 to defer his mterview until they were out of 
 
32 THE COCK AND ANCHOR. [chap. hi. 
 
 the streets, and in some more quiet place ; 
 nor in all probability would he have disturbed 
 himself at all to follow the young gentleman, 
 were it not that even in the transient glimpse 
 which he had had of the person and features 
 of O'Connor, the little man thought, and by 
 no means incorrectly, that he recognized the 
 form of one whom he had often seen before. 
 
 '' That's Mr. O'Connor, as sure as my name's 
 Larry Toole," muttered the little man, half 
 out of breath with his exertions — " an' its him- 
 self '11 be proud to get me. I wondher what 
 he's afther now. I'll soon see, at any rate." 
 
 Thus communing within himself, Larry alter- 
 nately walked and trotted to keep the chace in 
 view. He might very easily have come up 
 with the object of his pursuit, for on reaching 
 St. Patrick's Cathedral, O'Connor paused, and 
 for some minutes contemplated the old building. 
 Larry, however, did not care to commence his 
 intended negociation in the street; he pur- 
 posed giving him rope enough, having, in 
 truth, no peculiar object in following him at 
 that precise moment, beyond the gratification 
 
CHAP. III.] THE LITTLE MAN, ETC. iVS 
 
 of an idle curiosity ; he, therefore, hung back 
 until O'Connor was again in motion, when he 
 once more renewed his pursuit. 
 
 O'Connor had soon passed the smoky pre- 
 cincts of the town, and was now walking at 
 a slackened pace among the gi'een fields and the 
 trees, all clothed in the rich melancholy hues of 
 early autumn. The evening sun was already 
 throwing its mellow tint on all the landscape, and 
 the lengthening shadows told how far the day 
 was spent. In the transition from the bustle of a 
 town to the lonely quiet of the country at even- 
 tide, and especially at that season of the year 
 when decay begins to sadden the beauties of 
 nature, there is something at once soothing and 
 unutterably melancholy. Leaving behind the 
 glare, and dust, and hubbub of the toAvn, who 
 has not felt in his inmost heart the still appeal 
 of nature ? The saddened beauty of sear 
 autumn, enhanced by the rich and subdued 
 light of gorgeous sunset — the filmy mist — the 
 stretching shadows — the serene quiet, broken 
 only by rural sounds, more soothing even than 
 silence — all these, contrasted with the sounds 
 
 c 2 
 
34 THE COCK AND ANCHOR. [chap. in. 
 
 and siglits of the close, restless city, speak 
 teoderly and solemnly to the heart of man of 
 the beauty of creation, of the goodness of God, 
 and, along with these, of the mom^nfLd condi- 
 tion of all nature — change, decay, and death. 
 Such thoughts and feelings, stealing in succes- 
 sion upon the heart, touch, one by one, the 
 springs of all our sublimest sympathies, and 
 fill the mind with the beautiful sense of brother- 
 hood, under God, Avith all nature. Under the 
 not unpleasing influence of such suggestions, 
 O'Connor slackened his pace to a slow, irregular 
 Avalk, which sorely tried the patience of honest 
 Larry Toole. 
 
 "After all," exclaimed that worthy, "it's 
 nothin' more nor less than an evening walk 
 lie's takin', God bless the mark I What busi- 
 ness have I follyin' him ? unless — see — sure 
 enough he's takin' the short cut to the manor. 
 By gorra, this is worth mindin' — I must not 
 folly him, however — I don't want to meet the 
 family — so here I'll plant myself until sich times 
 as he's comin' back again." 
 
 So saying, Lany Toole clambered to the top 
 
CHAP. III.] THE LITTLE MAN, ETC. 35 
 
 of the gi*assy embankment which fenced the 
 road, and seating himself between a pair of aged 
 hawthorn trees, he watched young O'Connor 
 as he followed the wanderings of a Avild bridle- 
 road mitil he was at lengtli fairly hidden from 
 view by the intervening trees and brush wockI. 
 
36 THE COCK AND ANCHOR. [chap. iv. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 A SCARLET HOOD AMONG THE OLD TREES THE MANOR 
 
 OF MORLEY COURT AND A PEEP INTO AN ANTIQUE 
 
 CHAMBER. 
 
 The path which O'Connor followed was one 
 of those quiet and pleasant bye-roads Avhich, 
 in defiance of what are called improvements, 
 are still to be discovered throughout Ireland 
 here and. there, in some unsuspected region, 
 winding their green and sequestered ways 
 through many a varied scene of rural beauty ; 
 and, unless when explored by some chance 
 fisherman or tourist, unknown to all except 
 the poor peasant to whose simple conveniences 
 they minister. 
 
 Low and uneven embankments, overgrown 
 by a thousand kinds of weeds, and Avild-flowers, 
 and brushwood, marked the boundaries of this 
 rustic pathway, but in so friendly a sort, and 
 with so little jealousy or exclusion, that they 
 
CHAP. IV. 3 THE SCARLET HOOD. 3/ 
 
 seemed desisrned rather to lend a soft and 
 sheltered resting-place to the tired traveller, 
 than to check the wayward excursions of the 
 idle rambler into the meny fields and wood- 
 lands through which it wound. On either 
 side the tall, hoary trees, like time-worn pillars, 
 reared their grey, moss-grown trunks and arching 
 branches, now but thinly clothed with the dis- 
 coloured foliage of autumn, and casting their 
 lon^ sliadows in the evenini^j sun far over the 
 sloping and unequal sward. The scene, the 
 hour, and the loneliness of the place, would of 
 themselves have been enough to induce a pen- 
 sive train of thought ; but, beyond the silence 
 and seclusion, and the falling of the leaves in 
 their eternal farewell, and all the other touching 
 signs of nature's beautiful decay, there were 
 deep in O'Connor's breast recollections and 
 passions with which the scene before him was 
 more nearly associated, than with the ordinary 
 suggestions of fantastic melancholy. 
 
 At some distance from this road, and half 
 hidden among the trees, there stood an old 
 and extensive building, chiefly of deep red 
 
38 THE COCK AND ANCHOR. [chap. iv. 
 
 brick, presenting many and varied fronts and 
 quaint gables, antique-fashioned casements, and 
 whole groups of fantastic chimneys, sending 
 up their thin curl of smoke into the still air, 
 and glinting tall and red in the declining sun ; 
 Avhile the dusky hue of the old bricks was 
 every here and there concealed under rich 
 mantles of dark luxuriant ivy, which, in some 
 parts of the structure, had not only mounted 
 to the summits of the wall, but clambered, in 
 rich profusion, over the steep roof, and even 
 to the very chimney tops. This antique build- 
 ing — rambling, massive, and picturesque in no 
 ordinary degree — might well have attracted 
 the observation of the passer-by, as it presented 
 in succession through the irregular vistas of 
 the rich old timber, noAv one front, now another, 
 alternately hidden and revealed as the point of 
 observation was removed. But the eyes of 
 O'Connor sought this ancient mansion, and 
 dwelt upon its ever-varying aspects, as he 
 pursued his way, with an interest more deep 
 and absorbing than that of mere curiosity or 
 admiration ; and as he slowly followed the 
 
CHAP. IV.] THE SCARLET HOOD. 39 
 
 grass-grown road, a thousand emotions and 
 remembrances came crowding upon his mind, 
 impetuous, passionate, and wild, but all tinged 
 with a melancholy which even the strong 
 and sanguine heart of early manhood could 
 not overcome. As the path proceeded, it 
 became more closely sheltered by the wild 
 bushes and trees, and its windings grew 
 more wayward and frequent, when, on a 
 sudden from behind a screen of old thorns, 
 which lay a little in advance, a noble dog, 
 of the true old Irish wolf-breed, came bound- 
 ing toAvards him, with every token of joy and 
 welcome. 
 
 " Rover, Rover — down, boy, down," said 
 the stranger, as the huge animal, in his boiste- 
 rous greeting, leaped upon him again and again, 
 flinging his massive paws upon his shoulders, 
 and thrusting his cold nose into his bosom — 
 "down, Rover, down." 
 
 The first transport of welcome past, the 
 noble dog waited to receive from his old 
 friend some marks of recognition in return, 
 and then, swinging his long tail from side to 
 
40 THE COCK AND ANCHOR. [chap. it. 
 
 side, away he sprung, as if to carry the joyful 
 tidings to the companion of his evening ramble. 
 O'Connor knew that some of those whom he 
 should not have chosen to meet just then or 
 there Avere probably within a stone's throw of 
 the spot where he now stood, and for a moment 
 he was strongly tempted to turn, and, if so it 
 might be, unobserved to retrace his steps. 
 The close screen of wild trees which over- 
 shadowed the road, would have rendered this 
 design easy of achievement ; but while he was 
 upon the point of turning to depart, a few 
 notes of some wild and simple Irish melody, 
 carelessly lilted by a voice of silvery sweetness, 
 floated to his ear. Every cadence and vibra- 
 tion of that voice was to him enchantment — 
 he could not choose but pause. The sweet 
 sounds were interrupted by a rustling among 
 the withered leaves which strewed the gi'ound. 
 Again the fine old dog made his appearance, 
 dashing joyously along the path towards him, 
 and following in his wake, with slow and 
 gentle steps, came a light and graceful female 
 form. On her shoulders rested a short mantle 
 
CHAi'. IV.] THE SCARLET HOOD. 41 
 
 of scarlet cloth ; the hood was thro"svn partially 
 backward, so as to leave the rich dark ringlets 
 to float freely in the light breeze of evening ; 
 the faintest flush imaginable tinged the cleai- 
 paleness of her cheek, giving to her exquisitely 
 beautiful features a lustre, whose richness did 
 not, however, subdue then- habitual and tender 
 melancholy. The moment the full dark eyes 
 of the ghi encountered O'Connor, the song 
 died away upon her lips — the colour fled 
 from her cheeks, and as instantaneously the 
 sudden paleness was succeeded by a blush of 
 such depth and brilliancy as threw far into 
 shade even the brightest imagery of poetic 
 fancy. 
 
 "Edmondl" she exclaimed, in a tone so 
 faint and low as scarcely to reach his ear, and 
 which yet thrilled to liis very heart. 
 
 " Yes, Mary — it is, indeed, Edmond O'Con- 
 nor," answered he, passionately and mournfully 
 — '' come, after long years of separation, over 
 many a mile of sea and land — unlooked-for, 
 and, mayhap, unwished-for — come once more 
 to see you, and, in seeing you, to be happy. 
 
42 THE COCK AND ANCHOR. [chap. iv. 
 
 were it but for a moment — come to tell you 
 that he loves you fondly, passionately as ever — 
 come to ask you, dear, dear Mary, if you too 
 are unchanged ?" 
 
 As he thus spoke, standing by her side, 
 O'Connor gazed on the sad, sweet face of her 
 he loved so well, and held that little hand, 
 which he would have given worlds to call his 
 own. The beautiful girl was too artless to 
 disguise her agitation. She would have spoken, 
 but the effort was vain — the tears gathered in 
 her dark eyes, and fell faster and faster, till 
 at length the finiitless struggle ceased, and 
 she wept long and bitterly. 
 
 " Oh ! Edmond," said she, at length, raising 
 her eyes sorrowfully and fondly to O'Connor's 
 face — " what has called you hither ? We two 
 should hardly have met now or thus." 
 
 '' Dear Mary," answered he, with melancholy 
 fervour, *' since last I held this loved hand, 
 years have passed away — three long years and 
 more — in which we two have never met — in 
 which you scarce have even heard of me. 
 Mary, thi'ce years bring many changes — 
 
CHAP. IV.] THE SCARLET HOOD. 43 
 
 changes irreparable. Time — which has, if it 
 were possible, made you more beautiful even 
 than when I saw you last — may yet have 
 altered earlier feelings, and turned your heart 
 from me. Were it so, Mary, I would not 
 seek to blame you. I am not so vain — your 
 rank — your great attractions — your surpassing 
 beauty, must have won many admirers — 
 dra\vn many suitors round you; and I — I, 
 among all these, may well have been forgotten 
 — I, whose best merit is but in loving you 
 beyond my life. I will not, then — I will not, 
 Mary, ask if you love me still : but coming 
 thus unbidden and unlooked-for, am I forgiven 
 — am I welcome, Mary ?" 
 
 The artless girl looked up in his face, with 
 such a beautiful smile of trust and love, as told 
 more in one brief moment than language could 
 in volumes. 
 
 " Yes, Mary," said O'Connor, reading that 
 smile aright, with swelling heart and proud 
 devotion; *' yes, ^NLary. I am remembered — 
 you are still my own — my own : true, faithful, 
 unchanged, in spite oi' years of time and 
 
44 THE COCK AND ANCHOR. [chap. iv. 
 
 leagues of separation ; in spite of all ! — my 
 true-hearted, my adored, my own !" 
 
 He spoke ; and in the fulness of their hearts 
 they were both for a while silent, each gazing 
 on the other in the rapt tenderness of long- 
 tried love — in the deep, guileless joy of this 
 chance meeting. 
 
 '' Hear me,'* he whispered, lower almost than 
 the murmm- of the breeze through the arching 
 boughs above them, as if fearful that even a 
 breath would trouble the still enchantment that 
 held them spell-bound: ''hear me, for I have 
 much to tell. The years that have passed since 
 I spoke to you before have brought to me their 
 store of good and ill, of sorrow and of hope. 
 I have many things to tell you, Mary ; much 
 that gives me hope — the cheeriest hope — even 
 that of overcoming Sir Eichard's opposition ! 
 Ay, Mary, reasonable hope ; and why ? Be- 
 cause I am no longer poor : an old friend of 
 my father's, Mr. Audley, has taken me by the 
 hand, adopted me, made me his hen- — the heir 
 to riches and possessions which even your father 
 will allow to be considerable — w^hich he well 
 
CHAP. IV.] THE SCARLET HOOD. 45 
 
 may think enough to engage his prudence in 
 favour of our union. In this hope, deai'est, I 
 am here. I daily expect the an-ival of my 
 generous friend and benefactor ; and ^vith him 
 I will go to yom' father and urge my suit 
 once more, and with God's blessing at last 
 
 prevail but hark I some one comes." 
 
 Even while he spoke, the lovers were startled 
 by the sound of voices in gay colloquy, ap- 
 proaching along the quiet by-road on which 
 they stood. 
 
 " Leave me, Edmond, leave me," said the 
 beautiful girl, with earnest entreaty : ' ' they 
 must not see you Avith me now." 
 
 " Farewell then, dearest, since it must be 
 so," replied O'Connor, as he pressed her hand 
 closely in his own; "but meet me to-morrow 
 evening — meet me by the old gate in the 
 beech-tree walk, at the hour when you used 
 to walk there. Xay, refuse me not. Mar}'. 
 Farewell, farewell till then I" and so saj-ing, 
 before she had time to frame an answer, he 
 turned from her, and ^vas quickly lost among the 
 trees and underwood which skirted the pathway. 
 
46 THE COCK AND ANCHOR. [chap. iv. 
 
 In the speakers who approached, the young 
 lady at once recognized her brother Henry 
 Ashwoode, and Emily Copland her pretty cou- 
 sm. The young man was handsome alike in 
 face and figure, slightly made, and bearing in 
 his carriage that indescribable air of aristocratic 
 birth and pretension which sits not ungracefully 
 upon a handsome person ; his countenance, too, 
 bore a striking resemblance to that of his sister, 
 and, allowing for the difference of sex, resem- 
 bled it as nearly as any countenance which had 
 never expressed a passion but such as had its 
 aim and origin alike in self, could do. He was 
 dressed in the extreme of the prevailing fashion ; 
 and altogether his outward man was in all re- 
 spects such as to justify his acknowledged pre- 
 tensions to be considered one of the prettiest 
 men in the then gay city of Dublin. The 
 young lady who accompanied him was, in all 
 points except in that of years, as unlike her 
 cousin, Mary Ashwoode, as one pretty girl could 
 well be to another. She was very fair ; had a 
 quick, clear eye, which carried in its glance 
 something more than mere mirth or vivacity ; 
 
CHAP. IV.] THE SCARLLT HOOD. 47 
 
 an animated face, with however something of a 
 bold and, at times, even of a haughty expres- 
 sion. Laughing and chatting in light, careless 
 gaiety, the youthful pair approached the spot 
 where Mary Ashwoode stood. 
 
 '' So, so, fair sister," cried the young man, 
 gaily, " alone and musing, and doubtless me- 
 lancholy. Shall we venture to approach her, 
 Emily ?" 
 
 Women have keener eyes in small matters 
 than men ; and ]\Iiss Copland at a glance per- 
 ceived her fair cousin's flushed cheek and em- 
 barrassed manner. 
 
 " Angels and ministers of grace defend us !" 
 cried she; "the girl has certainly seen a ghost 
 or a dragoon officer." 
 
 "Neither I assure you, cousin," replied Miss 
 Ashwoode, with an effort ; " my evening's ram- 
 ble has not extended beyond this spot ; and as 
 yet I've seen no monster more alarming than 
 my brother's new perriwig." 
 
 The young man bowed. 
 
 " Nay, nay," cried Miss Copland, " but 1 
 must hear it. There certainly is some awful 
 
48 THE COCK AND ANCHOR. [chap. iv. 
 
 mystery at the bottom of all these conscious 
 looks ; but apropos of awful mysteries," con- 
 tinued she, turning to young Ashwoode, half 
 in pity for Mary's increasing embarrassment ; 
 *' where is Major O'Leary ? What has become 
 of your amusing old uncle ?" 
 
 " That's more than / can tell," replied the 
 young man ; "I wash my hands of the 'scape- 
 gi'ace. I know nothing of him. I saw him 
 for a moment in town this morning, and he 
 promised, Avith a round dozen of oaths, to be 
 out to dine with us to day. Thus much you 
 know, and thus much / know ; for the rest, 
 having sins enough of my own to carry, as 
 I said before I wash my hands of him and 
 his." 
 
 ** Well now remember, Henry," continued 
 she, " I make it a point with you to bring him 
 out here to-morrow. In sober seriousness I 
 can't get on without him. It is a melancholy 
 and a terrible truth, but still one which I feel it 
 my duty to speak boldly, that Major O'Leary 
 is the only gallant and susceptible man in the 
 family." 
 
CHAP. IV.] THE SCARLET HOOD, 49 
 
 " Monstrous assertion !" exclaimed the young 
 man; "why, not to mention myself, the 
 acknowledged pink and perfection of every 
 thing that is irresistable, have you not the 
 perfect command of my worthy cousin, Arthur 
 Blake." 
 
 " Now don't put me in a passion, Henry," 
 exclaimed the gu'l. " How dare you mention 
 that wretch — that irreclaimaule, unredeemed 
 fox-hunter. He never talks, nor thinks, nor 
 dreams of any thing but dogs and badgers, 
 foxes and other vermin. I verily believe he 
 never yet was seen oiF a horse's back, except 
 sometimes in a stable — he is an absolute Irish 
 centaur ! And then his odious attempts at 
 finery — his elaborate, perverse vulgarity — the 
 perpetual pinching and mincing of his words ! 
 
 An off-hand, shameless brogue I can endure 
 
 a brogue that revels and riots, and defies the 
 world like your uncle O'Leary's, I can respect 
 and even admire — but a brogue in a strait 
 
 waistcoat " 
 
 " Well, well," rejoined the young man, 
 laughing, " though you may not find any 
 
 VOL. I. D 
 
50 THE COCK AND ANCHOR. [chap. iv. 
 
 sprout of the family tree, excepting Major 
 O'Leary, worthy to contribute to your laudable 
 requirements ; yet surely you have a very fair 
 catalogue of young and able-bodied gentlemen 
 among our neighbours. What say you to 
 young Loyd — he lives within a stone's throw. 
 He is a most proper, pious, and punctual young 
 gentleman ; and would make, I doubt not, a 
 most devout and exemplary ' Cavalier ser- 
 vente: " 
 
 '* Worse and worse," cried the young lady 
 despondingly : " the most domestic, stupid, 
 affectionate, invulnerable wretch. He never 
 flirts out of his own family, and then, for 
 charity I believe, with the oldest and ugliest. 
 He is the very person for whose special case the 
 rubric provided that no man shall marry his 
 grandmother." 
 
 "My fair cousin," replied the young man, 
 laughing, " I see you are hard to please. 
 Meanwhile, sweet ladies both, let me remind 
 you that the sun has actually set ; we must 
 make our way homeward — at least / must. 
 By-the-way, can I do any thing in town for 
 
CHAP. IV.] THE SCAllLET HOOD. 51 
 
 you this evening, beyond a tender message to 
 my revered uncle." 
 
 " Dear me," exclaimed Miss Copland, "you 
 have not passed an evening at home this age. 
 What can you want, morning, noon, and night 
 in that smoky, dirty town ?" 
 
 " Why the fact is," replied the young man, 
 " business must be done ; I positively must at- 
 tend two routs to-night." 
 
 " Whose routs — what are they ?" inquired 
 the young lady. 
 
 " One is iNIrs. Tresham's, the other Lady 
 Stukely's." 
 
 " I guessed that ugly old kins- woman of 
 mine was at the bottom of it," exclaimed 
 the young lady with great vivacity, " Lady 
 Stukely — that pompous, old, frightful goose ! — 
 she has laid herself out to seduce you, Harry ; 
 but don't let that dismay you, for ten to one if 
 you fall, she'll make an honest man of you in 
 the end and marry you. Only think, Mary, 
 what a sister you shall have," and the young 
 lady laughed heartily, and then added, '' there 
 are some excellent, worthy, abominable people, 
 
 LIBRARY -* 
 
 UNiVERSlTV 01^ "''^"'^ 
 
52 THE COCK AND ANCHOR. [chap. iv. 
 
 who seem made expressly to put one in a pas- 
 sion — perpetual appeals to one's virtuous indig- 
 nation. Now do, Henry, for goodness sake, if 
 a matrimonial catastrophe must come, choose at 
 least some nymph with less rouge and wrinkles 
 than poor dear Lady Stukely." 
 
 "Kind cousin, thyself shalt choose for me," 
 answered the young man ; *' but pray, suffer me 
 to be at large for a year or two more. I would 
 fain live and breathe a little, before I go down 
 into the matrimonial pit and be no more seen. 
 But let us mend our pace, the evening turns 
 chill." 
 
 Thus chatting carelessly, they moved to^7ard . 
 the large brick building which we have already 
 described, embowered among the trees ; where 
 arrived, the young man forthwith applied him- 
 self to prepare for a night of dissipation, and 
 the young ladies to get through a dull evening 
 as best they might. 
 
 The two fair cousins sate in a larofe, old- 
 fashioned dra-wing-room ; the walls Avere co- 
 vered with elaborately-wrought tapestry, re- 
 presenting, in a manner sufficiently grim and 
 
CHAP. IV.] THE SCARLET HOOD. 53 
 
 alarming, certain scenes from Ovid's Metamor- 
 phoses ; a cheerful fire blazed in the capacious 
 hearth ; and the cumbrous mantel-piece was 
 covered with those grotesque and monstrous 
 china figures, misnamed ornaments, which were 
 then beginning to find favour in the eyes of 
 fashion. Abundance of richly carved furniture 
 was disposed variously throughout the room. 
 The young ladies sate by a small table on which 
 lay some books and materials for work, placed 
 near the fire. They occupied each one of those 
 huge, high-backed, and w^ell-stuffed chairs in 
 w-hich it is a mystery how our ancestors could 
 sit and remain awake. Both were silently oc- 
 cupied with their own busy reflections ; and it 
 was not until the rapid clank of the horse's 
 hoofs upon the pavement underneath the win- 
 dows, as young Ashwoode started upon his 
 night ride to the city, rose sharp and clear, that 
 Miss Copland waking from her reverie, ex- 
 claimed, 
 
 " Well, sweet coz, were ever so wo-begone 
 and desolate a pair of damsels. The only 
 available male creature in the establishment, 
 
5 4 THE COCK AND ANCHOR. [chap. iv. 
 
 with the exception of Sir Richard, who has 
 actually gone to bed, has fairly turned his back 
 upon us." 
 
 " Dear Emily," replied her cousin, ** pray 
 be serious. I wish to tell you what has passed 
 this evening. You observed my confusion 
 and agitation when you and Henry overtook 
 me." 
 
 " Why, to be sure I did," replied the young 
 lady; ''and now, like an honest coz, you are 
 going to tell me all about it." She drew her 
 chair nearer as she spoke. " Come, my dear, 
 tell me every thing — what was your dis- 
 covery ? Come now, there's a good girl, do 
 confess." So saying, she threw one arm 
 round her cousin's neck and laid the other in 
 her lap, looking curiously into her face the 
 while. 
 
 " Oh ! Emily, I have seen him !" exclaimed 
 Miss Ashwoode^ with an effort. 
 
 " Seen him ! — seen whom ? — old Nick, if 
 I may judge from your looks. Whom have 
 you seen, dear ?" eagerly inquired Miss Cop- 
 land. 
 
CHAP. IV.] THE SCARLET HOOD. 55 
 
 " I have seen Edmond O'Connor," answered 
 she. 
 
 " Edmond O'Connor I" repeated the girl in 
 unfeigned surprise, " why I thought he was in 
 France, eating frogs and dancing cotillons. 
 What has brought him here — why he'll be 
 taken for a spy and executed on the spot. But 
 seriously, can you conceive any thing more 
 rash and ill-judged than his coming over just 
 now f 
 
 *' It is indeed, I greatly fear, very rash," re- 
 plied the young lady ; " he is resolved to speak 
 with my father once more." 
 
 " And your father in such a precious ill- 
 humour just at this precise moment," exclaimed 
 Miss Copland. " I never was so much afmid 
 of Sir Richard as I have been for the last two 
 days ; he has l>een a perfect bruin — begging 
 your pardon, my dear girl — but even i/ou 
 must admit, let filial piety and all the car- 
 dinal virtues say what they will, that whenever 
 Sir Kichard is recovering from a fit of the gout 
 he is nothing .<hort of a perfect monster. I 
 wager my diamond cross to a thimble, that 
 
56 THE COCK AND ANCHOR. Cchap. iv. 
 
 he breaks the poor young man's head the 
 moment he comes within reach of him. But 
 jesting apart, I fear, my dear cousin, that 
 my uncle is in no laiood just now to listen to 
 heroics." 
 
 A sharp knocking upon the floor imme- 
 diately above the chamber in which the young 
 ladies sate, interrupted the conference at this 
 junctm-e. 
 
 " There is my father's signal — he w^ants me," 
 exclaimed Miss Ashwoode, and rising as she 
 spoke, without more ado she ran to render the 
 required attendance. 
 
 " Strange girl," exclaimed Miss Copland, as 
 her cousin's step was heard ascending the stairs, 
 " strange girl I — she is the veriest simpleton I 
 ever yet encountered. All this fuss to marry a 
 fellow who is, in plain words, little better than 
 a beggarman — a good-looking beggarman, to be 
 sure, but still a beggar. Oh, Mary, simple 
 Mary ! I am very much tempted to despise 
 you — there is certainly something wrong about 
 you ! I hate to see people without ambition 
 enough even to wish to keep their own natural 
 
CHAP. IV. ] THE SCARLET HOOD. 57 
 
 position. The girl is full of nonsense ; but 
 what's that to me, she'll w/ilearn it all one day ; 
 but I'm much afraid, simple cousin, a little too 
 late." 
 
 Having thus soliloquized, she called her 
 maid, and retired for the night to her chamber. 
 
 D 2 
 
58 THE COCK AND ANCHOR. [chap. t. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 OF o'connor's moonlight walk to the cock and anchor, 
 
 AND what BEFEL HIM BY THE WAT. 
 
 As soon as O'Connor had made some little 
 way from the scene of his sudden and agitating 
 interview with ]Miss Ashwoode, he slackened 
 his pace, and with slow steps began to retrace 
 his way toward the city. So listless and 
 interrupted was his progress, that the sun 
 had descended and twilight was fast melting 
 into darkness before he reached that point in 
 the road at which diverged the sequestered 
 path which he had followed. As he ap- 
 proached the spot, he observed a small man, 
 with a pipe in his mouth, and his person 
 arranged in an attitude of easy and graceful 
 negligence, admirably calculated to exhibit the 
 symmetry and perfection of his bodily propor- 
 tions. This man had planted himself in the 
 
CHAP, v.] THE MOONLIGHT WALK. 59 
 
 middle of the road, so as completely to com- 
 mand the pass, and, as our reader need scarcely 
 be informed, was no other than LaiTy Toole — 
 the important personage to whom we have 
 already introduced him. 
 
 As O'Connor approached, Larry advanced, 
 with a slow and dignified motion, to receive 
 him ; and removing his pipe from his mouth 
 with a nonchalant air, he compressed the lighted 
 contents of the bowd wuth his finger, and then 
 deposited the utensil in his coat pocket, at 
 the same time executing, in a very becoming 
 manner, his most courtly bow. Somewhat 
 surprised, and by no means pleasantly, at an 
 interruption of so unlooked-for a kind, O'Connor 
 observed, impatiently, " I have neither time 
 nor temper, friend, to suflfer delay or listen to 
 foolery ;" and observing that Lan-y was pre- 
 paring to follow him, he added curtly, "I desire 
 no company, sirrah, and choose to be alone." 
 
 " An' it's exactly because you wish to be 
 alone, and likes solitude," observed the little 
 man, " that you and me will shoot, being 
 formed by the bountiful hand iv nature, banin' 
 
60 THE COCK AND ANCHOR. Ichap. v. 
 
 a few small exceptions" — here he glanced com- 
 placently at his right leg, which was a little 
 in advance of its companion — "as similliar as 
 two eggs." 
 
 Being in no mood to tolerate far less to 
 encourage this annoying intrusion, O'Connor 
 pursued his way at a quickened pace, and in 
 obstinate silence, and in a little time exhibited 
 a total and very mortifying forgetfulness of 
 Mr. Toole's bodily proximity. That gentle- 
 man, however, was not so easily to be shaken 
 off — he perseveringly followed, keeping a pace 
 or two behind. 
 
 " It's parfectly unconthrovertible," pursued 
 that worthy, with considerable solemnity and 
 emphasis, " and at laste as plain as the nose 
 on your face, that you havn't the smallest taste 
 of a conciption who it is your spakin' to, Mr. 
 O'Connor." 
 
 '* And pray who may you be, friend ?" 
 inquired he, somewhat surprised at being thus 
 addressed by name. 
 
 " Who else Avould I be, your honour," 
 rejoined the persevering applicant — *'who else 
 
CHAP, v.] THE MOONLIGHT WALK. 61 
 
 could I be, if you had but a glimmer iv light 
 to contemplate my forrum and futures, but 
 Laurence Toole — called by the men for the 
 most part Misthur Toole, and (he added, in 
 a softened tone) by the girls most comminly 
 designated Larry." 
 
 ««Ha — Larry — Larry Toole!" exclaimed 
 O'Connor, half reconciled to an intrusion up 
 to that moment so ill endured. *' Well, Larry, 
 tell me briefly how are the family at the manor, 
 yonder." 
 
 " Why, plase your honour," rejoined Larry, 
 promptly, " the ould masthur, that's Sir Richard, 
 is much oftener gouty than good humoured, 
 and more's the pity. I b'lieve he's breaking 
 down very fast, and small blame to him, for 
 he lived hard, like a rale honourable gentleman. 
 An' then, the young masthur, that's Masthur 
 Henry — but you didn't know him so well — 
 he's getting on at the divil's rate — scatt'ring 
 guineas like small shot. They say he plays 
 away a power of money ; and he and the 
 masthur himself has often hard words enoucfh 
 between them about the way things is goin' 
 
62 THE COCK AND ANCHOR. [chap, v 
 
 on ; but he ates and dhrinks well, an' the 
 health he gets is as good as he wants for his 
 purposes." 
 
 " Well — but your young mistress," suggested 
 O'Connor — " you have not told me yet how 
 Miss Ashwoode has been ever since. How have 
 her health and spirits been — has she been well ?" 
 
 *' Mixed middlin', like belly bacon," replied 
 Mr. Toole, with an air of profound sympathy — 
 ** shilly-shally, sir — off an' on, like an April 
 day — sometimes atin' her victuals, sometimes 
 lavin' them — no sartainty. I think the ould 
 masthur's gout and crossness, and the young 
 one's vagaries, is frettin' her; and it's sorry I 
 ain to see it. An' there's ]\Iiss Emily — that's 
 ]Miss Copland — a rale jovial slip iv a young 
 lady. I think you seen her once or twice up 
 at the manor; but noAv, since her father the 
 ould general died, she is stayin' for good Avith 
 the family. She's a fine lady, and (drawing 
 close to O'Connor, and speaking with very 
 significant emphasis) she has ten thousand 
 pounds of her own — do you mind me, ten 
 thousand — it's a good fortune — is not it, sir ?" 
 
CHxp. T.] THE MOONLTGHT WALK. 63 
 
 He paused for a moment, and receiving no 
 answer, which he interpreted as a sign that 
 the announcement Avas operating as it ought, 
 he added, with a confidential wink — 
 
 " I thought I might as well put you up 
 to it, you kuoAv, for no one knows where a 
 blessin' may light." 
 
 " Larry," said O'Connor, after a considerable 
 silence, somewhat abruptly and suddenly recol- 
 lecting the presence of that little person — '* if 
 you have aught to say to me, speak it quickly. 
 What may your business be ?" 
 
 "Why, sir," replied he, *'the long and the 
 short of it is, I left Sir Richard more than a 
 week since. Not that I w^as turned away — 
 no, Mr. O'Connor," continued Mr. Toole, with 
 edif\-ing majesty, " no sich thing at all in the 
 wide world. My resignation, sir, was the 
 fruit of my own solemn convictions — for the 
 five years I was with the family I had no 
 comfort, or aise, or pace. I may as well 
 spake plain to you, sir, for you^ like myself, 
 is young" — (Mr. Toole was certainly at the 
 "Nvrong side of fifty) — "you can aisily under- 
 
64 THE COCK AND ANCHOR. [chap. v. 
 
 stand me, sir, when I say, that I'm the victim 
 iv romance, bad cess to it — romance, sir; my 
 buzzum, sir, was always open to tindher im- 
 pressions — impressions, sir, that came into it 
 as natural as pigs into a pittaty garden. I 
 could not shut them out — the short and the 
 long iv it is, I was always fallin' in love, since 
 I was the size iv a quart pot — eternally fallin' 
 in love." Mr. Toole sighed, and then resumed. 
 " I done my best to smother my emotions, but 
 passion, sir, young and ardent passion, is im- 
 possible to be suppressed : you might as well 
 be trying to keep strong beer in starred bottles 
 durin' the pai'iod iv the dog days. But I never 
 knew rightly what love was all out, in rale 
 terrible perfection, antill Mistress Betsy came 
 to live in the family. I'll not attempt to 
 describe her — it's enough to say she fixed my 
 affections, and done for myself. She is own 
 maid to the young mistress. I need not expec- 
 torate upon the progress iv my courtship — its 
 quite enough to observe, that for a considherable 
 time my path was strewed with flowers, untill 
 a young chap — an English bliggard, one Peter 
 
ciJAP. v.] THE MOONLIGHT WALK. 65 
 
 Clout — an' it's inany's the clout he got, the 
 Lord be thanked for that same — a lump iv a 
 chap ten times as ugly as the divil, and without 
 more shapes about him than a pound of cruds — 
 an impittant, ignorant, presumptions, bothered, 
 bosthoon — antill this gentleman — this Ivlisthur 
 
 Peter Clout, made his b y appearance ; then 
 
 all at once the divil's delight began. Betsy — 
 the lovely Betsy Carey — the lovely, the var- 
 tious, the beautiful, and the exalted — began to 
 play thricks. I know she was in love with 
 me — over head and ears, as bad as myself — 
 but woman is a mystarious agent, and bangs 
 Banagher. Long as I've been larnin', I never 
 could larn why it is they take delight in tor- 
 mentin' the tindher hearted." 
 
 This reflection was uttered in a tone of tender 
 woe, and the speaker paused for some symptom 
 of assent from his auditor. It is, however, 
 hardly necessary to say, that he paused in vain. 
 O'Connor had enough to occupy his mind ; and 
 so far from listening to his companion's narra- 
 tive, he was scarcely conscious that Mr. Toole, 
 in bodily presence, Avas walking beside him. 
 
66 THE COCK AND ANCHOR. [chap. v. 
 
 That '* tindher-hearted" individual accordingly 
 resumed the thread of his discourse. 
 
 " But, at any rate, she laid herself out to 
 make me jealous of Peter Clout ; and, with 
 the blessin' iv the divil, she succeeded com- 
 plately. Things were goin' on this way — she 
 lettin' on to be mighty fond iv Peter, an' me 
 gettin' angrier an' angrier, and Mr. Clout more 
 an' more impittent every day, antill I seen 
 there was no use in purtendin' ; so one mornin', 
 when we were both of us — myself and Mr. 
 Peter Clout — clainin' up the things in the 
 pantry, I thought I might as well have a 
 bit iv discourse with him — when I seen, do 
 ye mind, there was no use in mortify in' the 
 chap mth contempt, for I did not spake to 
 him, good, bad, or indifferent, for more than 
 a fortnight, an' he was so ignorant and un- 
 mannerly he never noticed the differ. When 
 I seen there was no use in keepin' him at a 
 distance, says I to him one day in the panthry 
 — ' Mr. Clout,' says I, « your conduct in regard 
 iv some persons in this house,' says I, ' is iv 
 a description that may be shuitable to the 
 
CHAP, v.] THE MOONLIGHT WALK. 67 
 
 English spalpeens,' says I, 'but is about as 
 like the conduct of a gintleman,' says I, * as 
 blackin' is to plate powder.* So he turns 
 round, an' he looks at me as if I w^as Polly- 
 phamius. ' Mind your work,' says I, ' young 
 man, an' don't be lookin' at me as if I was 
 a hathlan godess,' says I. ' It's Mr. Toole 
 that's spakin' to you, an' you betther mind 
 what he says. The long an' the short iv it 
 is, I don't like you to be hugger-muggering 
 with a sartain delicate famale in this establish- 
 ment; an' if I catch you talkin' any more to 
 Misthress Betsy Carey, I give you fair notice, 
 it's at your own apparel. Beware of me — for 
 as sure as you don't behave to my likin', you 
 might as well be in the one panthry with a 
 hyania,' says I ; an' it was thrue for me, an' 
 it was the same way with my father before 
 me, an' all the Tooles up to the time of Noah's 
 Ark. In pace, I'm a turtle dove all out ; but 
 once I'm riz, I'm a rale tarin' vulture." 
 
 Here Mr. Toole paused to call up a look, 
 and after a grim shake of the head, he re- 
 sumed. 
 
68 THE COCK AND ANCHOR. [chap. v. 
 
 " Things went on aisy enough for a day or 
 two, antill I happened to walk into the sarvant's 
 hall, an' who should I see but Mr. Clout sittin' 
 on the same stool with Misthriss Betsy, an' his 
 arm round her waist- — so when I seen that, before 
 any iv them could come between us, with the 
 fair madness I made one jump at him, an' we 
 both had one another by the windpipe before 
 you'd have time to bless yourself. Well, round 
 an' round we w^ent, rowlin' with our heads and 
 backs agin the walls, an' divil a spot of us 
 but was black an' blue, antill we kem to the 
 chimney ; an' sure enough when we did, down 
 we rowled both together, glory be to God ! 
 into the fire, an' upset a kittle iv wather on 
 top iv us ; an' with that there was sich a 
 screechin' among the women, an' maybe a 
 small taste from ourselves, that the masthur 
 kem in, an' if he didn't lay on us with his 
 walkin' stick it's no matter ; but, at any rate, 
 as soon as we recovered from the scaldin' an* 
 the bruises, / retired, an' the English chap 
 was turned away; an' that's the whole story, 
 an' I tuck my oath that I'll never go into 
 
CHAP, v.] THE MOONLIGHT WALK. 69 
 
 sarvice in a familij again. I can't make any 
 hand of women — they're made for desthroyin' 
 all sorts iv pace iv mind — they're etarnally 
 triflin' with the most sarious and sacred emo- 
 tions. I'll never sarve any but single gentle- 
 men from this out, if I was to be sacrifised 
 for it — never a bit, by the hokey." 
 
 So saying, Mr. Toole, having, in the course 
 of his harangue, reproduced his pipe from his 
 pocket, with a view to flourish it in emphatic 
 accompaniment with the cadences of his voice, 
 smote the bowl of it upon the edge of his 
 cocked hat, which he held in his hand, with 
 so much passion, that the head of the pipe 
 flew across the road, and was for ever lost 
 among the docks and nettles. One glance he 
 deigned to the stump w^hich remained in his 
 hand, and then, with an air of romantic reck- 
 lessness which laughs at all sacrifices, he flung 
 it disdainfully from him, clapped his cocked 
 hat upon his head with a vehemence which 
 brought it nearly to the bridge of his nose, 
 and, planting his hands in his breeches pockets, 
 he glanced at the stars with a scoavI which, if 
 
(0 THE COCK AND ANCHOR. [chap. t. 
 
 they take any note of things terrestrial, must 
 have filled them with alarm. 
 
 Suddenly recollecting himself, Mr. Toole 
 perceived that his intended master, having 
 walked on, had left him considerably behind, 
 he therefore put himself into an easy amble, 
 which speedily brought him up with the 
 chase. 
 
 " Mr. O'Connor, plase your honom*," he 
 exclaimed, "sure it's not possible it's goin' to 
 lave me behind you are, an' me so proud iv 
 your company ; an', moreover, after axin' you 
 for a situation — that is, always supposin' you 
 want the sarvices iv a rale dashin' young fellow, 
 that's up to every thing, an* willing to sarve 
 you in any incapacity. An' by gorra, sir," 
 continued he, pathetically, " it's next door to 
 a charity to take me, for I've but one crown 
 in the wide world left, an' I must change it 
 to-night ; an' once I change money, the shillins 
 makes off with themselves like a hat full of 
 sparrows into the elements, the Lord knows 
 where." 
 
 With a desolate recklessness, he chucked the 
 
CHAP, v.] THE MOONLIGHT WALK. 71 
 
 cro^vn piece into the air, caught it in his palm, 
 and walked silently on. 
 
 "Well, well," said O'Connor, "if you choose 
 to make so uncertain an engagement as for the 
 term of my stay in Dublin, you are welcome to 
 be my servant for so long." 
 
 " It's a bargain," shouted Mr. Toole — *' a 
 bargain, plase your honour, done and done on 
 both sides. I'm your man — hurra !" 
 
 They had already entered the suburbs, and 
 before many minutes were involved in the dark 
 and narrow streets, threading theu' way, as best 
 they might, toward the genial harborage of the 
 " Cock and Anchor." 
 
72 THE COCK AND ANCHOR. [chai 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 THE SOLDIEK THE NIGHT RAMBLE AXD THE WINDOW 
 
 THAT LET IN MOKE THAN THE MOONLIGHT. 
 
 Short as had been O'Connor's sojourn, it never- 
 theless had been sufficiently long to satisfy mine 
 host of the '' Cock and Anchor," an acute 
 observer in such particulars, that whatever his 
 object might have been in avoiding the more 
 fashionably frequented inns of the city, economy 
 at least had no share in his motive. O'Connor, 
 therefore, had hardly entered the public room 
 of the inn, when a servant respectfully informed 
 him that a private chamber was prepared for 
 his reception, if he desired to occupy it. The 
 proposition suited well with his temper at the 
 minute, and with all alacrity he followed the 
 waiter, who bowed him up stairs and through 
 a dingy passage into a room whose claims, if 
 not to elegance, at least to comfort, could hardly 
 
CHAP. VI.] THE SOLDIER. 73 
 
 have been equalled, certainly not excelled, by 
 the more luxurious pretensions of most modern 
 hotels. 
 
 It was a large, capacious chamber, nearly 
 square, wainscoated with dark shining wood, 
 and decorated with certain dingy old pictures, 
 which might have been, for any thing to the 
 contrary, appearing in so uncertain a light, 
 chef d'oeuvres of the mighty masters of the 
 olden time : at all events, they looked as warm 
 and comfortable as if they were. The hearth 
 was broad, deep, and high enough to stable a 
 Kerry pony, and was surmounted by a mas- 
 sive stone mantel-piece, rudely but richly carved 
 — abundance of old furniture — tables, at Avhich 
 the saintly Cromwell might have smoked and 
 boozed, and chairs old enough to have supported 
 Sir Walter Raleigh himself, were disposed about 
 the room with a profuseness which argued no 
 niggard hospitaUty. A pair of wax-lights 
 burned cheerily upon a table beside the bright 
 crackling fire which blazed in the huge cavity 
 of the hearth ; and O'Connor threw himself 
 into one of those cumbrous, tall-backed, and 
 
 E 
 
74 THE COCK AND ANCHOR. [chaP. vi. 
 
 well-stufFed chairs, which are in themselves 
 more potent invitations to the sweet illusive 
 visitings from the world of fancy and of dreams, 
 than all the drugs or weeds of eastern climes — 
 thus suffering all his material nature to rest in 
 absolute repose, he loosed at once the reins of 
 imagination and memory, and yielded up his 
 mind luxuriously to their mingled realities and 
 illusions. 
 
 He may have been, perhaps, for two or three 
 hours employed thus listlessly in chewing the 
 cud of sweet and bitter fancy, when his medita- 
 tions were interrupted by a brisk step upon the 
 passage leading to the apartment in -which he 
 sate, instantly succeeded by as brisk a knocking 
 at the chamber door itself. 
 
 " Is this Mr. O'Connor's chamber ?" inquired 
 a voice of peculiar richness, intonated not un- 
 pleasingly with a certain melodious modification 
 of the brogue, bespeaking a sort of passionate 
 deviUmay-carishness which they say in the good 
 old times ^vrought grievous havoc among 
 womankind. The summons was promptly 
 answered by an invitation to enter ; and forth- 
 
CHAP. VI.] THE SOLDIER. 75 
 
 with tlie door opened, and a comely man 
 stepped into the room. The stranger might 
 have seen some fifty or sixty summers, or even 
 more ; for his was one of those joyous, good- 
 humoiu"ed, rubicund visages, upon which time 
 vainly tries to write a ^vrinkle. His frame 
 was robust and upright — his stature tall — and 
 there was in his carriage something ndt exactly 
 a swagger, (for with all his oddities, the stranger 
 was evidently a gentleman), but a certain rol- 
 licking carelessness, which irresistibly conveyed 
 the character of a reckless, headlong good- 
 humour and daring, to which nothing could 
 come amiss. In the hale and jolly features, 
 which many would have pronounced handsome, 
 were written, in characters which none could 
 mistake, the prevailing quahties of the man — 
 a gay and sparkling eye, in which lived the 
 very soul of convivial jollity, harmonised right 
 pleasantly with a smile, no less of archness than 
 bon hommie, and in the brow there was a certain 
 indescribable cock, which looked half pugnacious 
 and half comic. On the whole, the stranger, 
 to judge by his outward man, was precisely the 
 
7^ THE COCK AND ANCHOR. [chap. vi. 
 
 person to take his share in a spree, be the same 
 in joke or earnest — to tell a good story — finish 
 a good bottle — share his last guinea with you — 
 or blow your brains out, as the occasion might 
 require. He was arrayed in a full suit of regi- 
 mentals, and, taken for all in all, one need 
 hardly have desired a better sample of the 
 dasliing, hght-hearted, dare-devil Irish soldier 
 of more than a century since. 
 
 ''Ah! Major O'Leary," cried O'Connor, 
 starting from his seat, and grasping the soldier's 
 hand — " I am truly glad to see you — you are 
 the very man, of all others, I most reqmre at 
 this moment. I was just about to have a fit 
 of the blue devils." 
 
 '* Blue devils !" exclaimed the major ; " don't 
 talk to a youngster like me of any such infernal 
 beings ; but tell me how you are, every inch of 
 you, and what brings you here ?" 
 
 *' I never was better ; and as to my business," 
 replied O'Connor, ''it is too long and too dull 
 a story to tell you just now ; but in the mean- 
 time, let us have a glass of Bm-gundy ; mine 
 host of the ' Cock and Anchor' boasts a very 
 
CHAP. VT,] THE SOLDIER. 77 
 
 peculiar cellar." So saying, O'Connor pro- 
 ceeded to issue the requisite order. 
 
 '' That does he, by my soul," replied the 
 major, -with alacrity — '' and for that express 
 reason I invariably make it a point to renew my 
 friendly intimacy with its contents whenever I 
 visit the metropolis, but I can't stay more than 
 five minutes, so proceed to operations Avith all 
 dispatch." 
 
 " And why all this hurry?" inquired O'Con- 
 nor — '' where need you go at this hour ?" 
 
 ** Faith, I don't precisely know myself," 
 rejoined the soldier ; " but I've a strong im- 
 pression that my evil genius has contrived a 
 scheme to inveigle me into a cock-pit not a 
 hundred miles away." 
 
 " I'm sorry for it, with all my heart, major," 
 replied O'Connor, " since it robs me of your 
 company." 
 
 " Nay, you must positively come along with 
 me," resumed the major ; '' I sip my Burgundy 
 on these express conditions — don't leave me at 
 these years without a mentor. I rely upon 
 your prudence and experience ; if you turn me 
 
/» THE COCK AND ANCHOR. [chap. vi. 
 
 loose upon the town to-night, Avithout a moral 
 guide, upon my conscience you have a great 
 deal to answer for. I may be fleeced in a hell, 
 or milled in a row \ and if I fall in with female 
 society, by the powers of celibacy, I can't 
 answer for the consequences." 
 
 '' Sooth to say, major," rejoined O'Connor, 
 " I'm in no mood for mirth." 
 
 " Come, come — never look so glum," insisted 
 his visitor — " remember I have arrived at years 
 of zVzdiscretiou, and must be looked after; — 
 man's life, my dear fellow, naturally divides 
 itself into three great stages — the first is that 
 in which the youthful disciple is carefully in- 
 structing his mind, and preparing his moral 
 faculties, in silence, for all sorts of villainy — 
 this is the season of youth and innocence ; the 
 second is that in which he practises all kinds of 
 rascality — and this is the flower of manhood, or 
 tlie prime of life ; the thii'd and last is that in 
 which he strives to make his soul — and this is 
 the period of dotage. Now, you see, my dear 
 O'Connor, I have unfortunately arrived at the 
 prime of life, while you are still in the enjoy- 
 
CHAP. VI.] THE SOLDIER. 79 
 
 ment of youth and innocence. I am practising 
 what you are plotting. You are, unfortunately 
 for yourself, a degree more sober than I ; you 
 can, therefore, take care that I sin with due 
 discretion — permit me to rob or murder, without 
 being robbed or murdered in return." 
 
 Here the major filled and quaffed another 
 glass, and then continued : — 
 
 " In short, I am — to speak in all solemnity 
 and sobriety — so drunk, that it's a miracle hov/ 
 I mounted these rascally stairs, without break- 
 ing my neck. I have no distinct recollection of 
 the passage, except that I kissed some old 
 hunks, instead of the chamber-maid, and pulled 
 his nose in revenge. I solemnly declare I can 
 neither walk nor think without assistance ; my 
 heels and head are inclined to change places, 
 and I can't tell the moment the body politic 
 may be capsized. I have no respect in the 
 world for my intellectual or physical endow- 
 ments at this particular crisis ; my sight is so 
 infernally acute that I see all surrounding 
 objects considerably augmented in number ; my 
 legs have asserted their independence, and per- 
 
80 THE COCK AND ANCHOR. Tchap. vi. 
 
 form ' Sir Koger de Coverley,' altogether un- 
 solicited ; and my memory and other small 
 mental faculties have retired for the night. 
 Under those melancholy circumstances, my 
 dear fellow, you surely won't refuse me the 
 ^consolation of your guidance." 
 
 " Had not you better, my dear major," said 
 O'Connor, "remain with me quietly here for 
 the night, out of the reach of sharks and 
 sharpers, male and female; you shall have 
 claret or burgundy, which you please, enough 
 to fill a skin?" 
 
 '* I can't hold more than a bottle additional," 
 replied the major, regretfully — " if I can even 
 do that, so you see I'm bereft of domestic 
 resources, and must look abroad for occupation. 
 The fact is, I expect to meet one or two fellows 
 whom I want to see, at the place I've named, 
 so if you can come along with me, and keep me 
 from falling into the gutters, or any other in- 
 discretion by the way, upon my conscience you 
 will confer a serious obligation on me." 
 
 O'Connor plainly perceived that although the 
 major's statement had been somewhat over- 
 
cHii. VI.] THE SOLDIER. 81 
 
 charged, yet that his admissions were not 
 altogether fanciful ; there were in the gallant 
 gentleman's face, certain symptoms of recent 
 conviviality, which were not to be mistaken — a 
 perceptible roll of the eye, and a slight screw- 
 ing of the lips ; wliich peculiarities along with 
 the faintest possible approximation to a hic- 
 cough, and a gentle see-saw vibration of his 
 stalworth person, were indications highly corro- 
 borative of the general veracity of his con- 
 fessions : — seeing that, in good earnest, the 
 major was not precisely in a condition to be 
 trusted with the management of any thing 
 pertaining to himself or others, O'Connor at 
 once resolved to see him, if possible, safely 
 through his excursion, if after the discussion 
 of the wine which was now before them, he 
 should persevere in his fancy for a night ramble. 
 They, therefore, sate down together in harmo- 
 nious fellowship, to discuss the flasks which 
 stood upon the board. 
 
 O'Connor was about to fill his guest's glass 
 for the tenth or twelfth time, when the major 
 suddenly ejaculated — 
 
 £2 
 
82 THE COCK AND ANCHOR. [chap. vi. 
 
 " Halt ! — ground arms — I can no more; why 
 you hardened young reprobate, it's not to make 
 me drunk you're trying ! I must keep senses 
 enough to behave Hke a Christian at the cock- 
 fight ; and, upon my soul, I've very Httle 
 rationality to spare at this minute ; put on your 
 hat and come without delay, before I'm fairly 
 extinguished." 
 
 O'Connor accordingly donned his hat and 
 cloak, and yielding the major the double 
 support of his arm on the one side, and of the 
 bannisters on the other, he conducted him safely 
 down the stairs, and wath Avonderful steadiness, 
 all things considered, they entered the street, 
 whence, under the major's direction, they pur- 
 sued their way. After a silence of a few 
 minutes, that military functionary exclaimed, 
 with much gravity — 
 
 '' I'm a great social philosopher — a great 
 observer, and one who looks quite through the 
 deeds of men. My dear boy, believe me, this 
 country is in the process of a great moral re- 
 formation ; hospitality — which I take to be the 
 first, and the last, and the only one of all the 
 
CHAP. VI.] THE SOLDIER. 83 
 
 virtues of a bishop, which is fit for the practice 
 of a gentleman — hospitality, my dear O'Connor, 
 is rapidly approaching to a climax in this coun- 
 try. I remember, when I was a little boy, a 
 gentleman might pay a visit of a week or so to 
 another in the country, and be all the time 
 nothing more than tipsey — tipsey merely. 
 However, matters gradually improved, and that 
 stage which philosophers technically term simple 
 drunkenness, became the standard of hospitality 
 — this passed away, and the sense of the coun- 
 try, in its silent but irresistible operation, has 
 substituted blind drunkenness ; and in the pro- 
 phetic spmt of sublime philosophy, I foresee 
 the arrival of that time when no man can escape 
 the fangs of hospitality, upon any conditions 
 short of brain fever or delirium tremens." 
 
 As the major delivered this philosophic dis- 
 course, he led O'Connor through several obscure 
 streets and narrow lanes, till at length he paused 
 in one of the very narrowest and darkest, before 
 a dingy brick house, whose lower windows 
 were secured with heavy bars of iron ; the door, 
 which was so incrusted with dirt and dust that 
 
84 THE COCK AND ANCHOR. [chap. vi. 
 
 the original paint was hardly anywhere discer- 
 nible, stood a-jar, and within burned a feeble 
 and ominous light, so faint and murky that it 
 seemed fearful of disclosing the deeds and forms 
 which itself was forced to behold. Into this dim 
 and suspicious-looking place the major walked, 
 closely followed by O'Connor. In the hall he 
 was encountered by a huge savage-looking 
 fellow, who raised his squalid form lazily from 
 a bench which rested against the wall at the 
 farther end, and in a low, gruif voice, like the 
 incipient growl of a roused watch-dog, inquired 
 what they wanted there. 
 
 " Why, Mr. Creigan, don't you know Major 
 O'Leary?" inquired that gentleman. ''I and 
 a friend have business here." 
 
 The man muttered something in the way of 
 apology, and opening the dingy lantern, in 
 which burned the wretched tallow candle which 
 lialf lighted the place, he snuifed it with his 
 finger and thumb, and while so doing, de- 
 sired the major to proceed. Accordingly, 
 with the precision of one who was familiar with 
 every turn of the place, the gallant officer led 
 
CHAP. VI.] THE SOLDIER. 85 
 
 O'Connor through several rooms, lighted in the 
 same dim and shabby way, into a corridor 
 leading directly to the rearward of the house, 
 and connecting it with some other detached 
 building. As they threaded this long passage, 
 the major turned toward O'Connor, who fol- 
 lowed him, and whispered — 
 
 *'Did you mark that ill-looking fellow in the 
 hall ? poor Creigan ! — a gentleman ! — would 
 you think it ? — a (jentleman by birth, and with 
 a snug property too — four hundred good pounds 
 a-year, and more — all gone, like last year's 
 snow, chiefly here in backing mains of his own ; 
 poor dog ! I remember him one of the best 
 dressed men on town, and now he's fain to pick 
 up a few shillings by the week, in the place 
 where he lost his thousands ; this is the state of 
 man I" 
 
 As he spoke thus, they had reached the end 
 of the passage. The major opened the door 
 which terminated the conidor, and thus dis- 
 played a scene which, though common-place 
 enough in its ingredients, was, nevertheless, in 
 its coup crceil, sufficiently striking. In the 
 
86 THE COCK AND ANCHOR. [chap. vi. 
 
 centre of a capacious and ill-finished chamber 
 stood a circular platform, with a high ledge 
 running round it ; this arena, some fourteen 
 feet in diameter, was surrounded by circular 
 benches, which rose one outside the other, in 
 parallel tiers, to the wall ; upon these seats 
 were croAvded some hundreds of men — a 
 strange mixture ; gentlemen of birth and 
 honour sate side by side with notorious 
 swindlers — noblemen with coal-heavers — sim- 
 pletons with sharks — the unkempt greasy locks 
 of squalid destitution mingled in the curls of 
 the patrician periwig — aristocratic lace and em- 
 broidery were crumpled and rubbed by the 
 dusty shoulders of draymen and potboys — all 
 these gross and glaring contrarieties, reconciled 
 and bound together by one hellish sympathy ; 
 all sat locked in breathless suspense ; every 
 countenance fixed in the hard lines of intense 
 excited anxiety and vigilance; all leaned for- 
 ward to gaze upon the combat whose crisis w^as 
 on the point of being determined. Those who 
 occupied the back seats, had started up, and 
 pressing forward, almost crushed those in front 
 
CHAP VI.] THE SOLDIER. 87 
 
 of them to death : every aperture in this living 
 pile was occupied by some eager, haggard, or 
 ruffian face ; and spite of all the pushing and 
 crowding, and bustling, all were silent, as if 
 the powers of voice and utterance were un- 
 known among them. The effect of this scene, 
 so suddenly presented — the crowd of ill-looking 
 and anxious faces — the startling glare of light — 
 and the unexpected rush of hot air from the 
 place — all so confounded him, that O'Connor 
 did not, for some moments, direct his attention 
 to the object upon which the gaze of the fasci- 
 nated multitude was concentrated ; when he did 
 so, he beheld a spectacle, abstractedly very dis- 
 proportioned in interest to the passionate 
 anxiety of which it was the subject. Tavo 
 game cocks, duly trimmed, and having the long 
 and formidable steel weapons with which the 
 humane ingenuity of " the fancy" supplies the 
 natural spur of the poor biped, occupied the 
 centre of the circular stage which we have 
 described ; one of the birds lay upon his back, 
 beneath the other, which had actually sent his 
 spurs through and through his opponent's neck. 
 
88 THE COCK AND ANCHOR. [chap. vi. 
 
 In this posture the wounded animal lay, witli 
 his beak open, and the blood trickling copiously 
 through it upon the board. The victorious bird 
 crowed loud and clear, and a buzz began to 
 spread through the spectators, as if the battle 
 were already determined, and suspense at an 
 end; the "law" had just expired, and the 
 gentlemen whose business it was to handle the 
 birds, were preparing to Avithdraw them. 
 
 " Twenty to one on the gray cock," ex- 
 claimed a large, ill-looking fellow, who sat 
 close to the pit, clutching his arms in his 
 brawny hands, as if actually hugging himself 
 with glee, while he gazed with an exulting grin 
 upon the combat, whose issue seemed now 
 beyond the reach of chance. The challenge 
 was of course unaccepted. 
 
 "Fifty to one," exclaimed the same person, 
 still more extatically. " One hundred to one — 
 two hundred to one." 
 
 " I give you one guinea to two hundi'ed," 
 exclaimed perhaps the coolest gambler in that 
 select assembly, young Henry Ashwoode, who 
 sat also near the front. 
 
CHAP. VI.] THE SOLDIER. 89 
 
 *' Done, Mr. Ashwoode, done with you. It's 
 a bet, sir," said the same ill-looking fellow. 
 
 " Done sir," replied Ashwoode. 
 
 Again the conqueror crowed the shrill note 
 of victory, and all seemed over, when on a 
 sudden, by one of those strange vicissitudes 
 of which the annals of the cock-pit aiford so 
 many examples, the dying bird, it may be, 
 roused by the vaunting challenge of his an- 
 tagonist, with one convulsive spasm, struck both 
 his spurs through and thi'ough the head of his 
 opponent, who dropped dead upon the table, while 
 the wounded bird springing to his legs, flapped 
 his wings, as if victory had never hovered, and 
 then as momentarily fell lifeless on the board ; 
 by this last heroic feat winning a main, on 
 which many thousands of pounds depended. 
 A silence for a moment ensued, and then there 
 followed the loud exulting cheers of some, and 
 the hoarse bitter blasphemies of others — cla- 
 morous expostulation, horse laughter, curses, 
 congratulations, and invectives all mingled with 
 the noise occasioned by those who came in 
 or went out, the shuffling and pounding of 
 
90 THE COCK AND ANCHOR. [chap. vi. 
 
 feet, in one torrentuous and stunning volume 
 of sound. 
 
 Young Ashwoode having secured and settled 
 all his bets, shouldered his way through the 
 crowd, and with some difficulty reached the 
 door, at which Major O'Leary and O'Connor 
 were stand in o^. 
 
 '' How do you do, uncle? Were you in the 
 room when I took the two hundred to one ?" 
 inquired the young man. 
 
 "By my conscience I was, Hal, and wish 
 you joy Avith all my heart. It was a sporting 
 bet on both sides, and as game a fight as the 
 world ever saw. 
 
 '' I must be off," continued the young man. 
 '' I promised to look in at Lady Stukely's to- 
 night; but before I go, you must know they 
 are all affronted with you at the manor — the 
 girls are positively outrageous, and desired me 
 to command your presence to-moiTOw on pain 
 of excommunication." 
 
 " Give my tender regards to them both," 
 replied the major, "and assure them that I 
 will be proud to obey them. But don't you 
 
CHAP. VT] THE SOLDIER. 91 
 
 know, my friend O'Connor," he added, in a 
 lower tone, " you are old acquaintances, 1 
 believe ?" 
 
 " Unless my memory deceives me, I have 
 had the honour of meeting ]Mr. O'Connor 
 before," said the young man, with a cold bow, 
 which was retm-ned by O'Connor with more 
 than equal hauteur. '^ Recollect, uncle, no 
 excuses," added young Ashwoode, as he re- 
 treated from the chamber — " you have pro- 
 mised to give to-morrow to the girls. Adieu." 
 
 '' There goes as finished a specimen of a 
 mad-cap, rake-helly young devil as ever carried 
 the name of Ashwoode or the blood of the 
 O'Learys," observed the uncle; "but come, 
 we must look to the sport." 
 
 So saying, the major, exerting his formidable 
 strength, and accompanying his turbulent pro- 
 gress with a large distribution of apologetic 
 and complimentary speeches of the most high- 
 flown kind, shoved and jostled his way to a 
 vacant place near the front of the benches, 
 and, seating himself there, began to give and 
 take bets to a large amount upon the next 
 
92 THE COCK AND ANCHOR. [chap. vi. 
 
 main. Tired of the noise, and nearly stifled 
 with the heat of the place, O'Connor, seeing 
 that the major was resolved to act indepen- 
 dently of him, thought that he might as well 
 consult his own convenience as stay there to 
 be stunned and suffocated without any prospect 
 of expediting the major's retreat : he, there- 
 fore, turned about and retraced his steps through 
 the passage which we have mentioned. The 
 grateful coolness of the air, and the lassitude 
 induced by the scene in which he had taken a 
 part, though no very prominent one, induced 
 him to pause in the first room to which the 
 passage as we have said gave access ; and 
 happening to espy a bench in one of the 
 recesses of the windows, he threw himself upon 
 it, thoroughly to receive the visitings of the 
 cool, hovering aii'. As he lay listless and 
 silent upon this rude couch, he was suddenly 
 disturbed by a sound of some one treading 
 the yard beneath. A figure sprang across 
 toward the window ; and almost instanta- 
 neously Larry Toole — for the moonlight clearly 
 revealed the features of the intruder — was pre- 
 
CHAP. VI.] THE SOLDIER. 93 
 
 sented at the aperture, and with an energetic 
 spring, accompanied by a no less energetic, 
 devotional ejaculation, that worthy vaulted into 
 the chamber, agitated, excited, and apparently 
 at his wits' end. 
 
94 THE COCK AND ANCHOR. [chap. vu. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 THREE GKIM FIGURES IN A LONELY LANE TWO QUEER GUESTS 
 
 RIDING TO TONY BLIGH'S THE WATCHER IN DANGER AND 
 
 THE HIGHWAYMEN. 
 
 A LIBERAL and unsolicited attention to the 
 affairs of other people, was one among the 
 many amiable peculiarities of Mr. Laurence 
 Toole : he had hardly, therefore, seen the 
 major and O'Connor fairly beyond the threshold 
 of the "Cock and Anchor," Avhen he donned 
 his cocked hat and followed their steps, allow- 
 ing, however, an interval sufficiently long to 
 secure himself against detection. Larry Toole 
 well knew the purposes to which the squalid 
 mansion which we have described was dedicated, 
 and having listened for a few moments at the 
 door, to allow his master and his companion 
 time to reach the inner sanctuary of vice and 
 brutality, whither it was the will of Major 
 
CHAP, VII.] TH£ HIGHWAYMEN. 95 
 
 O'Leary to lead his reluctant friend, this faithful 
 squire entered at the half-open door, and began 
 to traverse the passage which we have before 
 mentioned. He was not, however, permitted 
 long to do so undisturbed. The grim sentinel 
 of these unhallowed regions, on a sudden, up- 
 reared Ills towering proportions, heaving his 
 huge shoulders with a \'ery unpleasant appear- 
 ance of preparation for an effort, and with two 
 or three formidable strides, brought himself up 
 with the presumptuous intruder. 
 
 '' What do you want here — eh ! you d d 
 
 scarecrow^?" exclaimed the porter, in a tone 
 which made the very walls to vibrate. 
 
 Larry was too much astounded to reply — he 
 therefore remained mute and motionless. 
 
 " See, my good cove," observed the gaunt 
 porter, in the same impressive accents of ad- 
 monition — "make yourself scarce, d'ye mind; 
 and if you want to see the pit, go round — we 
 don't let potboys and pickpockets in at this side 
 — cut and run, or I'll have to give you a lift." 
 
 Larry was no poltroon ; but another glance 
 at the colossal frame of the porter quelled eflfec- 
 
96 THE COCK AND ANCHOR. [chap. vii. 
 
 tually whatever pugnacious movements might 
 have agitated his soul ; and the little man, 
 having deigned one look of infinite contempt, 
 which told his antagonist, as plainly as any look 
 could do, that he owed his personal safety 
 solely and exclusively to the sublime and un- 
 merited pity of yir. Laurence Toole, that 
 dignified individual turned on his heel, and 
 mthdrew somewhat precipitately through the 
 door which he had just entered. 
 
 The porter grinned, rolled his quid luxuriously 
 till it made the grand tour of his mouth, 
 shrugged his square shoulders, and bui'st into 
 a harsh chuckle. Such triumphs as the one he 
 had just enjoyed, were the only sweet di'ops 
 which mingled in the bitter cup of his savage 
 existence. i\Iean while, our romantic friend, 
 traversing one or two dark lanes, made his way 
 easily enough to the more public entrance of 
 this temple of fortune. The door which our 
 friend Larry now approached lay at the termi- 
 nation of a long and narrow lane, enclosed on 
 each side with dead walls of brick — at the far 
 end towered the dark outline of the building, 
 
CHAP. VII.] THE HIGHWAYMEN. 9/ 
 
 and over the arched doorway burned a faint 
 and dingy light, without strength enough to 
 illuminate even the bricks against which it 
 hung, and serving only in nights of extraor- 
 dinary darkness as a dim, solitary star, by 
 which the adventurous night rambler might 
 shape his course. The moon, however, was 
 now shining broad and clear into the broken 
 lane, revealing every inequality and pile of 
 rubbish upon its surface, and throwing one 
 side of the enclosure into black, impenetrable 
 shadow. Without premeditation or choice, 
 it happened that our friend Larry was walking 
 at the dark side of the lane, and shrouded in 
 the deep obscurity, he advanced leisiu-ely toward 
 the doorway. As he proceeded, his attention 
 was arrested by a figiu-e which presented itself 
 at the entrance of the building, accompanied 
 by two others, as it appeared, about to pass 
 forth into the lane through which he himself 
 was mo\ ing. They were engaged in animated 
 debate as they approached — the conversation 
 was conducted in low and earnest tones — their 
 gestures were passionate and sudden — their 
 
 VOL. I. F 
 
98 THE COCK AND ANCHOR. [chap. vii. 
 
 progress interrupted by many halts — and the 
 party evinced certain sinister indications of 
 uneasy vigilance and caution, which impressed 
 our friend with a dark suspicion of mischief, 
 which was strengthened by his recognition of 
 two of the persons composing the little group. 
 His curiosity was irresistibly piqued, and he 
 instinctively paused, lest the sound of his ad- 
 vancing steps should disturb the conference, 
 and more than half in the undefined hope that 
 he might catch the substance of their conver- 
 sation before his presence should be detected. 
 In this object he was perfectly successful. 
 
 In the form which first offered itself, he 
 instantly detected the well-known proportions 
 and features of young Ashwoode's groom, who 
 had attended his master into town ; and in 
 company with this fellow stood a person, whom 
 Larry had just as little difficulty in recognizing 
 as a rufiian who had twice escaped the gallows 
 by the critical interposition of fortune — once 
 by a flaw in the indictment, and again through 
 lack of sufficient evidence in law — each time 
 having stood his trial on a charge of murder. 
 
CHAP. VII. ] THE HIGHWAYMEN. 99 
 
 It was not very wonderful, then, that this 
 startling companionship between his old fellow- 
 servant and Will Harris (or, as he was popu- 
 larly termed, " Brimstone Bill") should have 
 piqued the curiosity of so inquisitive a person 
 as Larry Toole. 
 
 In company with these worthies was a third, 
 wrapped in a heavy riding coat, and Avho now 
 and then slightly took part in the conversation. 
 They all talked in low, earnest whispers, casting 
 many a stealthy glance backward as they ad- 
 vanced through the dim avenue toward our 
 curious friend. 
 
 As the party approached, Larry ensconced 
 himself in the recess formed by the projection 
 of two dilapidated brick piers, between which 
 hung a crazy door, and in whose front there 
 stood a mound of rubbish some three feet in 
 height. In such a position he not unreasonably 
 thought himself perfectly secure. 
 
 " Why, what the devil ails you now, you 
 cursed cowardly ninny," whispered Brimstone 
 Bill, through his set teeth — " what can happen 
 you^ win or lose? — turn up black, or turn up 
 
100 THE COCK AND ANCHOR. [chap. vii. 
 
 red, is it not all one to you, you mouth you ? 
 Your carcase is safe and sound — then what do 
 you funk for now ? Rouse yourself, you d — d 
 idiot J or I'll drive a brace of lead pellets through 
 your brains — rouse yourself." 
 
 Thus speaking, he shook the groom roughly 
 by the collar. 
 
 '' Stop, Bill — hands off," muttered the man, 
 sulkily — "I'm not funking — you know I'm 
 not ; but I don't want to see him finished — 
 I don't want to see him murdered when there's 
 no occasion for it — there's no great harm in 
 that ; we want his rihben^ not his blood ; there's 
 no profit in taking his hfe." 
 
 '' Booby ! listen to me," replied the ruffian, 
 in the same tone of intense impatience — "What 
 do / want with his life any more than you do ? 
 Nothing. Do not I wish to do the thing 
 genteelly as much as you ? He shall not lose 
 a drop of blood, nor his skin have a scratch, 
 if he knows how to behave and be a good 
 boy. Bah ! we need but show him the lead 
 towels, and the job's done. Look you, I and 
 Jack will sit in the private room of the 
 
CHAP. VII.] THE HIGHWAYMEN. 101 
 
 ** Bleeding Horse." Old Tony's a trump, 
 and asks no questions ; so, as you pass, give 
 the window a skelp of the whip, and we'll 
 be out in the snapping of a flint. Leave the 
 rest to us. You have your instructions, you 
 kedger, so act up to them, and the devil him- 
 self can't spoil our sport." 
 
 " You may look out for us, then," said the 
 servant, "in less than two hom's. He never 
 stays late at Lady Stukely's, and he must be 
 home before two o'clock.*' 
 
 '* Do not forget to grease the hammers," 
 suggested the fellow in the heavy coat. 
 
 " He doesn't caiTy pistols to-night," replied 
 the attendant. 
 
 " So much the better — all my luck," ex- 
 claimed Brimstone — " I would not swap luck 
 with the chancellor." 
 
 '^ The devil's children, they say," observe 
 the gentleman in the large coat, " have the 
 devil's luck." 
 
 These were the last words Larry Toole could 
 distinguish as the party moved onward. He 
 ventured, however, although with grievous 
 
102 THE COCK AND ANCHOR. [chap vii. 
 
 tremours, to peep out of his berth to ascertain 
 the movements of the party. They all stopped 
 at a distance of some twenty or thirty yards 
 from the spot where he crouched, and for a 
 time appeared again absorbed in earnest debate. 
 On a sudden, however, the fellow in the riding- 
 coat having frequently looked suspiciously up 
 the lane in which they stood, stooped down, 
 and, picking up a large stone, hurled it with 
 his whole force in the dh-ection of the embrasure 
 in which Larry was lurking. The missile 
 struck the projecting pier within a yard of 
 that gentleman's head, with so much force that 
 the stone burst into fragments and descended 
 in a shower of splinters about his ears. This 
 astounding salute was instantly followed by 
 an occmTcnce still more formidable — for the 
 ruffian, not satisfied Avith the test already ap- 
 plied, strode up in person to the doorway in 
 which Larry had placed himself. It was well 
 for that person that he was sheltered in front 
 by the mass of rubbish which we have men- 
 tioned : at the foot of this he lay coiled, not 
 daring even to breathe ; every moment expecting 
 
CHAP. TIL] THE HIGHWAYMEN. 103 
 
 to feel the cold point of the villain's sword 
 poking against his ribs, and half inclined to 
 start upon his feet and shout for help, although 
 conscious that to do so would scarcely leave 
 him a chance for his life. The suspicions of 
 the TVTctch were, fortunately for Larry, ill- 
 directed. He planted one foot upon the heap 
 of loose materials which, along with the deep 
 shadow, constituted poor Mr. Toole's only 
 safeguard ; and while the stones which his 
 weight dislodged rolled over that prostrate 
 person, he pushed open the door and gazed 
 into the yard, lest any inquisitive ear or eye 
 might have witnessed more than was consistent 
 with the safety of the confederates of Brimstone 
 Bill. The fellow was satisfied, and returned 
 whistling, ^vith affected carelessness, towards 
 his comrades. 
 
 More dead than alive, Larry remained mute 
 and motionless for manv minutes, not darinnf 
 to peep forth from his hiding-place; when at 
 length he mustered courage to do so, he saw 
 the two robbers still together, and again shnmk 
 back into his retreat. Luckily for the poor 
 
104 THE COCK AND ANCHOR. [chap vu. 
 
 wight, the fellow who had looked into the 
 yard left the door unclosed, which, after a 
 little time perceiving, Larry glided stealthily 
 in on all fours, and in a twinkling sprang 
 into the window at which his master lay, as 
 we have abeady recorded. 
 
CHAP. VIII.] THE WARNING. 105 
 
 CHAPTER YIII. 
 
 THE WABXING SHE-WING HQ-W LARRY TOOLE FARED 
 
 WHOM HE SAW AND WHAT HE SAID AND HOW MUCH 
 
 GOOD AND HOW LITTLE HE DID AND MOREOVER RELAT- 
 ING HOW SOMEBODY WAS LAID IN THE MIRE AND HOW 
 
 HENRY ASHWOODE PUT HIS FOOT IN THE STIRRUP. 
 
 Flurried and fi'ightened as Larry was, his 
 agitation was not strong enough to overcome 
 in him the national, instinctive abhorrence of 
 the character of an informer. To the close 
 interrogatories of his master, he returned but 
 vague and evasive answers. A few^ dark hints 
 he threw out as to the cause of his alarm, but 
 preserved an impenetrable silence respecting 
 alike its particular nature and the persons of 
 whose participation in the scheme he was sa- 
 tisfied. 
 
 In language incoherent and nearly unin- 
 telligible from excitement, he implored O'Con- 
 nor to allow him to absent himself for about 
 
 F 2 
 
106 THE COCK AND ANCHOR. [chap. viii. 
 
 one hour, promising the most important re- 
 sults, in case his request was complied with, 
 and vowing upon his return to tell him every 
 thing about the matter from beginning to 
 end. 
 
 Seeing the agonized earnestness of the man, 
 though wholly uninformed of the cause of his 
 uneasiness, which Larry constantly refused to 
 divulge, O'Connor granted him the permission 
 which he desired, and both left the building 
 together. O'Connor pursued his way to the 
 '' Cock and Anchor," where, restored to his 
 chamber and to soHtude, he abandoned himself 
 once more to the current of his wayward 
 thoughts. 
 
 Our friend Larry, however, was no sooner 
 disengaged from his master, than he began, at 
 his utmost speed, to thread the narrow and 
 complicated lanes and streets which lay be- 
 tween the haunt of profligacy which we have 
 just described, and the eastern extremity of 
 the city. After an interrupted run of nearly 
 half an hour through pitchy dark and narrow 
 streets, he emerged into Stephen's-green ; at 
 
CHAP. Till.] THE WARNING. 1U7 
 
 the eastern side of which, among other 
 buildings of lesser note, there then stood, and 
 perhaps (with a new face, and some slight ex- 
 ternal changes) still stands, a large and hand- 
 some mansion. Toward this building, conspi- 
 cuous in the distance by the red glare of dozen « 
 of links and torches which flared and flashed 
 outside, and by the gay light streaming from 
 its many windows, Larry made his way. Too 
 eager and hrn'ried to pass along the sides of 
 the square by the common road, he clambered 
 over the broken wall which surrounded it, 
 plunged through the broad trench, and ran 
 among the deep grass and rank weeds, now 
 heavy with the dews of night ; over the broad 
 area, he pursued his way, startling the quiet 
 cattle from their midnight slumbers, and hastening 
 rather than abating his speed, as he drew near to 
 the termination of his hurried mission. As he ap- 
 proached, the long dark train of carriages, every 
 here and there lighted by some flaming link 
 still unextinguished, and surrounded by crowds 
 of idle footmen, suflficiently indicated the scene 
 of Lady Stukely's hospitalities. In a moment 
 
108 THE COCK AND ANCHOR. [ch4p. viii, 
 
 Larry had again crossed the fences which en- 
 closed the square, and passing the broad road 
 among the carriages, chairs, and lackeys, he 
 sprang up the steps of the house, and thun- 
 dered lustily at the hall-door. It was opened 
 by a gruff and corpulent porter with a red face 
 and majestic demeanor, who, having learned 
 from Larry that he had an important message 
 for Mr. Henry Ashwoode, desired him, in 
 as few words as possible, to step into the hall. 
 The official then swung the massive door to, 
 rolled himself into his well cushioned throne, 
 and having scanned Larry's proportions for a 
 minute or two with one eye, which he kept 
 half open for such pm'poses, he ejacu- 
 lated — 
 
 " Mr. Finley, I say, Mr. Finley, here's one 
 with a message upwards." Having thus de- 
 livered himself, he shut down his open eye, 
 screwed his eyebrows, and became absorbed in 
 abstruse meditation. Meanwhile, Mr. Finley, 
 in person arrayed in a rich livery, advanced 
 languidly toward Larry Toole, throwing into 
 his face a dreamy and supercilious expression, 
 
CHAP, viii.] THE WARNING. 109 
 
 while with one hand, he faintly fanned himself 
 with a white pocket handkerchief. 
 
 " Your most obedient servant to com- 
 mand," drawled the footman, as he advanced. 
 " What can I do, my good soul, to ohleege 
 you ?" 
 
 " I only want to see the young master — 
 that's young IMr. Ashwoode," replied Lan-y, 
 ** for one minute, and that's all." 
 
 The footman gazed upon him for a moment 
 with a languid smile, and observed in the 
 same sleepy tone, " Absolutely impossible — 
 amjwsseeble, as they say at the Pallais 
 Royal." 
 
 " But, bte an' agers," exclaimed Larry, 
 " it's a matther iv life an' death, robbery an' 
 murdher." 
 
 *' Bloody murder !" echoed the man in a 
 sweet, low voice, and with a stare of fashion- 
 able abstraction. 
 
 " Well, tear an' ouns," cried Larry, almost 
 beside himself with impatience, ' ' if you won't 
 bring him down to me, will you even as much 
 as caiTy him a message ?" 
 
110 THE COCK AND ANCHOR. [chap. Vni. 
 
 *' To say the truth, and upon my honour," 
 replied the man, " I can't engage to climb up 
 stairs just noAv, they are so devilish fatiguing. 
 Don't you find them so ?" 
 
 The question was thrown out in that vacant, 
 inattentive way which seems to dispense with 
 an answer. 
 
 " By my soul," rejoined Larry, almost 
 crying with vexation, " it's a hard case. 
 Do you mane to tell me, you'll neither 
 bring him down to me nor carry him up a 
 message ?" 
 
 '^ You have, my excellent fellow," replied 
 the footman placidly, "precisely conveyed my 
 meaning." 
 
 *' By the hokey," cried Larry, *' you're fairly 
 breaking my heart. In the divil's name, can 
 you as much as let me stop here till he's 
 comin' down ?" 
 
 «* Absolutely impossible," replied the foot- 
 man in the same dulcet and deliberate tone. 
 "It is indeed amposseehle, as the Parisians 
 have it. You must be aware, my good old 
 soul, that you're in a positive pickle. You 
 
CHAP, vni.] THE WARNING. Ill 
 
 are, pardon mc, my excellent friend, very dirty 
 and very disgusting. You must therefore go 
 out in a few moments into the fresh air." At 
 any other moment, such a speech would have 
 infallibly provoked Mr. Toole's righteous and 
 most rigorous vengeance ; but he was now too 
 completly absorbed in the mission which he had 
 undertaken to suffer personal considerations to 
 have a place in his bosom. 
 
 "Will you, then," he ejaculated desperately, 
 " will you as much as give him a message 
 yourself, when he's comin' down ?" 
 
 " ^Aliat message ?" drawled the lacquey. 
 
 " Tell him, for the love of God, to take the 
 old road home, by the seven sallies," replied 
 Larry. " Will you give him that message, if 
 it isn't too long ?" 
 
 '' I have a wretched memory for messages," 
 observed the footman, as he leisurely opened 
 the door — "a perfect sieve; but should he 
 catch my eye as he passes, I'll endeavour, upon 
 my honour ; good night — adieu !" 
 
 As he thus spoke, Larry had reached the 
 threshold of the door, which observing, the 
 
112 THE COCK AND ANCHOR. [chap. vui. 
 
 polished footman, with a nonchalant and easy 
 air, slammed the hall-door, thereby administer- 
 ing upon Larry's back, shoulders, and elbows, 
 such a bang as to cause Mr. Toole to descend 
 the flight of steps, at a pace much more 
 marvellous to the spectators than agreeable to 
 himself. Muttering a bitter curse upon his 
 exquisite acquaintance, Lany took his stand 
 among the expectants in the street ; there re- 
 solved to wait and watch for young Ashwoode, 
 and to give him the warning which so nearly 
 concerned his safety. 
 
 Meanwhile Lady Stukely's drawing-rooms 
 were croAvded by the gay, the fashionable, and 
 the frivolous, of all ages. Young Ashwoode 
 stood behind his wealthy hostess' chair, while 
 she played quadrille, scarce knowing whether 
 she won or lost, for Henry Ashwoode had never 
 been so fascinating before. Lady Stukely was 
 a delicate, die-away lady, not very far from 
 sixty ; the natural blush upon her nose out- 
 blazoned the rouge upon her cheeks ; several 
 very long teeth — " ivory and ebon alternately" 
 peeped roguishly from beneath her upper lip, 
 
CHAP, viii.] THE WARNING. 113 
 
 which her ladyship had a plaj^ful trick of screw- 
 ing do WD, to conceal them — a trick which made 
 her ladyship's smile rather a surprising than an 
 attractive exhibition. It is but justice, how- 
 ever, to admit that she had a pair of very 
 tolerable eyes, with which she executed the 
 most masterly evolutions. For the rest, there 
 having existed a very considerable disparity in 
 years between herself and her dear deceased. Sir 
 Charles Stukely, who had expired at the mature 
 age of ninety, more than a year before, she 
 conceived herself still a very young, artless, and 
 interesting gu4 ; and under this happy halluci- 
 nation she was more than half inclined to return 
 in good earnest, the disinterested affection of 
 Henry Ashwoode. 
 
 There, too, was old Lord Aspenly, who had, 
 but two days' before, solicited and received Sir 
 Richard Ashwoode's permission to pay his court 
 to his beautiful daughter, Mary. There, j irk- 
 ing, and shrugging, and grimacing, he hobbled 
 through the rooms, all wrinkles and rappee ; 
 bandying compliments and repartees, flirting 
 and fooling, and beyond measure enchanted 
 
114 THE COCK AND ANCHOR. [chap. Tin. 
 
 with himself, while every interval in frivolity 
 and noise was filled up with images of his 
 approaching nuptials, and intended bride, while 
 she, poor girl, happily unconscious of all 
 their plans, was spared, for that night, the 
 pangs and struggles which were hereafter but 
 too severely to try her heart. 
 
 'Twere needless to enumerate noble peers, 
 whose very titles are now unknown — poets, who 
 alas ! were mortal — men of promise, who per- 
 formed nothing — clever young men, who grew 
 into stupid old ones — and millionaires, whose 
 money perished with them : we shall not, there- 
 fore, weary the reader by describing Lady 
 Stukely's guests ; let it suffice to mention that 
 Henry AshAvoode left the rooms with young 
 Pigwiggynne of Bolton's regiment of dragoons, 
 and one of Lord Wharton's aids-de-camp. This 
 circumstance is here recorded because it had an 
 effect in producing the occurrences which we 
 have to relate by-and-bye ; for young Pigwig- 
 gynne having partaken somewhat freely of Lady 
 Stukely's wines, and being unusually exhili- 
 
CHAP. Till] THE WARNING. 115 
 
 rated, came forth from the hall-door to assist 
 Ashwoode in procuring a chair, which he did 
 with a good deal more noise and blasphemy than 
 was strictly necessary. Our friend Larry Toole, 
 who had patiently waited the egress of his 
 quondam young master, no sooner beheld him 
 than he hastened to accost him, but Pigwiggy- 
 nne being, as we have said, in high spirits and 
 unusual good-humour, cut short poor Larry's 
 address by jocularly knocking him on the head 
 with a heavy walking cane — a pleasantry which 
 laid that person senseless upon the pave- 
 ment. The humom'ist passed on with an exhi- 
 lirating crow, after the manner of a cock ; and 
 had not a matter-of-fact chairman drawn Mr. 
 Toole from among the coach-wheels where the 
 joke had happened to lay him, we might 
 have been saved the trouble of recording the 
 subsequent history of that very active member 
 of society. Meanwhile, young Ash^voode was 
 conveyed in a chair to a neighbouring fashion- 
 able hotel, where, having changed his suit, and 
 again equipped himself for the road, he mounted 
 
116 THE COCK AND ANCHOR. [chap. vm. 
 
 his horse, and followed by his treacherous 
 groom, set out at a brisk pace upon his hazard- 
 ous, and, as it turned out, eventful night-ride, 
 toward the manor of Morley Court. 
 
CHAV. IX.] THE BLEEDING HORSE. 117 
 
 CHAPTEK IX. 
 
 THE BLEEDING HOKSE HOLLANDS AND PIPES FOR TWO 
 
 EYEBY BULLET HAS ITS BILLET. 
 
 At the time in which the events that we have 
 undertaken to record took place, there stood 
 at the southern extremity of the city, near the 
 point at which Camden-street now terminates, 
 a small, old-fashioned building, something be- 
 tween an ale-house and an inn. It occupied the 
 road-side by no means unpicturesquely ; one 
 gable jutted into the road, with a projecting 
 window, which stood out from the building like 
 a glass box held together by a massive frame of 
 Avood ; and commanded by this projecting gable, 
 and a few yards in retreat, but facing the road, 
 was the inn door, over which hung a painted 
 pannel, representing a white horse, out of whose 
 neck there spouted a crimson cascade, and 
 underneath, in large letters, the traveller was 
 
118 THE COCK AND ANCHOR. [chap. ix. 
 
 informed that this was the genuine old '' Bleed- 
 ing Horse." Old enough, in all conscience, it 
 appeared to be, for the tiled roof, except where 
 the ivy clustered over it, was crowded with 
 weeds of many kinds, and the boughs of the 
 huge trees which embowered it had cracked and 
 shattered one of the cumbrous chimney-stacks, 
 and in many places it was evident that but for 
 the timely interposition of the saw and the axe, 
 the giant limbs of the old timber would, in the 
 gradual increase of years, have forced their 
 way through the roof and the masonry itself — 
 a tendency sufficiently indicated by sundry in- 
 dentures and rude repairs in those parts of the 
 building most exposed to such casualties. Upon 
 the night in which the events that are recorded 
 in the immediately preceding chapters, occurred, 
 two horsemen rode up to this inn, and leisurely 
 entering the stable-yard, dismounted, and gave 
 their horses in charge to a ragged boy who 
 acted as hostler, directing him, with a few 
 very impressive figures of rhetoric, on no 
 account to loosen girth or bridle, or to suffer 
 the beasts to stir one yard from the spot where 
 
CHAP. IX.] THE BLEEDING HORSE. 119 
 
 they stood ; this matter settled, they entered 
 
 the house. Both Avere muffled ; the one — a 
 
 large, shambling fellow — wore a capacious 
 
 riding-coat; the other — a small, wiry man — was 
 
 ■\\Tapped in a cloak ; both wore their hats 
 
 pressed down over their brows, and had drawn 
 
 their mufflers up, so as to conceal the lower 
 
 part of the face. The lesser of the tAvo men, 
 
 leaving his companion in the passage, opened a 
 
 door, within which were a few fellows drowsily 
 
 toping, and one or two asleep. In a chair by 
 
 the fire sat Tony Bligh, the proprietor of the 
 
 " Bleeding Horse," a middle-aged man, rather 
 
 corpulent, as pale as tallow, and with a sly, 
 
 ugly squint. The little man in the cloak merely 
 
 introduced his head and shoulders, and beckoned 
 
 with his thumb. The signal, though scarcely 
 
 observed by one other of the occupants of the 
 
 room, was instantly and in silence obeyed by 
 
 the landlord, who, casting one uneasy glance 
 
 round, glided across the floor, and was in the 
 
 passage almost as soon as the gentleman in the 
 
 cloak. 
 
 *' Here, Tony boy," whispered the man, as 
 
120 THE COCK AND ANCHOR. [chap. ix. 
 
 the innkeeper approached, ''fetch us a pint of 
 Hollands, a couple of pipes, and a glim ; but 
 first turn the key in this door here, and come 
 yourself, do ye mind." 
 
 Tony squeezed the speaker's arm in token of 
 acquiescence, and turning a key gently in the 
 lock, he noiselessly opened the door which 
 Brimstone Bill had indicated, and the two cava- 
 liers strode into the dark and vacant chamber. 
 Brimstone walked to the window, pushed open 
 the casement, and leaned out. The beautiful 
 moon was shining above the old and tufted 
 trees which lined the quiet road : he looked up 
 and down the shaded avenue, but nothing was 
 moving upon it, save the varying shadows as 
 the night wind swung the branches to and fro. 
 He listened, but no sound reached his ears, 
 excepting the rustling and moaning of the 
 boughs, through which the breeze was fitfully 
 soughing. 
 
 *' d n the shining old b — h," he 
 
 muttered, as he scowled upwards at the fair 
 moon. ''Many a time I'd have given a limb 
 for enough of her light to see ten yards round. 
 
CH*p. IX. 1 THE BLEEDING HORSE. 121 
 
 and she would not spare what would show an 
 OAvl to bed, and now, when I'd give half a 
 limb for a rag of a cloud to cover her, 
 she's as bare as my hand. But it's all one, 
 
 mayhap. The old has seen many a queer 
 
 thing before now, and told no tales.'* As he 
 muttered this betAveen hi- teeth, Tony re- 
 turned with the refreshments which the 
 gentleman had ordered, and with a dark 
 lantern enclosing a lighted candle. " Right, old 
 cove," said Bill. " I see you hav'nt forgot the 
 trick of the trade. Who are your pals inside ?" 
 
 " Three of them sleep here to-night," replied 
 Tony. ''They're all quiet coves enough, such as 
 doesn't hear nor see any more than they 
 ought." 
 
 The two fellows filled a pipe each, and 
 lighted them at the lantern. 
 
 ''What mischief are you after now, Bill?" 
 inquired the host, with a peculiar leer. 
 
 "Why should /be after any mischief," re- 
 plied Brimstone jocularly, " any more than a 
 -ucking dove, eh ? Do I look like mischief to- 
 night, old tickle-pitcher — do I ?" 
 
 VOL. I. *i 
 
122 THE COCK AND ANCHOR. [chap. ix. 
 
 He accompanied the question with a peculiar 
 grin, which mine host answered by a prolonged 
 wink of no less peculiar insignificance. 
 
 '' Well, Tony boy," rejoined Bill, " maybe 
 I am and maybe I aint — that's the way ; but 
 mind you did not see a stim of me, nor of Mm^ 
 to-night (glancing at his comrade), nor ever, 
 for that matter. But you did see two ill-look- 
 ing fellows d d unlike us ; and I have a bit 
 
 of a notion that these two chaps will manage to 
 get into a sort of a shindy before an hour's over, 
 and then mizzle at once ; and if all goes well, 
 your hand shall be crossed^with gold to-night." 
 
 " Bill, Bill," said the landlord with a smile 
 of exquisite relish, and drawing his hand coax- 
 ingly over the man's forehead, so as to smooth 
 the curls of his perriwig nearly into his eyes, 
 "•you're just the same old dodger — you are the 
 devil's own bird — you have not cast a feather, 
 d n you." 
 
 It is hard to say how long this tender scene 
 might have continued, had not the other ruffian 
 knocked his knuckles sharply on the table, and 
 cried — 
 
CHAP. IX.] THE BLEEDING HORSE. 123 
 
 " Hish ! brother — chise it — enough fooling — 
 I hear a horse-shoe on the road." 
 
 AH held their breath, and remained motion- 
 less for a time. The fellow was however mis- 
 taken. Bill again advanced to the window, 
 and gazed intently through the long vista of 
 trees. 
 
 " There's not a bat stirring," said he, return- 
 ing to the table, and filling out sucessively 
 two glasses of spirits, he emptied them both. 
 *' ^leanwhile, Tony," continued he, " get back 
 to your company. Some of the fellows may be 
 poking their noses into this place. If you 
 don't hear from me, at all events you'll hear of 
 me before an hour. Hop the twig, boy, and 
 keep all hard in for a bit — skip." 
 
 With a roguish gi'in and a shake of the fist, 
 honest Tony, not caring to dispute the com- 
 mands of his friend, of whose temper he hap- 
 pened to know something, stealthily withdrew 
 from the room, where we too shall for a time 
 leave these worthy gentlemen of the road 
 vigilantly awaiting the approach of their victim. 
 
 Larry Toole had no sooner recovered his 
 
124 THE COCK AND ANCHOR. [ch\p. ix. 
 
 senses — which was in less than a minute — than 
 he at once betook himself to the " Cock and 
 Anchor," resolved, as the last resource, to in- 
 form O'Connor of the fact that an attack was 
 meditated. Accordingly, he hastened with very 
 little ceremony into the presence of his master, 
 told him that young Ashwoode w^as to be w^ay- 
 laid upon the road, near the " Bleeding Horse," 
 and implored him, without the loss of a mo- 
 ment, to ride in that direction, w^ith a view, if 
 indeed it might not already be too late, to in- 
 tercept his passage, and forewarn him of the 
 danger which awaited him. 
 
 Without waiting to ask one useless question, 
 O'Connor before five minutes Avere passed, was 
 mounted on his trusty horse, and riding at a 
 hard pace through the dark streets towards the 
 point of danger. 
 
 Meanwhile, young Ashwoode, followed by 
 his mounted attendant, proceeded at a brisk 
 trot in the direction of the manor ; his brain 
 filled with a thousand busy thoughts and 
 schemes, among which, not the least important, 
 were sundry floating calculations as to the jjro- 
 
CHAP. IX.] THE BLEEDING HORSE. 1 2o 
 
 bable and possible amount of Lady Stukely's 
 jointure, as well as some conjectures respecting 
 the maximum dm'ation of her ladyship's life. 
 Involved in these pleasing ruminations, some- 
 times crossed by no less agreeable recollections, 
 in which the triumphs of vanity, and the suc- 
 cesses of the gaming-table, had then* share, he 
 had now reached that shadowy and silent part 
 of the road, at which stood the little inn, em- 
 bowered in the great old trees, and peeping 
 forth with a sort of humble and friendly aspect 
 but ill-according with the dangerous designs it 
 served to shelter. 
 
 Here the servant falling somewhat further 
 behind, brought his horse close under the pro- 
 jecting window of the inn as he passed, and 
 with a sharp cut of his whip gave the concerted 
 signal. Before sLxty seconds had elapsed, two 
 w^ell mounted cavaliers were riding at a hard 
 gallop in their wake. At this headlong pace, 
 the foremost of the two horsemen had passed 
 Ashwoode by some dozen yards, when checking 
 his horse so suddenly as to throAV him back 
 upon his haunches, he wheeled him round, and 
 
126 THE COCK AND ANCHOR. [chap. ix. 
 
 plunging the spurs deep into liis flanks, with 
 two headlong springs, he dashed him madly 
 upon the young man's steed, hurling the beast 
 and his rider to the earth. Tremendous as was 
 the fall, young Ashwoode, remarkable alike for 
 personal courage and activity, was in a moment 
 upon his feet, with his sword drawn, ready to 
 receive the assault of the ruffian. 
 
 '^ Let go your skiver — drop it, you green- 
 horn," cried the fellow hoarsely, as he wheeled 
 round his plunging horse, and drew a pistol 
 
 from the holster, "or by the eternal I'll 
 
 blow your head into dust." 
 
 Young Ashwoode attempted to seize the 
 reins of the fellow's horse, and made a desperate 
 pass at the rider. 
 
 " Take it, then," cried the fellow, thrusting 
 the muzzle of the pistol into Ashwoode's face 
 and drawing the trigger. Fortunately for Ash- 
 woode, the pistol missed fire, and almost at the 
 same moment the rapid clang of a horse's hoofs, 
 accompanied by the loud shout of menace, 
 broke startingly upon his ear. Happy was this 
 interruption for Henry Ashwoode, for stunned 
 
CHvp. IX.] THE BLEEDING HORSE. 127 
 
 and dizzy from the shock, he at that moment 
 tottered, and in the next was prostrate upon 
 
 the ground. ** Blowed by ,'* cried the 
 
 villain furiously, as the unwelcome sounds 
 reached his ears, and dashing the spurs into his 
 horse, he rode at a furious gallop down the 
 road towards the country. This scene occupied 
 scarce six seconds in the acting. Brimstone 
 Bill, who had but a moment before come up 
 to the succour of his comrade, also heard the 
 rapid approach of the galloping hoofs upon 
 the road ; he knew that before he could count 
 fifty seconds the new comer would have 
 arrived. A few moments, however, he thought 
 he could spare — important moments they turned 
 out to be to one of the party. Bill kept his 
 eye steadily fixed upon the point some three 
 or four hundred yards distant at which he knew 
 the horseman whose approach was announced 
 must first appear. 
 
 In that brief moment, the cool-headed villain 
 had rapidly calculated the danger of the groom's 
 committing his accomplices through want of 
 coolness and presence of mind, should he him- 
 
128 THE COCK AND ANCHOR. [chap. ix. 
 
 self, as was not unlikely, become suspected. 
 The groom's pistols were still loaded, and he 
 had taken no part in the conflict. Brimstone 
 Bill fixed a stern glance upon his companion 
 Avhile all these and other thoughts flashed like 
 lio^htninoj across his brain. 
 
 " Darby," said he, hurriedly to the man, 
 who sat half-stupified in the saddle close beside 
 him, " blaze off the lead towels, boy — crack 
 them ofl", I say." 
 
 Bill impatiently leaned forward, and himself 
 drew the pistols from the groom's saddle-bow ; 
 he fired one of them in the air — he cocked the 
 other. " This dolt will play the devil with us 
 all," thought he, looking with a peculiar expres- 
 sion at the bewildered servant. With one hand 
 he grasped him by the collar to steady his aim, 
 and with the other, suddenly thrusting the pistol 
 to his ear, and drawing the trigger, he blew the 
 wretched man's head into fragments like a pots- 
 herd ; and wheeling his horse's head about, he 
 followed his comrade pell-mell, beating the sparks 
 in showers from the stony road, at every 
 plunge. 
 
CHAP. IX.] THE BLEEDING HORSE. 129 
 
 All this occurred in fewer moments than it 
 has taken us lines to describe it; and before 
 our friend Brimstone Bill had secured the odds 
 which his safety required, O'Connor was thun- 
 dering at a furious gallop within less than a 
 hundi^ed yards of him. Bill saw that his 
 pursuer was better mounted than he — to escape, 
 therefore, by a fair race, was out of the question 
 — his resolution w^as quickly taken. By a 
 sudden and powerful effort, he reined in his 
 horse at a single pull, and w^th one rearing 
 wheel, brought him round upon his antagonist ; 
 at the same time, drawing one of the large 
 pistols from the saddle-bow^, he rested it deli- 
 berately upon his bridle-arm, and fired at his 
 pursuer, now -svithin twenty yards of him. The 
 ball passed so close to O'Connor's head, that 
 his ear rang shrilly with the sound of it for 
 hom's after. They had now closed — the high- 
 wayman drew his second pistol from the 
 holster, and each fired at the same instant. 
 O'Connor's shot was well directed — it struck 
 liis opponent in the bridle-arm, a little below 
 the shoulder, shattering the bone to splinters. 
 
 G 2 
 
130 THE COCK AND ANCHOR. [chap. ix. 
 
 With a hoarse shriek of agony, the felloAv, scarce 
 knowing what he did, forced the spurs into his 
 horses' sides ; and the animal reared, wheeled, 
 and bore its rider at a reckless speed in the 
 direction w hich his companion had followed. 
 
 It was well for him that the shot, which at 
 the same moment he had discharged, had not 
 been altogether misdirected. O'Connor, indeed, 
 escaped unscathed, but the ball struck his horse 
 between the eyes, and pi(rcing the brain, the 
 poor beast reared upright and fell dead upon 
 the road. Extricating himself from the saddle, 
 O'Connor returned to the spot where young 
 Ashwoode and the servant still lay. Stunned 
 and dizzy with the fall Avhich he had had, the 
 excitement of actual conflict was no sooner over, 
 than Ashwoode sunk back into a state of in- 
 sensibility. In this condition O'Connor found 
 him as pale as death, and apparently lifeless. 
 Raising him against the grassy bank at the 
 road side, and having cast some water from 
 a pool close by into his face, he saw him 
 speedily recover. 
 
 " Mr. O'Connor," said Ashwoode, as soon 
 
CHAP. IX ] THE BLEEDING HORSE. 131 
 
 as he was sufficiently restored, '' you have saved 
 my life — how can I thank you ?" 
 
 " Spare your thanks, sir," replied O'Con- 
 nor, haughtily — " for any man I would have 
 done as much — for any one bearing your name 
 I would do much more. Are you hurt, sir ?" 
 
 " O'Connor, I have done you much injustice," 
 said the young man, betrayed for the moment 
 into something like genuine feeling. " You must 
 forget and forgive it — I know your feelings 
 respecting others of my family — henceforward I 
 will be your friend— do not refuse my hand." 
 
 " Henry Ashwoode," replied O'Connor, '^ I 
 take your hand — gladly forgetting all past 
 causes of resentment — but I w^ant no vows of 
 friendship, which to-morrow you may regret. 
 Act with regard to me henceforward as if this 
 night had not been — for I tell you truly again 
 that I would have done as much for the meanest 
 peasant breathing, as I have done to-night for 
 you ; and once more 1 pray you tell me, are 
 you much hurt ?" 
 
 " Nothing, nothing"' replied Ashwoode — 
 " merely a fall such as I have had a thousand 
 
132 THE COCK AND ANCHOR. [chap. ix. 
 
 times after the hounds. It has made my head 
 swim confoundedly; but I'll soon be steady. 
 ^Yhat, in the meantime, has become of honest 
 Darby ? If I mistake not, I see his horse 
 browsing there by the road side ?" 
 
 A few steps showed them what seemed a bundle 
 of clothes lying heaped upon the road — they 
 approached it — it was the body of the servant. 
 
 "Get up. Darby — get up, man," cried Ash- 
 woode, at the same time pressing the prostrate 
 figure with his boot; it had been lying with 
 the back uppermost, and in a half-kneeling 
 attitude ; it now, however, rolled round, and 
 disclosed, in the bright moonlight, the hideous 
 aspect of the murdered man — the head a mere 
 mass of ragged flesh and bone, shapeless and 
 blackened, and holloAv as a shell. Horror-struck 
 at the sigiit, they turned in silence away, and 
 having secured the two horses, they both 
 mounted and rode together back to the little 
 inn, where, having procured assistance, the 
 body of the wretched servant was deposited. 
 Young Ashwoode and O'Connor then parted, 
 each on his respective way. 
 
HAi'. x] THE MASTER OF MORLEY COL'RT. 13.'^ 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 THE MASTER OF MOBLET COURT AND THE LITTLE GENTLEMAN 
 
 IN BOTTLE-GREEN THE BARONEt's DAUGHTER AND THE 
 
 TJVO CONSPIRATORS. 
 
 Encounters such as we have described in 
 our last chapter, were, it is needless to say, 
 much more common an hundi-ed and thirty 
 years ago than they are now. In fact, it was 
 unsafe alike in town and country to stir abroad 
 after dark in any district afibrding Avealth and 
 aristocracy sufficient to tempt the enterprise 
 of professional gentlemen. If London and its 
 emirons, with all their protective advantages, 
 were, nevertheless, so infested with desperadoes 
 as to render its very streets and most frequented 
 ways perilous to pass through during the hours 
 uf night, it is hardly to be wondered at that 
 Dublin, the capital of a rebellious and semi- 
 barbarous country — haunted by hungry ad- 
 
134 THE COCK AND ANCHOR. [chap, x- 
 
 venturers, who had lost every thing in the 
 revolutionary wars — with a most notoriously 
 ineiFective police, and a rash and dissolute aris- 
 tocracy, with a gi^eat deal more money and a 
 great deal less caution than usually fall to the 
 lot of our gentry of the present day — should 
 have been pre-eminently the scene of midnight 
 violence and adventure. The continued fre- 
 quency of such occurrences had habituated men 
 to think very lightly of them — and the feeble 
 condition of the civil executive almost uniformly 
 secured the impunity of the criminal. We 
 shall not, therefore, weary the reader by in- 
 viting his attention to the formal investigation 
 Avhich was forthwith instituted — it is enough 
 for all purposes to record, that like most other 
 investigations of the kind at that period, it 
 ended in — ^just nothing. 
 
 Instead, then, of attending inquests and 
 reading depositions, we must here request the 
 gentle reader to accompany us for a brief space 
 into the dressing-room of Sir Richard Ash- 
 woode, where, upon the morning following 
 the events which in our last we have detailed, 
 
CHAP, x] THE MASTER OF MORLEY COURT. 13o 
 
 the aristocratic invalid lay extended upon a 
 well-cushioned sofa, arrayed in a flowered silk 
 dressing-gown, lined with crimson, and with 
 a velvet cap upon his head. He was appa- 
 rently considerably beyond sixty — a slightly 
 and rather an elegantly made man, with thin, 
 anxious features, and a sallow complexion : 
 his head rested upon his hand, and liis eyes 
 wandered with an air of discontented abstrac- 
 tion over the fair landscape which his window 
 commanded. Before him was placed a small 
 table, with all the appliances of an elegant 
 breakfast ; and two or three books and pamph- 
 lets were laid within reach of his hand. A 
 little way from him sate his beautiful child, 
 Mary Ashwoode, paler than usual, though not 
 less lovely — for the past night had been to 
 her one of fevered excitement, gi'iefs, and fears. 
 There she sat, with her work before her, and 
 while her small hands plied their appointed 
 task, her soft dark eyes wandered often with 
 sweet looks of affection toward the reclining 
 form of that old haughty and selfish man, her 
 father. 
 
136 THE COCK AND ANCHOR. [chap. x. 
 
 The silence had continued long, for the old 
 man's temper might not, perhaps, have brooked 
 an interruption of his ruminations, although, if 
 the sour and spited expression of his face might 
 be trusted, his thoughts were not the most 
 pleasant in the world. The train of reflection, 
 whatever it might have been, was interrupted 
 by the entrance of a servant, bearing in his hand 
 a note with which he approached Sir Kichard, 
 but with that air of nervous caution with which 
 one might be supposed to present a sandwich to 
 a tiger. 
 
 " Why the devil, sirrah, do you pound 
 the floor so," cried Sir Richard, turning shortly 
 upon the man, as he advanced, and speak- 
 ing in sharp and bitter accents — " What's 
 that you've got ? — a note ? — take it back, you 
 blockhead — I'll not touch it — it is some rascally 
 scrap of dunning paper — get out of my sight, 
 sirrah." 
 
 " An it, please you, sir," replied the man, 
 deferentially, "it comes from Lord Aspenly." 
 
 *' Eh ! oh! ah!" exclaimed Sir Eichard, 
 raising himself upon the sofa, and extending 
 
CHAP. X.] THE MASTER OF MORLEY COURT. 137 
 
 his hand with alacrity — "here, give it to me; 
 so you may go, sir — but stay, does a messenger 
 wait ? — ask particularly from me how his lord- 
 ship does, do you mind ? and let tlie man have 
 refreshment ; go, sirrah, go — begone !" 
 
 Sir Richard then took the note, broke the 
 seal, and read the contents through, evidently 
 with considerable satisfaction. Having com- 
 pleted the perusal of the note twice over, with 
 a smile of unusual gratification, tinctured, per- 
 haps, with the faintest possible admixture of 
 ridicule, Sir Richard turned toward his daughter 
 with more real cheerfulness than she had seen 
 him exhibit for years before. 
 
 " ]VIary, my good child," said he, "this 
 note announces the arrival here, on to-morrow, 
 of my old, or rather, my most particular friend, 
 Lord Aspenly; he will pass some days with 
 us — days which we must all endeavour to make 
 as agreeable to him as possible. You look — 
 you do look extremely well and pretty to-day ; 
 come here and kiss me, child." 
 
 Overjoyed at this unwonted manifestation of 
 affection, the girl cast her work away, and with 
 
138 THE COCK AND ANCHOR. [chap. x. 
 
 a beating heart and light step, she ran to her 
 father's side, threw her arms about his neck, 
 and kissed him again and again, in happy un- 
 consciousness of all that was passing in the 
 mind of him she so fondly caressed. 
 
 The door again opened, and the same ser- 
 vant once more presented himself. 
 
 " What do you come to plague me about 
 now?'' inquired the master, sharply; recovering, 
 in an instant, his usual peevish manner — 
 "What's this you've got? — what is it?" 
 
 " A card, sir," replied the man, at the same 
 time advancing the salver on which it lay, 
 within reach of the languid hand of his master. 
 
 "Mr. Audley — Mr. Audley," repeated Sir 
 Richard, as he read the card — " I never heard 
 of the man before, in the course of my life ; I 
 know nothing about him — nothing — and care as 
 little. Pray Avhat is he pestering about ? — what 
 does he want here ?" 
 
 " He requests permission to see you, sir," 
 replied the man. 
 
 " Tell him, with my compliments, to go to 
 hell," rejoined the invalid ; — " Or, stay," he 
 
CHAP. X.] THE MASTER OF MORLEY COURT. 139 
 
 added, after a moment's pause — " what does he 
 look like ? — is he well or ill-dressed ? — old or 
 young ?" 
 
 *'A middle-aged man, sir; rather well- 
 dressed," answered the servant. 
 
 "He did not mention his business?" asked 
 Sir Richard. 
 
 " No, sir," replied the man ; '' but he said 
 that it was very important, and that you would 
 be glad to see him." 
 
 *' Show him up, then," said Sir Richard, 
 decisively. 
 
 The servant accordingly bowed and departed. 
 
 *' A stranorer ! — a orentleman ! — and come to 
 
 o o 
 
 me upon important and pleasant business," 
 muttered the baronet, musingly — " important 
 and pleasant ! — can my old, cross-gTained 
 brother-in-law have made a favom'able dispo- 
 sition of his property, and — and — died ! — that 
 were, indeed, news worth hearing ; too much 
 luck to happen me, though ; — no, no, it can't 
 be — it can't be." 
 
 Nevertheless, he thought it might be ; and 
 thus believing, he awaited the entrance of his 
 
140 THE COCK AND ANCHOR. Cchai-. x. 
 
 visiter Avith extreme impatience. This sus- 
 pense, however, was not of long duration ; 
 the door opened, and the servant announced 
 Mr. Audley — a dapj^er little gentleman, in 
 grave habiliments of bottle-green cloth ; in 
 person, somewhat short and stout ; and in 
 countenance, rather snub-featured and rubicund, 
 but bearing an expression in which good-humour 
 was largely blended with self-importance. This 
 little person strutted briskly into the room. 
 
 " Hem ! — Sir Eichard Ashwoode, I pre- 
 sume," exclaimed the visiter, with a profound 
 bow, which threatened to roll his little person 
 up like an armadillo. 
 
 Sir Richard returned the salute by a slight 
 nod and a gracious wave of the hand. 
 
 " You will excuse my not rising to receive 
 you, Mr. Audley./' said the baronet, "when I 
 inform you that I am tied here by the gout ; 
 pray, sir, take a chair. Mary, remove your 
 work to the room underneath, and lay the 
 ebony wand within my reach ; I will tap upon 
 the floor when I want you." 
 
 The girl, accordingly, glided from the room. 
 
CHAP. X.] THE MASTER OF MORLEY COURT. 141 
 
 *' We are now alone, sir," continued Sir 
 Richard, after a short pause ; "I fear, sir — I 
 know not why — that your business has relation 
 to my brother ; is he — is he ill ?" 
 
 "Faith, sir," replied the little man, bluntly, 
 " I never heard of the gentleman before in my 
 life." 
 
 " I breathe again, sir; you have relieved me 
 extremely," said the baronet, swallowing his 
 disappointment with a ghastly smile; "and 
 now, sir, that you liave thus considerately 
 and expeditiously dispelled what were, thank 
 heaven I my groundless alarms, may I ask you 
 to what accident I am indebted for the singular 
 good fortune of making your acquaintance — in 
 short, sir, I would fain learn the object of your 
 visit." 
 
 " That you shall, sir — that you shall, in a 
 trice," replied the little gentleman in green. 
 " I'm a plain man, my dear Sir Richard, and 
 love to come to the point at once — ahem ! The 
 story, to be sure, is a long one, but don't be 
 afraid, I'll abridge it— I'll abridge it." He 
 drew his watch from his fob, and laying it upon 
 
142 THE COCK AND ANCHOR. [chap. x. 
 
 the table before him, he continued — '' it now 
 Avants, my dear sir, precisely seven minutes of 
 eleven, by London time ; I shall limit myself 
 to half-an-hour." 
 
 " I fear, Mr. Audley, you should find me 
 a very unsatisfactory listener to a narrative 
 of half-an-hour's length," observed Sir Richard, 
 drily; ''in fact, I am not in a condition to 
 make any such exertion ; if you will obligingly 
 condense what you have to say, into a few 
 minutes, you will confer a favour upon me, and 
 lighten your own task considerably." Sir 
 Richard then indignantly took a pinch of snuff, 
 and muttered, almost audibly — "A vulgar, 
 audacious, old boor." 
 
 '« Well, then, we must try — we must try, 
 my dear sir," replied the little gentleman, 
 wiping his face with his handkerchief, by way 
 of preparation — " I'll just sum up the leading 
 points, and leave particulars for a more favour- 
 able opportunity; in fact, I'll hold over all 
 details to om- next merry meeting — our next 
 tete-a-tete — when I hope we shall meet upon a 
 pleasanter /ooh'ziy — your gouty toes, you know 
 
CHAP. X.] THE MASTER OF MORLEY COURT. 143 
 
 — d'ye take me ? Ha I ha ! excuse the joke — 
 ha ! ha ! ha !" 
 
 Sir Richard elevated his eye-brows, and 
 looked upon the little gentleman with a gaze 
 of stem and petrifying severity during this 
 burst of merriment. 
 
 '' Well, my dear sir," continued ]Mi\ Audley, 
 again wiping his face, " to proceed to business. 
 You have learned my name from my card, but 
 beyond my name you know notliing about me." 
 
 " Nothing whatever, sir," replied Sir Richard, 
 with profound emphasis. 
 
 ''Just so; well, then, you shall^'' rejoined 
 the little gentleman. " I have been a long 
 time settled in France — I brought over every 
 penny I had in the world there — in short, sir, 
 something more than twelve thousand pounds. 
 Well, sir, what did I do ^vith it ? There's 
 the question. Your gay young fellows would 
 have thrown it away at the gaming table, or 
 squandered it on gold lace and velvets — or 
 again, your prudent plodding fellow would have 
 lived quietly on the interest and left the prin- 
 cipal to vegetate ; but what did I do ? Why, 
 
144 THE COCK AND ANCHOR. [chap. x. 
 
 sir, not caring for idleness or show, I threw 
 some of it into the wine trade, and with the 
 rest I kept hammering at the funds, winning 
 twice for every once I lost. In fact, sir, I 
 prospered — the money rolled in, sir, and in due 
 course I became rich, sir — rich — icarm, as the 
 phrase goes." 
 
 " Very warm, indeed, sir," replied Sir Eichard, 
 observing that his visitor again wiped his face — 
 "but allow me to ask, beyond the general in- 
 terest which I may be presumed to feel in the 
 prosperity of the whole human race, how on 
 earth does all this concern me f 
 
 " Ay, ay, tliere's the question," replied the 
 stranger, looking unutterably knowing — "that 
 is the puzzle. But all in good time ; you shall 
 hear it in a twinkling. Now, being well to 
 do in the world, you may ask me, why do 
 not I look out for a wife ? I answer you 
 simply, that having escaped matrimony hitherto, 
 I have no wish to be taken in the noose at 
 these years ; and now, before I go further, what 
 do you take my age to be — how old do I 
 look ?" 
 
CHAP. X.] THE MASTER OF MORLEY COURT. \A5 
 
 The little man squared himself, cocked his 
 head on one side, and looked inquisitively at 
 Sir Richard from the corner of his eye. The 
 patience of the baronet was nigh giving way 
 outright. 
 
 " Sir," replied he, in no very gracious 
 tones, "you maybe the Wandering Jew, for 
 any thing I either know or see to the contrary." 
 
 "Ha! good," rejoined the little man, with 
 impertm'bable good humour, " I see. Sir 
 Richard, you are a wag — the AVandering Jew — 
 ha, ha ! no — not that quite. The fact is, sir, I 
 am in my sixty-seventh year — you would not 
 have thought that — eh ?" 
 
 Sir Richard made no reply whatever, 
 
 " You'll acknowledge, sir, that that is not 
 exactly the age at which to talk of hearts and 
 darts, and gay gold rings," continued the com- 
 municative gentleman in the bottle-green. 
 " I know very well that no young woman, of 
 her own free choice, could take a liking to 
 me." 
 
 " Quite impossible," with desperate em- 
 phasis rejoined Sir Richard, upon whose ear 
 
 VOL. I. H 
 
146 THE COCK AND ANCHOR. [chap. x. 
 
 the sentence grated unpleasantly ; for Lord 
 Aspenly's letter (in which '' hearts and darts" 
 were profusely noticed) lay before him on 
 the table: "but once more, sir, may I implore 
 of you to tell me the drift of all this ?" 
 
 " The drift of it — to be sure I will — in 
 due time," replied Mr. Audley. '' You see, 
 then, sir, that having no family of my own, 
 and not having any intention of taking a wife, 
 I have resolved to leave my money to a fine 
 young fellow, the son of an old friend; his 
 name is O'Connor — Edmond O'Connor — a fine 
 handsome young dog, and worthy to fill any 
 place in all the world — a high-spirited, good- 
 hearted, dashing young rascal — you know 
 something of him. Sir Richard." 
 
 The baronet nodded a supercilious assent ; 
 his attentiojn was now really enlisted. 
 
 "Well, Sir Richard," continued the visitor, 
 " I have wormed out of him — for I have a 
 knack of my own of getting at people's secrets, 
 no matter how close they keep them, d'ye 
 see — that he is over head and ears in love with 
 your daughter — I believe the young lady who 
 
CHAP. X.] THE MASTER OF MORLEY COURT. 147 
 
 just left the room on my arrival ; and indeed, if 
 such is the case, I commend the young scoun- 
 drel's taste; the lady is truly worthy of all 
 admhation — and " 
 
 ''Pray, sir, proceed as briefly as may be to 
 the object of your conversation with me," in- 
 terrupted Sir Richard, drily. 
 
 *' Well, then, to return — I understand, sir," 
 continued Audley, "that you, suspecting some- 
 thing of the kind, and believing the young 
 fellow to be pennyless, very naturally, and, 
 indeed, I may say, very prudently, and very 
 sensibly, opposed yourself to the thing from the 
 commencement, and obliged the sly young dog 
 to discontinue his visits; — well, sir, matters 
 stood so, until / — cunning little / — step in, and 
 change the whole posture of affairs — and how ? 
 Marry thus — I come hither and ask your daugh- 
 ter's hand for him^ upon these terms following — 
 that I undertake to convey to him at once, lands 
 to the value of one thousand pounds a year, and 
 that at my death I will leave him, with the ex- 
 ception of a few small legacies, sole heir to all 
 I have ; and on his wedding-day give him and 
 
148 THE COCK AND ANCHOR. [chap. x. 
 
 his lady their choice of either of two chateaux, 
 the worst of them a worthy residence for a no- 
 bleman." 
 
 ** Are these chateaux in Spain ?" inquired 
 Sir Richards sneeringly. 
 
 " No, no, sir," replied the little man, with 
 perfect guilelessness ; "both in Flanders." 
 
 '^ Well, sir," said Sir Richard Ashwoode, 
 raising himself almost to a sitting posture, and 
 preluding his observations with two unusually 
 large pinches of snuff, " I have heard you very 
 patiently throughout a statement, all of which 
 was fatiguing, and much of which was posi- 
 tively disagreeable to me ; and I trust that 
 what I have now to say will render it wholly 
 unnecessary for you and me ever again to con- 
 verse upon the same topic. Of Mr. O'Connor, 
 whom, in spite of this strange repetition of an 
 already rejected application, I believe to be a 
 spirited young man, I shall say nothing more 
 than that, from the bottom of my heart I wish 
 him every success of every kind, so long as he 
 confines his aspirations to what is suitable to 
 his own position in society ; and, consequently. 
 
CUAP. X.] THE MASTER OF MORLEY COURT. 149 
 
 conducive to his own comfort and respecta- 
 bility. With respect to his very flattering vi- 
 carious proposal, I must assure you that I do 
 not suspect Miss Ashwoode of any inclination 
 to descend from the station to which her birth 
 and fortune entitle her ; and if I did suspect it, 
 I should feel it to be my imperative duty to 
 resist, by every means in my power, the indul- 
 gence of any such waywai'd caprice ; but lest, 
 after what I have said, any doubt should rest 
 upon your mind as to the value of these ob- 
 stacles, it may not be amiss to add, that my 
 daughter. Miss Ashwoode, is actually promised 
 in marriage to a gentleman of exalted rank and 
 great fortune, and who is, in all respects, an 
 unexceptionable connexion. I have the honour, 
 sir, to wish you good morning." 
 
 " The devil!" exclaimed the little gentleman, 
 as soon as his utter amazement allowed him to 
 take breath. A long pause ensued, during 
 which he twice inflated his cheeks to their ut- 
 most tension, and puffed the air forth with a 
 prolonged whistle of desolate wonder. Eecol- 
 lecting himself, however, he hastily arose. 
 
150 THE COCK AND ANCHOR. [chap, x. 
 
 wished Sir Eichard good day, and walked down 
 stairs, and out of the house, all the way mut- 
 tering, «' God bless my body and soul — a thou- 
 sand pounds a-year — the devil — can it be? — 
 body o* me — refuse a thousand a^year — what 
 the deuce is he looking for ?" — and such other 
 ejaculations ; stamping all the while emphatically 
 upon every stair as he descended, to give vent 
 to his indignation, as well as impressiveness to 
 his remarks. 
 
 Something like a smile for a moment lit up 
 the Avithered features of the old baronet ; he 
 leaned back luxuriously upon his sofa, and 
 while he listened with delighted attention to 
 the stormy descent of his visitor, he adminis- 
 tered to its proper receptacle, with prolonged 
 relish, two several pinches of rappee. 
 
 " So, so," murmured he, complacently, ^' I 
 suspect I have seen the last of honest Mr. Aud- 
 ley — a little surprised and a little angry he 
 does appear to be — dear me ! — he stamps fear- 
 fully — what a very strange creature it is." 
 
 Havinof made this reflection. Sir Richard 
 continued to listen pleasantly until the sounds 
 
CHAP, x] THE MASTER OF MORLEY COURT. 151 
 
 were lost in the distance ; he then rang a small 
 hand-bell which lay upon the table, and a ser- 
 vant entered. 
 
 '* TeU Mistress Mary," said the baronet, 
 '* that I shall not want her just now, and desire 
 Mr. Henry to come hither instantly — begone, 
 sirrah.** 
 
 The servant disappeared, and in a few mo- 
 ments young Ashwoode, looking unusually 
 pale and haggard, and dressed in a morning 
 suit, entered the chamber. Having saluted his 
 father with the formaUty which the usages of 
 the time prescribed, and having surveyed him- 
 self for a moment at the large mirror which 
 stood in the room, and having adjusted thereat 
 the tie of his lace cravat, he inquired — 
 
 " Pray, sir, who was that piece of ' too, too 
 solid flesh* that passed me scarce a minute since 
 upon the stairs, pounding all the way with the 
 emphasis of a battering-ram ? — as far as I could 
 judge, the thing had just been discharged from 
 your room." 
 
 " You have happened, for once in your life, 
 to talk with relation to the subject to which I 
 
152 THE COCK AND ANCHOR. [chap. x. 
 
 would call your attention," said Sir Richard. 
 " The person whom jou describe with your 
 wonted facetiousness, has just been talking -with 
 me ; his name is Audley ; I never saw him till 
 this morning, and he came coolly to make pro- 
 posals, in young O'Connor's name, for your 
 sister's hand, promising to settle some scurvy 
 chateaux, heaven knows where, upon the happy 
 pair." 
 
 ''Well, sir, and what followed?" asked the 
 young man. 
 
 " Why simply, sir," replied his father, " that 
 I gave him the answer which sent him stamp- 
 ing down stairs, as you saw him. I laughed 
 in liis face, and desired him to go about his 
 business." 
 
 " Very good, indeed, sir," observed young 
 Ashwoode. 
 
 '' There is no occasion for commentary, sir," 
 continued Sir Richard. " Attend to what I 
 have to say ; A nobleman of large fortune has 
 requested my permission to make his suit to 
 your sister — that I have, of course, gi'anted ; 
 he will aiTive here to-moiTow, to make a stay 
 
CHAP. X.] THE MASTER OF MORLEY COURT. 153 
 
 of some days. I am resolved the thing sJiall be 
 concluded. I ought to mention that the noble- 
 man in question is Lord Aspenly." 
 
 The young man looked for a moment or 
 two the very impersonation of astonishment, 
 and then burst into an incontrollable fit of 
 laughter. 
 
 " Either be silent, sir, or this moment quit 
 the room," said Sir Eichard, in a tone which 
 few would have liked to disobey — "how dare 
 you — you — you insolent, dependent coxcomb — 
 how dare you, sir, treat me with this audacious 
 disrespect." 
 
 The young man hastened to avert the storm, 
 whose violence he had more than once bitterly 
 felt, by a timely submission. 
 
 " I assure you, sir, nothing was further from 
 my intention than to oflfend you," said he — '' I 
 am fully alive — as a man of the world, I could 
 not be otherwise — to the immense advantages 
 of the connection ; but Lord Aspenly I have 
 known so long, and always looked upon as a 
 confirmed old bachelor, that on hearing his 
 name thus suddenly, something of incongruity, 
 
 h2 
 
154 THE COCK AND ANCHOR. [chaf. x. 
 
 and — and — and I don't exactly know what — 
 struck me so very forcibly, that I involuntarily 
 and very thoughtlessly began to laugh. I as- 
 sure you, sir, I regret it very much, if it has 
 offended you." 
 
 "You are a weak fool, sir, Fm afraid," repHed 
 his father, shortly; ''but that conviction has 
 not come upon me by surprise ; you can, how- 
 ever, be of some use in this matter, and I am 
 determined you shall be. Now, sir, mark me : I 
 suspect that this young fellow — this O'Connor, 
 is not so indifferent to Mary as he should be to 
 a daughter of mine, and it is more than possible 
 til at he may endeavour to maintain his interest 
 ill her affections, imaginary or real, by writing 
 ktters, sending messages, and such manoeuver- 
 ing. Now, you must call upon the young man, 
 wherever he is to be found, and either procure 
 from him a distinct pledge to the effect that he 
 will think no more of her (the young fellow has 
 a sense of honour, and I would rely upon his 
 promise), or else you must have him out — in 
 short, make him Ji^ht you — you attend, sir — if 
 i/ou get hurt, we can easily make the country 
 
CHAP. X.J THE MASTER OF MORLEY COURT. 1 o5 
 
 too hot to hold him ; and if, on the other hand, 
 you poke him through the body, there's an end 
 of the whole difficulty. This step, sir, you must 
 take — you understand me — I am very much in 
 earnest." 
 
 This was delivered with a cold deliberateness, 
 which young Ashwoode well understood, when 
 his father used it to imply a fixity of purpose, 
 such as brooked no question, and halted at no 
 obstacle. 
 
 " Sir," replied Henry Ashwoode, after an 
 embarrassed pause of a few minutes, "you are 
 not aware of om particular connected with last 
 night's affray — you have heard that poor Darby, 
 who rode Avith me, was actually brained, and 
 that I escaped a like fate by the interposition of 
 one who, at his own personal risk, saved my 
 life — that one was the very Edmond O'Connor 
 of whom we speak." 
 
 "What you allude to," observed Sir Richard, 
 with very edifying coolness, ' ' is, no doubt, 
 very shocking and very horrible ; I regret the 
 destruction of the man, although I neither saw 
 nor knew much about him ; and for your emi- 
 
156 THE COCK AND ANCHOR. [chap, x. 
 
 nently providential escape, I trust I am fully 
 as thankful as I ought to be ; and now, grant- 
 ing all you have said to be perfectly accurate — 
 which 1 take it to be — Tvhat conclusion do you 
 wish me to draw from it ?" 
 
 "Why, sir, without pretending to any very 
 extraordinary proclivity to gratitude," replied 
 the young man — "for O'Connor told me plainly 
 that he did not expect any — I must consider 
 what the world will say, if I return what it will 
 be pleased to regard as an obligation, by chal- 
 lenging the person who conferred it." 
 
 " Good, sir — good," said the baronet, 
 calmly ; and gazing upon the ceihng with ele- 
 vated eyebrows and a bitter smile, he added, 
 reflectively, " he's afraid — afraid — afraid — ay, 
 afraid — afraid." 
 
 " You wrong me very much, sir," rejoined 
 young Ashwoode, " if you imagine that fear 
 has any thing to do with my reluctance to act 
 as you would have me ; and no less do you 
 wrong me, if you think I would allow any 
 school-boy sentimentalism to stand in the way 
 of my family's interests. My real objection to 
 
cHiP. X.] THE MASTER OF MORLEV COURT. 157 
 
 the thing is this — first, tha: I cannot see any 
 satisfactory answer to the question — ^what will 
 the world say of my conduct, in case I force a 
 duel upon him the day after he has saved my 
 life ? and again, I think it inevitably damages 
 any young woman in the matrimonial market, 
 to have low duels fought about her." 
 
 Sir Richard screwed his eyebrows reflectively, 
 and remained silent. 
 
 "But at the same time, sir," continued his 
 son, " I see as clearly as you could wish me to 
 do, the importance, under present drcum- 
 stances — or rather the absolute necessity — of 
 putting a stop t O'Cii^Rofs suit; and, in 
 short, to all c ation between him and 
 
 my sister, and 1 ■■■:.. ulertake to do this effec- 
 tually.'' 
 
 "And how, sir, pray?" inquired the baronet. 
 
 " I shall, as a matter of course, wait upon 
 the young man," replied Henry Ashwoode — 
 " his services of last night demand that I should 
 do so. I will explain to him, in a friendly way, 
 the hopelessness of his suit. I should not hesi- 
 tate either to throw a little colouring of my 
 
158 THE COCK AND ANCHOR. [chap. x. 
 
 own over the matter. If I can induce O'Con- 
 nor once to regard me as his friend — and after 
 all, it is but the part of a friend to put a stop 
 to this foolish affair — I will stake ray existence 
 that the matter shall be broken off for ever and 
 a day. If, however, the young fellow turn out 
 foolish and pig-headed, I can easily pick a quar- 
 rel with him upon some other subject, and get 
 him out of the way as you propose ; but with- 
 out mixing up my sister's name in the dispute, 
 or giving occasion for gossip. How^ever, I half 
 suspect that it will require neither crafty strata- 
 gem nor shrewd blows to bring this absurd 
 business to an end. I dare say the parties are 
 beginning to tire heartily of waiting, and per- 
 haps a little even of one another ; and, for my 
 part, I really do not know that the girl ever 
 cared for him, or gave him the smallest encou- 
 ragement." 
 
 '' But / know that she d'zV/," replied Sir 
 Richard. " Carey has shown me letters from 
 her to him, and from him to her, not six months 
 since. Carey is a very useful woman, and may 
 do us important service. I did not choose to 
 
CHAF. X.] THE MASTER OF MORLEY COURT. 159 
 
 mention that I had seen these letters ; but I 
 sounded Mary somewhat sternly, and left her 
 with a caution which I think must have pro- 
 duced a salutary effect — in short, I told her 
 plainly, that if I had reason to suspect any cor- 
 respondence or understanding between her and 
 O'Connor, I should not scruple to resort to the 
 sternest and most rigorous interposition of pa- 
 rental authority, to put an end to it perempto- 
 rily. I confess, however, that I have misgiv- 
 ings about this. I regard it as a very serious 
 obstacle — one, however, which so sure as I live, 
 I will entirely annihilate." 
 
 There was a pause for a Uttle while, and 
 Sir Richard continued — 
 
 *' There is a good deal of sense in what you 
 have suDcorested. We will talk it over and ar- 
 range operations systematically this evening. I 
 presume you intend calling upon the fellow to- 
 day ; it might not be amiss if you had him to 
 dine with you once or twice in town : you must 
 get up a kind of confidential acquaintance 
 with him, a thing which you can easily termi- 
 nate, as soon as its object is answered. He is, 
 
160 THE COCK AND ANCHOR. [chap. x. 
 
 I believe, what they call a frank, honest sort of 
 fellow, and is, of course, very easily led ; and — 
 and, in short — made a fool of: as for the girl, I 
 think I knoAv sometliing of the sex, and very 
 few of them are so romantic as not to under- 
 stand the value of a title and ten thousand a 
 year ! Depend upon it, in spite of all her sighs, 
 and vapours, and romance, the girl A\'ill be 
 dazzled so effectually before three weeks, as to 
 be blind to every other object in the world ; but 
 if not, and should she dare to oppose my wishes, 
 I'll make her cross-grained folly more terrible 
 to her than she dreams of — but she knows me 
 too well — she dares not." 
 
 Both parties remained silent and abstracted 
 for a time, and then Sir Richard, turning 
 sharply to his son, exclaimed, with his usual 
 tart manner — 
 
 "And now, sir, I must admit that I am a good 
 deal tired of your very agreeable company. 
 Go about your business, if you please, and be in 
 this room tliis evening at half-past six o'clock. 
 You had better not forget to be punctual, and 
 for the present get out of my sight." 
 
CHAP. X.] THE MASTER OF MORLEY COURT. I6l 
 
 With this very affectionate leave-taking, Sii' 
 Richard put an end to the family consultation, 
 and the young man, relieved of the presence of 
 the only person on earth whom he really feared, 
 gladly closed the door behind him. 
 
162 THE COCK AND ANCHOR. [chap, xi 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 THE OLD BEECH TKEE WALK AND THE IVT-GROTVN GATEWAY 
 THE TRTSTE AND THE CRUTCH-HANDLED CANE. 
 
 Meanwhile it appears to us necessary, for the 
 clear and sufficient development of the story 
 which we have taken in hand to relate, briefly 
 to recall the attention of our reader to the well- 
 known precincts of the " Cock and Anchor." 
 
 In this snug old mansion, the morning after 
 the exciting scenes in -which O'Connor had 
 taken so active a part, that gentleman was 
 pacing the floor of his sitting-room in no small 
 agitation. On the result of that interview, 
 which he had resolved no longer to postpone, 
 depended his happiness for years — it might be 
 for life. Again and again he applied himself 
 to the task of arranging clearly and concisely, 
 and withal adroitly and with tact, the substance 
 of what he had to say to Sir Richard Ash- 
 
CHAP. XI. ] THE IVY-GROWN GATEWAY. 163 
 
 woode. But, spite of all, his mind would wan- 
 der to the pleasant hours he had passed ^vith 
 Mary Ashwoode in the quiet green wood and 
 by the dark well's side, and through the moss- 
 gro-vvn rocks, and by the chiming current of the 
 wayw^ard brook, long before the cold and 
 worldly had suspected and repulsed that love 
 which he knew could never die but when his 
 heart had ceased to beat for ever. Again 
 w^ould he, banishing with a stoical effort these 
 unbidden visions of memory, seek to accom- 
 plish the important task which he had proposed 
 to himself; but still all in vain. There was 
 she once more — there was the pale, pensive, 
 lovely face —there the long dark silken tresses 
 — there the deep, beautiful eyes — and there 
 the smile — the artless, melancholy, enchanting 
 smile. 
 
 *' It boots not trying,*' exclaimed O'Connor. 
 " I cannot collect my thoughts; and yet what 
 use in conning over the order and the words of 
 what, after all, will be judged merely by its 
 meaning. Perhaps it is better that I should 
 yield myself w^holly up to the impulse of the 
 
164 THE COCK AND ANCHOR. [chap. xi. 
 
 moment, and so speak but the more directly 
 and the more boldly. No; even in such a 
 cause I will not accommodate myself to his 
 cramp and crooked habits of thought and 
 feeling. If I let him know all, it matters little 
 how he learns it." 
 
 As O'Connor finished this sentence, his 
 meditations were dispelled by certain sounds, 
 which issued from the passage leading to his 
 room. 
 
 " A young man," exclaimed a voice, inter- 
 rupted by a good deal of puffing and blowing, 
 probably caused by the steep ascent, " and a 
 good looking, eh ? — (puff) — dark eyes, eh ? — 
 (puff, puff) — black hair and straight nose, eh ? 
 — (puff, puff) — long-limbed, tall, eh ? — (puff)." 
 
 The answers to these interrogatories, what- 
 ever they may have been, were, where O'Con- 
 nor stood, wholly inaudible ; but the cross- 
 examination w^as accompanied throughout by a 
 stout, firm, stumping tread upon the old floor, 
 which, along with the increasing clearness with 
 which the noise made its way to O'Connor's 
 door, sufficiently indicated that the speaker was 
 
CHAP, xr.] THE IVY-GROWN GATEWAY. 165 
 
 approaching. The accents were famihar to 
 him. He ran to his door, opened it ; and in an 
 instant Hugh Audley, Esquire, very hot and 
 very much out of breath, pitched himself with 
 a good deal of precision, shoulders foremost, 
 against the pit of the young man's stomach, 
 and, embracing him a little above the hips, 
 hugged him for some time in silence, swaying 
 him to and fro with extraordinar}^ energy, as 
 if preparatory to tripping him up, and taking 
 him off his feet altogether — then giving him a 
 shove straiofht from him, and holdino^ him at 
 arm's length, he looked with brimful eyes, and 
 a countenance beaming with delight, full in 
 O'Connor's face. 
 
 '' Confound the dog, how well he looks," ex- 
 claimed the old gentleman vehemently — 
 " devilish w^ell, curse him ;" and he gave 
 O'Connor a shove with his knuckles, and suc- 
 ceeded in staggering himself—*' never saw you 
 look better in my life, nor any one else for that 
 matter; and how is every inch of you, and 
 what have you been doing with yourself? 
 Come, you young dog, account for yom'self." 
 
166 THE COCK AND ANCHOR. [chap. xi. 
 
 O'Connor had now, for the first time, an 
 opportunity of bidding the kind old gentleman 
 welcome, which he did to the full as cordially, 
 if not so boisterously. 
 
 " Let me sit down and rest myself; I must 
 take breath for a minute," exclaimed the old 
 gentleman. " Give me a chair, you undutiful 
 rascal. What a devil of a staircase that is, to 
 be sure. Well, and what do you intend doing 
 with yourself, to-day ?" 
 
 " To say the truth," said the young man, 
 while a swarthier glow crossed his dark features, 
 ** I was just about to start for Morley Court, to 
 see Sir Richard Ashwoode." 
 
 " About his daughter, I take it ?" inquired 
 the old gentleman. 
 
 " Just so, sir," replied the younger liian. 
 
 " Then you may spare yourself the pains," 
 rejoined the old gentleman briskly. *' You are 
 better at home. You have been forsestalled." 
 
 " What — how, sir ? What do you mean ?" 
 asked O'Connor in great perplexity and alarm. 
 
 " Just what I say, my boy. You have been 
 forestalled." 
 
CHAP. XI.] THE IVY-GROWN GATEWAY. 16/ 
 
 " By whom, sir ?" 
 '« By me." 
 " By you !" 
 "Ay." 
 
 The old gentleman screwed his brows and 
 pm*sed up his mouth until it became a gordian 
 involution of knots and wrinkles — threw a 
 fierce and determined expression into his eyes, 
 and wagged his head slightly from side to side, 
 looking altogether very like a " Cromwell 
 guiltless of his country's blood." At length he 
 said — 
 
 *' I'm an old fellow, and ought to know 
 something by this time — think / du^ for 
 that matter ; and I say deliberately — 
 cut the whole concern — and blow them 
 all." 
 
 Having thus delivered himself, the old gen- 
 tleman resumed his sternest expression of 
 countenance, and continued in silence to wag 
 his head from time to time with an air of in- 
 finite defiance, leaving his young companion, if 
 possible, more perplexed and bewildered than 
 ever. 
 
168 THE COCK AND ANCHOR. [chap. xi. 
 
 " And have you then seen Sir Richard Ash- 
 woode ?" inquired O'Connor. 
 
 ** Have I seen him ?" rejoined the old gen- 
 tleman. "To be sure I have. The moment 
 the boat touched the quay, and I fairly felt 
 terra firma, I drove to the * Fox in Breeches,' 
 and donned a handsome suit" — (here the gen- 
 tleman glanced cursorily at his bottle green 
 habiliments) — "1 ordered a hack-coach — got 
 safely to Morley Court — saw Sir Richard, laid 
 up with the gout, looking just like an old, 
 dried-up, cross-grained monkey. There was, 
 of course, a long explanation, and all that 
 sort of thing — a good deal of tact and di- 
 plomacy on my side, doubling about, neat 
 fencing, and circumbendibus ; but all would 
 not do — an infernal smash. Sir Richard was 
 all but downright uncivil — would not hear of 
 it — said plump and plain he would never con- 
 sent. The fact is, he's a sour, hard, insolent 
 old scoundrel, and a bitter pill; and I con- 
 gratulate you heartily on having escaped all 
 connection with him and his. Don't look so 
 down in the mouth about the matter; there's 
 
CHAP. XI.] THE IVY-GROWN GATEWAY. 169 
 
 as good fish in the sea as ever was caught ; and 
 if the young woman is half such a shrew as 
 her father is a tartar, you have had an escape 
 to be thankful for the longest day you live." 
 
 We shall not attempt to describe the feelings 
 with which O'Connor received this somewhat 
 eccentric communication. He folded his arms 
 upon the table, and for many minutes leaned 
 his head upon them, without motion, and 
 without uttering one word. At length he said — 
 
 " After all, I ought to have expected this. 
 Sir Richard is a bigotted man in his own faith 
 — an ambitious and a worldly man, too. It 
 was folly, mere folly, knowing all this, to 
 look for any other answer from him. He may 
 indeed delay our union for a little, but he can- 
 not bar it — he shall not bar it. I could more 
 easily doubt myself than Mary's constancy ; 
 and if she be but firm and true — and she is all 
 loyalty and all truth — the world cannot part us 
 two. Our separation cannot outlast his life ; 
 nor shall it last so long. I will overcome her 
 scruples, combat all her doubts, satisfy her 
 reason. She will consent — she will be mine — 
 
 VOL. I. I 
 
170 THE COCK AND ANCHOR. [chap. xi. 
 
 my own — through Hfe and until death. No 
 hand shall sunder us for ever." — he turned to 
 the old man, and grasped his hand — " My dear, 
 kind, true friend, how can I ever thank you 
 for all your generous acts of kindness. I 
 cannot." 
 
 " Never mind, never mind, my dear boy," 
 said the old gentleman, blubbering in spite of 
 
 himself — " never mind — what a d d old 
 
 fool I am, to be sm'e. Come, come, you shall 
 take a turn with me toward the country, and 
 get an appetite for dinner. You'll be as well 
 as ever in half an hour. When all's done, you 
 stand no worse than you did yesterday ; and if 
 the girl's a good girl, as I make no doubt she 
 is, why you are sure of her constancy — and the 
 devil himself shall not part you. Confound me, if 
 I don't run away with the girl for you myself, 
 if you make a pother about the matter. Come 
 along, you dog — come along, I say." 
 
 ** Nay sir,*' replied O'Connor, '* forgive me. 
 I am keenly pained. I am agitated — con- 
 founded at the suddenness of this — this dreadful 
 blow. I will go alone, pardon me, my kind 
 
CHAP XI.] THE IVY-GROWN GATEWAY. 171 
 
 and dear friend, I must go alone. I may 
 chance to see the lady. I am sure she Avill not 
 fail me — she will meet me. Oh ! heart and 
 brain be still — be steady — I need your best 
 counsels now. Farewell, sir — for a little time 
 farewell." 
 
 " Well be it so — since so it must be," said 
 Mr. Audley, who did not care to combat a 
 resolution, announced Avith all the wild energy 
 of despairing passion, " by all means, my dear 
 boy, alone it shall be, though I scarce think you 
 would be the worse of a staid old fellow's com- 
 pany in your ramble — but no matter, boys will 
 be boys while the w^orld goes round." 
 
 The conclusion of this sentence was a soli- 
 loquy, for O'Connor had already descended to 
 the inn yard, where he procured a horse, and 
 was soon Avith troubled mind and swelling heart 
 making rapid way toward Morley Court. It 
 was now the afternoon — the sun had made 
 nearly half his downward course — the air was 
 soft and fresh, and the birds sang sweetly in 
 the dark nooks and bowers of the tall trees : 
 it seemed almost as if summer had turned like a 
 
1/2 THE COCK AND ANCHOR. [chap. xi. 
 
 departing beauty, with one last look of loveliness 
 to gladden the scene which she was regretfully- 
 leaving. So sweet and still the air — so full and 
 mellow the thrilling chorus of merry birds 
 among the rustling leaves, flitting from bough 
 to bough in the clear and lofty shadow — so 
 cloudless the golden flood of sunlight. Such 
 was the day — so gladsome the sounds — so 
 serene the aspect of all nature, as O'Connor, 
 dismounting under the shadow of a tall strag- 
 gling hawthorn hedge, and knotting the bridle 
 in one of its twisted branches, crossed a low 
 stile and thus entered the grounds of Morley 
 Court. He threaded a winding path which 
 led through a neglected wood of thorn and 
 oak, and found himself after a few minutes 
 in the spot he sought. The old beech 
 walk had been once the main avenue to the 
 house. Huge beech trees flung their mighty 
 boughs high in air across its long perspective — 
 and bright as was the day, the long lane lay in 
 shadow deep and solemn as that of some old 
 ofothic aisle. Down this dim vista did O'Connor 
 pace wdth hurried steps toward the spot where 
 
CHAP. XI.] THE IVY-GROWN GATEWAY. 173 
 
 about midway in its length there stood the 
 half-ruined piers and low walls of what had 
 once been a gateway. 
 
 " Can it be that she shrinks from this meet- 
 ing?" thought O'Connor as his eye in vain 
 sought the wished-for form of Mary Ashwoode, 
 " will she disappoint me? — surely she who has 
 walked "with me so many lonely hom's in guile- 
 less trust, need not have feared to meet me here. 
 It was not generous to deny me this boon — to 
 her so easy — to me so rich — yet perchance she 
 judges wisely. What boots it that I should see 
 her ? Why see again that matchless beauty — 
 that touching smile — those eyes that looked so 
 fondly on me ? ^Vhy see her more — since may- 
 hap we shall never meet again ? She means 
 it kindly. Her nature is all nobleness — all 
 generosity ; and yet — and yet to see her no 
 lAore — to hear her voice no more — have we — 
 have we then parted at last for ever ? But no 
 — by heavens — 'tis she — Mary !" 
 
 It was indeed Mary Ashwoode, blushing and 
 beautiful as ever. In an instant O'Connor 
 stood by her side. 
 
174 THE COCK AND ANCHOR. [chap. xi. 
 
 " My own — my true-hearted Mary." 
 
 '« Oh ! Edmond," said she, after a brief si- 
 lence, '' I fear I have done wrong — have I ? — 
 in meeting you thus. I ought not — indeed I 
 know I ought not to have come." 
 
 " Nay, Mary, do not speak thus. Dear 
 Mary, have we not been companions in many 
 a pleasant ramble : in those times — the 
 times, Mary, that will never come again — why 
 then should you deny me a few minutes' 
 mournful converse, where in other days we two 
 have passed so many pleasant hours ?" 
 
 There vv^as in the tone in which he spoke 
 something so unutterably melancholy — and in 
 the recollections which his few simple words 
 called crowding to her mind, something at 
 once so touching, so dearly cherished, and so 
 bitterly regretted — that the tears gathered in 
 her full dark eyes, and fell one by one fast and 
 unheeded. 
 
 " You do not grieve, then, Mary," said he, 
 " that you have come here — that we have met 
 once more : do you, Mary ?" 
 
 " jSTo, no, Edmond — no, indeed," answered 
 
CHAP. XI.] THE IVY-GROWN GATEWAY. 17.^ 
 
 she, sobbing. '' God knows I do not, Edmond — 
 no, no." 
 
 '* Well, Mary," said he, "I am happy in the 
 belief that you feel toward me just as you used 
 to do — as happy as one so wretched can hope 
 to be." 
 
 " Edmond, your words affright me," said 
 she, fixing her eyes full upon him, with im- 
 ploring earnestness : '* you look sadder — paler, 
 than you did yesterday ; something has hap- 
 pened since then. What — what is it, Edmond? 
 tell me — ah, tell me." 
 
 '* Yes, Mary, much has happened," answered 
 he, taking her hand between both of his, and 
 meeting her gaze with a look of passionate 
 sorrow and tenderness — "yes, Mary, without 
 my knowledge, the friend of whom I told you 
 had arrived, and this morning saw your father, 
 told him all, and was repulsed with sternness — 
 almost with insult. Sir Richard has resolved 
 that it shall never be ; there is no more hope of 
 bending him — none — none — none." 
 
 While O'Connor spoke, the colour in MaryV 
 cheeks came and fled in turn with quick alterna- 
 
176 THE COCK AND ANCHOR. [chap. xi. 
 
 tions, in answer to every throb and flutter of 
 the poor heart within. 
 
 " See him — speak to him — yourself, Edmond, 
 yourself. Oh ! do not despair — see him — speak 
 to him," she almost whispered, for agitation 
 had well nigh deprived her of voice — '' see him, 
 Edmond — yourself— for God's sake, dear Ed- 
 mond — yourself — yourself" — and she grasped 
 his arm in her tiny hand, and gazed in his pale 
 face, with such a look of agonized entreaty as 
 cut him to the very heart. 
 
 '* Yes, Mary, if it seems good to you, I will 
 speak to him myself," said O'Connor, with deep 
 melancholy. " I will, Mary, though my own 
 heart — my reason tells me it is all — all utterly 
 in vain ; but, Mary," continued he, suddenly 
 changing his tone to one of more alacrity, **if 
 he should still reject me — if he shall forbid our 
 ever meeting more — if he shall declare himself 
 unalterably resolved against our union — Mary, 
 in such a case, would you too tell me to see 
 you no more — would you too tell me to 
 depart without hope, and never come again? 
 or would you, Mary — could you — dare you — 
 
CHAP. XI. J THE IVY-GROWN GATEWAY. l77 
 
 dear, dear Mary, for once — once only — disobey 
 your stern and haughty father — dare you 
 trust yourself with me — fly with me to 
 France, and be at last, and after all, my own — 
 my bride ?" 
 
 '' No, Edmond," said she, solemnly and 
 sadly, while her eyes again filled with tears ; 
 and though she trembled like the leaf on the 
 tree, yet he knew by the sound of her sad voice 
 that her purpose could not alter — " that can 
 never be — never, Edmond — no — no." 
 
 *' Then, Mary, can it be," he answered, with 
 an accent so desolate, that despair itself seemed 
 breathing in its tone — " can it be, after all — all 
 we have passed and proved — all our love and 
 constancy, and all our bright hopes, so long 
 and fondly cherished — cherished in the midst 
 of grief and difficulty — when we had no 
 other stay but hope alone — are we, after all — at 
 last, to part for ever — is it, indeed, Mary, all — 
 all over?" 
 
 As the two lovers stood thus in deep and 
 melancholy converse, by the ivy-grown and 
 ruined gateway, beneath the airy shadow of the 
 
 I 2 
 
178 THE COCK AND ANCHOR. [chap, xi 
 
 old beech trees, they were recalled to other 
 thoughts by the hurried patter of footsteps, and 
 the rustling of the branches among the under- 
 wood which skirted the avenue. As fortune 
 willed it, however, the intruder w^as no other 
 than the honest dog, Rover, Mary's companion 
 in many a silent and melancholy ramble : he 
 came sniffing and bounding with boisterous 
 greeting to hail his young mistress and her 
 companion. The interruption, harmless as it 
 was, startled Mary Ashwoode. 
 
 " Were my father to find us here, Edmond," 
 said she, '*it were fatal to all our hopes. You 
 know his temper well. Let us then part here. 
 Follow the by-path leading to the house. Go 
 and see him — speak with him for my sake — for 
 my sake, Edmond — and so— and so — farewell." 
 
 " And farewell, Mary, since it must be," 
 said O'Connor with a bitter struggle. "Fare- 
 well, but only for a time — only for a little 
 time, Mary ; and whatever befalls, remember — 
 remember me. Farewell, Mary." 
 
 As he thus spoke, he raised her hand to his 
 lips, and kissed it for the first time, it might 
 
CHAP. XI.] THE IVY-GROWN GATEWAY. 179 
 
 be for the last, in his hfe. For a moment he 
 stood, and gazed with sad devotion upon the 
 k^ved face. Then, with an effort, he turned 
 abruptly away, and strode rapidly in the direc- 
 tion she had indicated ; and when he turned to 
 look again, she was gone. 
 
 O'Connor followed the narrow path, which, 
 diverging a little from the broad grass lane, led 
 with many a wayward turn among the tall trees 
 toward the house. As he thus pursued his 
 way, a few moments of reflection satisfied him 
 of the desperate nature of the enterprise which 
 he had undertaken. But if lovers are often 
 upon unreal grounds desponding, it is likewise 
 true that they are sometimes sanguine when 
 others would despair : and, spite of all his 
 misgivings — of all the irresistible conclusions of 
 stern reason — hope still beckoned him on. 
 Thus agitated, he pursued his way, until, on 
 turning an abrupt angle, he beheld, scarcely 
 more than a dozen paces in advance, and mov- 
 ing slowly toward him in the shadowy path- 
 way, a figure, at sight of which, thus suddenly 
 presented, he recoiled, and stood for a moment 
 
180 THE COCK AND ANCHOR. [ch vp. xi. 
 
 fixed as a statue. He had encountered tlie 
 object of his search. The form was that of 
 Sir Richard Ashwoode himself, who, wrapped 
 in his scarlet roqueleur, and leaning upon the 
 shoulder of his Italian valet, while he limped 
 forward slowly and painfully, appeared full 
 before him. 
 
 '' So, so, so, so," repeated the baronet, at 
 first with unaffected astonishment, which spee- 
 dily, however, deepened into intense but con- 
 strained anger — his dark prominent eyes peer- 
 ing fiercely upon the young man, while, stoop- 
 ino' forward, and clutchino^ his crutch-handled 
 cane hard in his lean fingers, he limped first one 
 and then another step nearer. 
 
 " Mr. O'Connor ! or my eyes deceive me." 
 
 -'Yes, Sir Richard," replied O'Connor with 
 a haughty bow, and advancing a little toward 
 him in turn. "I am that Edmond O'Connor 
 whom you once knew well, and whom it would 
 seem you still know. I ought, doubtless " 
 
 " Nay, sir, no flowers of rhetoric, if you 
 please," interrupted Sir Richard bitterly — "no 
 fustian speeches — to the point — to the point, 
 
cHvv, XI.] THE IVY-GROWN GATEWAY. 181 
 
 sir. If you have ought to say to me, deliver 
 it in six words. Your business, sir. Be 
 brief." 
 
 " I will not indeed waste words, Sir Richard 
 Ashwoode," replied O'Connor firmly. "There 
 is but one subject on which I would seek a 
 conference Avith you, and that subject you well 
 may guess." 
 
 ^' 1 do guess it," retorted Sir Richard drily. 
 " You would renew an absurd proposal — one 
 opened three years since, and repeated this 
 morning by the old booby, your elected spokes- 
 man. To that proposal I have ever given one 
 answer — no. I have not changed my mind, 
 nor ever shall. Am I understood, sir ? And 
 least of all should I think of changing my pur- 
 pose now," continued he more pointedly, as a 
 suspicion crossed his mind — ^^ now, sir, that 
 you have forfeited by your own act whatever 
 regard you once seemed to me to merit. You 
 did not seek me here, sir. I'm not to be fooled 
 sir. You did not seek me — don't assert it. I 
 understand your purpose. You came here 
 clandestinely to tamper like a schemer with my 
 
182 THE rOCK AND ANCHOR. [chap. xi. 
 
 cbild. Yes, sir, a schemer I" repeated Sir 
 Richard with bitter emphasis, while his sharp 
 sallow features grew sharper and more sallow 
 still ; and he struck the point of his cane at 
 every emphatic word deep into the sod — " a 
 mean, interested, cowardly schemer. How dare 
 you steal into my place, you thrice-rejected, 
 dishonourable, spiritless adventurer ?" 
 
 The blood rushed to O'Connor's brow as the 
 old man uttered this insulting invective. The 
 fiery impulse which under other circumstances 
 would have been uncontrollable, was, however, 
 speedily, though w^ith difficulty, mastered ; and 
 O'Connor replied bitterly — 
 
 *' You are an old man. Sir Richard, and her 
 lather — you are safe, sir. How much of chi- 
 valry or courage is shown in heaping insult 
 upon one who will not retort upon you, judge 
 for yourself. After what has passed, I feel that 
 I were, indeed, the vile thing you have de- 
 scribed, if I were again to subject myself to 
 your unprovoked insolence : be assured, I shall 
 never place foot of mine within your boundaries 
 again : relieve yourself, sir, of all fears upon 
 
cH*v. XI.] THE IVY-GROWN GATEWAY. 183 
 
 that score ; and for your language, you know 
 and can appreciate the respect that makes me 
 leave you thus unanswered and impunished." 
 
 So saying, he turned, and with long and 
 rapid strides retraced his steps, his heart swell- 
 ing with a thousand struggling emotions. 
 Scarce knowing what he did, O'Connor rode 
 rapidly to the Cock and Anchor, and too much 
 stunned and confounded by the scenes in which 
 he had just borne a part, to exchange a word 
 with Mr. Audley, whom he found still estab- 
 lished in his chamber, he threw himself deject- 
 edly into a chair, and sank into gloomy and 
 obstinate abstraction. The good-natured old 
 gentleman did not care to interrupt his young 
 friend's ruminations, and hours might have 
 passed away and found them still undisturbed, 
 were it not that the door was suddenly thrown 
 open, and the waiter announced Mr. Ashwoode. 
 There was a spell in the name which instantly 
 recalled O'Connor to the scene before him. 
 Had a viper sprung up at his feet, he could 
 not have recoiled with a stronger antipathy. 
 With a mixture of feelings scarce tolerable, he 
 
184 THE COCK AND ANCHOR. [chap. xi. 
 
 awaited his arrival, and after a moment or two of 
 suspense, Henry Ashwoode entered the room. 
 Mr. Audley, having heard the name, 
 scowled fearfully from the centre of the 
 room upon the young gentleman as he 
 entered, stuffed his hands half-way to the 
 elbows in his breeches pockets, and turning 
 briskly upon his heel, marched emphatically to 
 the window, and gazed out into the inn yard 
 with remarkable perseverance. The obvious 
 coldness Avith which he was received did not 
 embarrass young Ashwoode in the least. With 
 perfect ease and a graceful frankness of demea- 
 nour, he advanced to O'Connor, and after a 
 greeting of extraordinary warmth, inquired how 
 he had gotten home, and whether he had suffered 
 since any inconvenience from the fall which he 
 had. He then went on to renew his protesta- 
 tions of gratitude for O'Connor's services, with 
 so much ardour and apparent heartiness, that 
 spite of his prejudices, the old man was moved 
 in his favour ; and when Ashwoode expressed 
 in a low voice to O'Connor his wish to be 
 introduced to his friend, honest Mr. Audley 
 
CHAP. XI.] THE IVY-GROWN GATEWAY. 185 
 
 felt his heart quite softened, and instead of 
 merely bowing to him, absolutely shook him 
 by the hand. The young man then, spite of 
 O'Connor's evident reluctance, proceeded to 
 relate to his new acquaintance the details of the 
 adventures of the preceding night, in doing 
 which, he took occasion to dwell, in the most 
 glowing terms, upon liis obligations to O'Con- 
 nor. After sitting with them for nearly half 
 an hour, young Ashwoode took his leave in the 
 most affectionate manner possible, and withdrew. 
 " Well, that is a good-looking young fellow, 
 and a warm-hearted," exclaimed the old gen- 
 tleman, as soon as the visitor had disappeared — 
 " what a pity he should be ciu-sed with such a 
 confounded old father." 
 
186 THE COCK AND ANCHOR. [chap. xii. 
 
 CHAPTEK XII. 
 
 THE APPOINTED HOCR THE SCHEMERS AND THE PLOT. 
 
 " And here comes my dear brother," exclaimed 
 Mary Ashwoode, joyously, as she ran to wel- 
 come the young man, now entering her father's 
 room, in which, for more than an hour pre- 
 viously, she had been sitting. Throwing her 
 arm round his neck, and looking sweetly in his 
 face, she continued — " You will stay with us 
 this evening, dear Harry — do, for my sake — 
 you won't refuse — it is so long since we have 
 had you ;" and though she spoke with a gay 
 look and a gladsome voice, a sense of real soli- 
 tariness called a tear to her dark eye. 
 
 '' No, Mary — not this evening," said the 
 young man coldly ; '* I must be in town again 
 to-night, and before I go must have some con- 
 versation upon business with my father, so that 
 I may not see you again till morning." 
 
CHAP. XII. ] THE SCHEMERS. 187 
 
 " But, dear Henry," said she, still clinging 
 affectionately to his arm, "you have been in 
 such danger, and I knew nothing of it until 
 after you went out this morning : are you quite 
 well, Henry? — you were not hurt — were 
 you ?" 
 
 " No, no — nothing — nothing — I never was 
 better," said he, impatiently. 
 
 **Well, brother — dear brother," she con- 
 tinued, imploringly, " come early home to- 
 night — do not be upon the road late — won't 
 you promise ?" 
 
 " There, there, there," said he rudely, *' run 
 away — take yom' work, or yoiu: book, or what- 
 ever it may be, down stairs ; your father wants 
 to speak with me alone," and so saying, he 
 turned pettislily from her. 
 
 His habitual coldness and carelessness of 
 manner had never before seemed so ungracious. 
 The poor girl felt her heart swell within her, 
 as though it would burst. She had never felt 
 so keenly that in all this world there lived but 
 one being upon whose love she might rely, and 
 he separated, it might be for ever, from her : 
 
188 THE COCK AND ANCHOR. [chap xii. 
 
 she gathered up her work, and ran quickly from 
 the room, to hide the tears which she could not 
 restrain. 
 
 Young Ashwoode was to the full as worldly 
 and as unprincipled a man as was his father ; 
 and whatever reluctance he may have felt as to 
 adopting Sir Richard's plans respecting O'Con- 
 nor, the reader would grievously wrong him in 
 attributing his unwillingness to any visitings of 
 gratitude, or, indeed, to any other feeling than 
 tliat which he had himself avowed. A few 
 hours' reflection had satisfied the young man 
 of the transcendant importance of securing Lord 
 Aspenly ; and by a corresponding induction he 
 had arrived at the conclusion to which his father 
 had already come — namely, that it was impera- 
 tively necessary by all means to put an end 
 effectually to his sister's correspondence with 
 O'Connor. To effect this object both were 
 equally resolved ; and with respect to the means 
 to be employed both were equally unscrupulous. 
 With Henry Ashwoode courage was constitu- 
 tional, and art habitual. If, therefore, either 
 duplicity or daring could ensure success, he felt 
 
CHAP XII.] THE SCHEMERS. 189 
 
 that he must triumph ; and, at all events, he 
 was sufficiently impressed with the importance 
 of the object, to resolve to leave nothing untried 
 for its achievement. 
 
 *' You are punctual, sir," said Sir Kichard, 
 glancing at his richly-chased watch; " sit down ; 
 I have considered your suggestions of this 
 morning, and I am inclined to adopt them ; it 
 is most probable that Mary, like the rest of her 
 sex, will be taken by the splendour of the pro- 
 posal — fascinated — in short, as I said this 
 morning — dazzled. Now, whether she be or 
 not, observe me, it shall be our object to make 
 O'Connor believe that she is so. You will 
 have his ear, and through her maid, Carey, I 
 can manage their correspondence ; not a letter 
 from either can reach the other, without first 
 meeting my eye. I am very certain that the 
 young fellow will lose no time in writing to 
 her some more of those passionate epistles, of 
 which, as I told you, I have seen a sample. I 
 shall take care to have their letters re-written 
 for the future, before they come to hand ; and 
 it shall go hard, or between us we shall manage 
 
190 THE COCK AND ANCHOR. [chap. xii. 
 
 to give each a very moderate opinion of the 
 other's constancy ; thus the affair will — or 
 rather must — die a natural death — after all the 
 most effectual kind of mortality in such cases." 
 
 " I called to-day upon the fellow," said the 
 young man ; ' ' I made him out, and without 
 approaching the point of nearest interest, I 
 have, nevertheless, opened operations success- 
 fully — so far as a most auspicious re-commence- 
 ment of our acquaintance may be so accounted." 
 
 "And, stranger still to say," rejoined the 
 baronet, " I also encountered him to-day ; but 
 only for some dozen seconds." 
 
 " How ! — saw O'Connor !" exclaimed young 
 Ashwoode. 
 
 " Yes, sir, O'Connor — Edmond O'Connor," 
 repeated Sir Richard ; " he was coolly walking 
 up to the house to see me, as it would seem ; 
 and I do believe the fellow speaks truth — he 
 did see me, and that is all. I fancy he will 
 scarcely come here again uninvited ; he said so 
 pretty plainly, and I believe the fellow has 
 spirit enough to feel an affront." 
 
 " He did not see Mary ?" inquired Henry. 
 
CHAP. XII.] THE SCHEMERS. 191 
 
 " I did not ask him, and don't choose to ask 
 her ; I don't mean to allude to the subject in 
 her presence," replied Sir Richard, quickly. 
 " I think — indeed I know — I can mar their 
 plans better by appearing never once to appre- 
 hend any thing from O'Connor's pretensions. 
 I have reasons, too, for not wishing to deal 
 harshly with Mary at present ; we must have 
 no scenes, if possible. Were I to appear sus- 
 picious and uneasy, it would put them on their 
 guard. And now, upon the other point, did 
 you speak to Craven about the possibility of 
 i-aising ten thousand pounds on the Glenvarloch 
 property ?" 
 
 " He says it can be done very easily, if Mary 
 joins you," replied the young man ; "but I have 
 been thinking that if you ask her to sign any 
 deed, it might as well be one assigning over her 
 interest absolutely to you. Aspenly does not 
 want a penny with her — in fact, from what fell 
 from him to-day, when I met him in town, I'm 
 inclined to tliink he believes that she has not a 
 penny in the world ; so she may as well make 
 it over to you, and then we can turn it all into 
 
192 THE COCK AND ANCHOR. [chap. xii. 
 
 money when and how we please. I desired 
 Craven to work night and day at the deeds, 
 and have them over by ten o'clock to-morrow 
 morning," 
 
 **You did quite rightly,'* rejoined the old 
 gentleman. '' I hardly expect any opposition 
 from the girl — at least, no more than I can 
 easily frighten her out of. Should she prove 
 sulky, however, I do not well know where to 
 turn : as to asking my brother Oliver, I might 
 as well, or better^ ask a Jew broker ; he hates 
 me and mine with his whole heart ; and to say 
 the truth, there is not much love lost between 
 us. No, no, there's nothing to be looked for in 
 that quarter. I dare say we'll manage one way 
 or another — lead or drive — to get Mary to sign 
 the deed, and if so, the ship rights again. 
 Craven comes, you say, at ten to-morrow ?" 
 
 " He engaged to be here at that hour with 
 the deeds," repeated the young man. 
 
 " Well," said his father, yawning, " you 
 have nothing more to say, nor I neither — oblige 
 me by AvithdraAving." So parted these con- 
 genial relations. 
 
CHAP. XII.] THE SCHEMERS. 19'^ 
 
 The past day had been an agitating one to 
 Mary Ashwoode. Still suspense was to be her 
 doom, and the same alternations of hope and of 
 despair were again to rob her pillow of repose ; 
 yet even thus happy was she in comparison with 
 what she must have been, had she but known 
 the schemes of which she was the unconscious 
 subject. At this juncture we shall leave the 
 actors in this true tale, and conclude the chap- 
 ter with the close of day. 
 
194 THE COCK AND ANCHOR. [chap. xni. 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 THE INTEEVIEW THE PARCHMENT AND THE NOBLEMAn's 
 
 COACH. 
 
 Sir Richard Ashwoode had never in the 
 whole course of his life denied liimself the in- 
 dulgence of any passion or of any whim. From 
 his childhood upward he had never considered 
 the feelings or comforts of any living being 
 but himself alone. As he advanced in life, this 
 selfishness had improved to a degree of hard- 
 ness and coldness so intense, that if ever he had 
 felt a kindly impulse at any moment in his 
 existence, the very remembrance of it had en- 
 tirely faded from his mind : so that generosity, 
 compassion, and natural affection were to him 
 not only unknown, but incredible. To him 
 mankind seemed all either fools, or such as he 
 himself was. Without one particle of principle 
 of any kind, he had uniformly maintained in 
 
CHAP. XIII.] THE PVRCHMENT, 195 
 
 the world the character of an honourable man. 
 The ordinary rules of honesty and morality he 
 regarded as so many conventional sentiments, 
 to which every gentleman subscribed, as a mat- 
 ter of course, in public, but which in private 
 he had an unquestionable right to dispense with 
 at his own convenience. He was imperious, fieiy 
 and unforgiving to tiie uttermost ; but when he 
 conceived it advantageous to do so, he could 
 practise as well as any man the convenient art 
 of masking malignity, hatred, and inveteracy 
 behind the pleasantest of all pleasant smiles. 
 Capable of any secret meanness for the sake of 
 the smallest advantage to be gained by it, he was 
 yet full of fierce and overbearing pride ; and 
 althousch this world was all in all to him, vet 
 there never breathed a man who could on the 
 slightest provocation risk his life in mortal com- 
 bat with more alacrity and absolute sang froid 
 than Sir Richard Ashwoode. In his habits he 
 was unboundedly luxurious — in his expenditure 
 prodigal to recklessness. His own and his 
 son's extravagance, which he had indulged from 
 a kind of pride, was now, however, beginning 
 
196 THE COCK AND ANCHOR. [chap, xiii. 
 
 to make itself sorely felt in formidable and 
 rapidly accumulating pecuniary embarrassments. 
 These had served to embitter and exasperate a 
 temper which at the best had never been a very 
 sweet one, and of whose ordinary pitch the 
 reader may form an estimate, when he hears 
 that in the short glimpses which he has had of 
 Sir Richard, the baronet happened to be, owing 
 to the circumstances with which we have ac- 
 quainted him, in extraordinarily good humour. 
 
 Sir Richard had not married young ; and 
 when he did maiTy it was to pay his debts. 
 The lady of his choice was beautiful, accom- 
 plished, and an heiress ; and, won by his agree- 
 ability, and by his well-assumed devotedness 
 and passion, she yielded to the pressure of his 
 suit. They were married, and she gave birth 
 successively to a son and a daughter. Sir 
 Richard's temper, as we have hinted, was not 
 very placid, nor his habits very domestic ; ne- 
 vertheless, the world thought the match (put- 
 ting his money difficulties out of the question) 
 a very suitable and a very desirable one, and 
 took it for granted that the gay baronet and 
 
CHAP. XIII.] THE PARCHMENT. 197 
 
 his lady were just as happy as a lashiuiial)lt; 
 man and wife ought to be — and perliaps 
 they were so ; but, for all that, it happened 
 that at the end of some four years the young 
 wife died of a broken heart. Some strange 
 scenes, it is said, followed between Sir Richard 
 and the brother of the deceased lady, Oliver 
 French. It is believed that this gentleman 
 suspected the cause of Lady Ashwoode's death 
 — at all events he had ascertained that she had 
 not been kindly used, and after one or two 
 interviews with the baronet, in which bitter 
 Avords were exchanged, the matter ended in a 
 fierce and bloodily contested duel, in which the 
 baronet received three desperate wounds. His 
 recovery w^as long doubtful ; but life burns 
 strongly in some breasts ; and, contrary to the 
 desponding predictions of his surgeons, the va- 
 luable life of Sir Richard Ash\^'oode was pro- 
 longed to his family and friends. 
 
 Since then, Sir Richard had by different 
 agencies sought to bring about a reconciliation 
 with his brother-in-law, but without the small- 
 est success. Oliver French was a bachelor, and 
 a very wealthy one. Moreover, he had it in 
 
198 THE COCK AND ANCHOR. [chap. xiii. 
 
 his power to dispose of his lands and money 
 just as he pleased. These circumstances had 
 strongly impressed Sir Richard with a convic- 
 tion that quarrels among relations are not only 
 unseemly, but unchristian. He Avas never in 
 a more forgiving and forgetting mood. He 
 was willing even to make concessions — any 
 thing that could be reasonably asked of him, 
 and even more, he was ready to do — but all in 
 vain. Ohver was obdurate. He knew his 
 man well. He saw and appreciated the baro- 
 net's motives, and hated and despised him ten 
 thousand times more than ever. 
 
 Repulsed in his first attempt. Sir Richard 
 resolved to give his adversary time to cool a 
 little ; and accordingly, after a lapse of twelve 
 or fourteen years, his son Henry being then a 
 handsome lad, he ^vrote to his brother-in-law a 
 very long and touching epistle, in which he 
 proposed to send his son down to Ardgillagh, 
 the place where the alienated relative resided, 
 with a portrait of his deceased lady, which, of 
 course, with no object less sacred, and to no 
 relative less near and respected, could he have 
 induced himself to part. This, too, Avas a total 
 
CHAP. XIII.] THE PARCHMENT. 199 
 
 failure. Oliver French, Esquire, wrote back a 
 very succinct epistle, but one very full of un- 
 pleasant meaning. He said that the portrait 
 would be odious to him, inasmuch as it would 
 be necessarily associated in his mind with a 
 marriage which had killed his sister, and with 
 persons whom he abhorred — that therefore he 
 would not allow it into his house. He stated, 
 that to the motives which prompted the atten- 
 tion he was wide awake — that he was, however, 
 perfectly determined that no person bearing the 
 name or the blood of Sir Richard Ashwoode 
 should ever have one penny of his ; adding, that 
 the baronet could leave his son, Mr. Henry 
 Ashwoode, quite enough for a gentleman to live 
 upon respectably ; and that, at all events, in his 
 father's virtues the young gentleman would in- 
 herit a legacy such as would insure him univer- 
 sal respect, and a general welcome wherever he 
 might happen to go, excepting only one loca- 
 lity, called Ardgillagh. 
 
 With the failure of this last attempt, of course, 
 disappeared every hope of success with the rich 
 old bachelor ; and the forgiving baronet was 
 
200 THE COCK AND ANCHOR. [chap. xiii. 
 
 forced to content himself, in the absence of all 
 more substantial rewards, with the consciousness 
 of having done what was, under all the circum- 
 stances, the most Christian thing he could have 
 done, as well as played the most knowing game, 
 though unsuccessful, which he could have played. 
 
 Sir Richard Ashwoode limped down stairs to 
 receive his intended son-in-law. Lord Aspenly, 
 on the day following the events which Ave have 
 detailed in our last and the preceding chapters. 
 That nobleman had intimated his intention to 
 be with Sir Richard about noon. It was now 
 little more than ten, and the baronet was, never- 
 theless, restless and fidgety. The room he oc- 
 cupied was a large parlour, commanding a view 
 of the approach to the house. Again and 
 again he consulted his watch, and as often 
 hobbled over, as well as he could, to the win- 
 dow, where he gazed in evident discontent 
 down the long, straight avenue, with its double 
 row of fine old giant lime-trees. 
 
 " Nearly half-past ten," muttered Sir Ri- 
 chard to himself, for at his desire he had been 
 left absolutely alone — " ay, fully half-past, and 
 
CHAP. XIII.] THE PARCHMENT. 201 
 
 the fellow not come yet. May the devil 
 
 but there's no use in cursing attorneys, for no 
 conceivable ingenuity could send them to hell 
 one bit faster than they go thither of their own 
 accord. No less than two notes since eight 
 this morning, both of them with gTatuitous 
 mendacity renewing the appointment for ten 
 o'clock ; and ten o'clock comes and goes, and 
 half an horn* more along with it, and still no 
 sign of Mr. Craven. These be your men of 
 business, d — n them all. If I had fixed ten 
 o'clock to pay his accursed, unconscionable V)ill 
 of costs, he'd have been prowling about the 
 grounds from sunrise, and pounced upon me 
 before the last stroke of the clock had sounded 
 — d — n them, d — n them, d — n them !" 
 
 This conclusive string of anathemas was sug- 
 gested and exasperated ])y an acute twinge in 
 the gouty foot. The worthy baronet grinned 
 horribly, and with a stifled howl of pain let 
 himself sink into his cushioned chair. 
 
 The red-hot screw of the invisible vice had 
 hardly been relaxed for a minute, and Sir 
 Richard had only had time to wipe the cold 
 
 R -2 
 
202 THE COCK AND ANCHOR. [chap. xin. 
 
 dew of anguish from his forehead, when a ve- 
 hicle rolled up to the hall-door. The bell 
 pealed, and the knocker thundered, and in a 
 moment a servant entered, and announced Mr. 
 Craven — a square built man, of low stature, 
 wearins^ his own lon<x, orrizzled hair instead of a 
 wig — having a florid complexion, hooked nose, 
 beetle brows, and long-cut, Jewish, black eyes, 
 set close under the bridge of his nose — who step- 
 ped with a velvet tread into the room. An un- 
 varying smile sate upon his thin lips, and about 
 his whole air and manner there was a certain 
 indescribable sanctimoniousness, which was 
 rather enhanced by the puritanical plainness of 
 his attire. 
 
 '' Sir Eichard, I beg pardon — rather late, I 
 fear," said he in a dulcet insinuating tone — 
 " hard work, never- the-less, 1 do assure you — 
 ninety-seven skins — splendidly engi'ossed — quite 
 a treat — five of my young men up all night — 
 I have got one of them outside to witness it 
 along with me. Some reading in the thing, I 
 promise you ; but I hope — I do hope, I am not 
 verv late ?" 
 
CHAP. XIII.] THE PARCHMENT. 203 
 
 " Not at all — not at all, my dear Air. 
 Craven," said Sir Richard with his most engag- 
 ing smile ; for, as we have hinted, " dear Mr. 
 Craven" had not made the science of con- 
 veyancing peculiarly cheap in practice to the 
 baronet, who accordingly owed him more costs 
 than it would have been quite convenient to pay 
 upon a short notice — '• I'll just, with your as- 
 sistance, glance through these parchments, 
 though to do so be but a matter of form. 
 Pray take a chair beside me — there. Nov/ 
 then to business." 
 
 Accordingly to business they went. Practice, 
 they say, makes perfect, and the baronet had 
 had unfortunately for himself a great deal of it 
 in such matters during the course of his life. 
 He knew how to read a deed as well as the most 
 experienced council at the Irish bar, and was able 
 consequently to detect with wonderflilly little 
 rummaging and fumbling in the ninety-seven 
 skins of closely written verbiage, the seven 
 lines of sense which they enveloped. Little more 
 than half an hour had therefore satisfied Sir 
 Richard, that the mass of parchment before 
 
204 THE COCK AND ANCHOR. [chap. xiil. 
 
 him, after reciting with very considerable accu- 
 racy the deeds and process by which the lands 
 of Glenvarlogh were settled upon his daughter, 
 went on to state that for and in consideration 
 of the sum of five shillings, good and lawful 
 money, she, being past the age of twenty-one, 
 in every possible phrase and by every word which 
 tautology could accumulate, handed over the 
 said lands, absolutely to her father Sir Richard 
 Ashwood, Bart, of Morley Court in the county 
 of Dublin, to have, and to hold, and to make 
 ducks and drakes of, to the end of time, con- 
 stantly affirming at the end of every sentence 
 that she was led to do all this for and in consi- 
 deration of the sum of five shillings, good and 
 lawful money. As soon as Sir Richard had seen 
 all this, which was, as we have said, in little more 
 than half an hour, he pulled the bell and courte- 
 ously informing ]Mr. Craven, the immortal author 
 of the interesting document which he had just 
 perused, that he would find chocolate and other 
 refreshments in the library, and intimating that 
 he would perhaps disturb him in about ten 
 minutes, he consigned that gentleman to the 
 
cmv. XIII. ] THE PARCHMENT. 205 
 
 guidance uf the servant, "whom he also directed 
 to sununon Miss Ashwoode to his presence. 
 
 '' Her signing this deed," thought he, as he 
 awaited her arrival, " will make her abso- 
 lutely dependent upon me — it will make re- 
 bellion, resistance, murmm-ing impossible ; she 
 
 then ?nust do as I would have her, or Ah I 
 
 my dear child," exclaimed the baronet as his 
 daughter entered the room, addressing her in the 
 sweetest imaginable voice, and instantaneously 
 dismissing the sinister menace which had sat 
 upon his countenance, and clothing it instead 
 as suddenly with an absolute radiance of affec- 
 tion, *' come here and kiss me and sit down by 
 my side — are you well to-day ? you look pale — 
 you smile — well, Avell ! it cannot be any thing 
 ver?/ bad. You shall run out just now with 
 Emily. But first, I must talk with you for a 
 little, and, strange enough, on business too." 
 The old gentleman paused for an instant to 
 aiTange the order of his address, and then con- 
 tinued — *' Mary, I will tell you frankly more of 
 my affairs than I have told to almost any person 
 breathing. In my early days, and indeed after 
 my marriage, 1 was far, far too cai'eless in 
 
206 THE COCK AND ANCHOR. 
 
 CHAP. XIII 
 
 money matters. I involved myself consider- 
 ably, and owing to various circumstances, tire- 
 some now to dwell upon, I have never been 
 able to extricate myself from these difficulties. 
 Henry too, your brother, is fearfully prodigal, 
 — fearfully ; and has within the last three or four 
 years enormously aggravated my embarrass- 
 ments, and of course multiplied my anxieties most 
 grievously, most distractingly. I feel that my 
 spirits are gone, my health declining, and worse 
 than all my temper, yes — my temper soured. 
 You do not know, you cannot know, how bitterly 
 I feel, with what intense pain, and sorrow, and 
 contrition, and — and remorse I reflect upon those 
 bursts of ill temper, of acrimony, of passion to 
 which, spite of every resistance, I am becoming 
 every day more and more prone." Here the 
 baronet paused to call up a look of compunctious 
 anguish, an effort in which he was conside- 
 rably assisted by an acute twinge in his great 
 toe. 
 
 '^Yes," he continued, when the pain had 
 subsided, «' I am now growing old, I am break- 
 ing very fast, sinking, I feel it — I cannot be very 
 long a trouble to any body — embarrassments are 
 
CHAP, xiii] THK PARCHMENT. 207 
 
 closino: around me on all sides — I have not the 
 means of extricating myself — despondency, de- 
 spair have come upon me, and with them loss of 
 spirits, loss of health, of strength, of every thing 
 which makes life a blessing ; and, all these pri- 
 vations rendered more horrible, more agonizing, 
 by the reflection, that my ill humour, my 
 peevish temper, are continually taxing the pa- 
 tience, wounding the feelings, perhaps alienating 
 the affections of those who are nearest and dear- 
 est to me." 
 
 Here the baronet became very much affected ; 
 but lest his agitation should be seen, he turned 
 his head away, while he grasped his daughter's 
 hand convulsively : the poor girl covered his 
 with kisses. He had wrung her very heart. 
 
 " There is one course," continued he, " by 
 adopting which I might extricate myself from 
 all my difficulties" — here he raised his eyes 
 with a haggard expression, and glared wildly 
 along the cornice — " but I confess I have great 
 hesitation in leaving you." 
 
 He wrung her hand very hard, and groaned 
 slightly. 
 
208 THE COCK AND ANCHOR. [ch4p. xiii. 
 
 " Father, dear father," said she, " do not 
 speak thus — do not — you frighten me." 
 
 ** I was wrong, my dear child, to tell you of 
 struggles of which none but myself ought to 
 have known any thing," said the baronet 
 gloomily. " One person indeed has the power 
 to assist, I may say to save me." 
 
 " And Avho is that person, fatJier ?" asked 
 the girl. 
 
 «* Yourself," replied Sir Richard emphati- 
 cally. 
 
 " How ? — I !" said she, turning very pale, for 
 a dreadful suspicion crossed her mind — "how 
 can / help you, father ?" 
 
 The old gentleman explained briefly ; and the 
 girl, relieved of her worst fears, started joyously 
 from her seat, clapped her hands together with 
 gladness, and, throwing her arms about her 
 father's neck, exclaimed — 
 
 " And is that all? — oh, father ; why did you 
 defer telling me so long ; you ought to have 
 known how delighted I w^ould have been to do 
 any thing for you ; indeed you ought ; tell 
 them to get the papers ready immediately." 
 
CHAP. XIII.] THE PARCHMENT. 209 
 
 '* They are ready, my dear," said Sir 
 Richard, recovering his self-possession wonder- 
 fully, and ringing the bell with a good deal of 
 hurry — for he fully acknowledged the wisdom 
 of the old proverb, ^vhich inculcates the ex- 
 pediency of striking while the iron's hot — 
 " your brother had them prepared yesterday, 
 I believe. Inform Mr. Craven," he continued, 
 addressing the servant, '' that I would be very 
 glad to see him now, and say he may as well 
 bring in the young gentleman who has accom- 
 panied him." 
 
 Mr. Craven accordingly appeared, and the 
 " young gentleman," who had but one eye, 
 and a very seedy coat, entered along with him. 
 The latter personage bustled about a good deal, 
 slapped the deeds very emphatically down on 
 the table, and rumpled the parchments sono- 
 rously, looked about for pen and ink, set a 
 chair before the document, and then held one side 
 of the parchment, while Mr. Craven screwed his 
 knuckles down upon the other, and the parties 
 forthwith signed ; whereupon ]Mr. Craven and 
 tlie one-eyed young gentleman both sate down. 
 
210 THE COCK AND ANCHOR. [chap. xiii. 
 
 and began to sign away with a great deal of 
 scratching and flourishing on the places al- 
 lotted for witnesses ; after all which, Mr. 
 Craven, raising himself with a smile, told Miss 
 Ashwoode, facetiously, that the Chancellor 
 could not have done so much for the deed as 
 she had done ; and the one-eyed young gentle- 
 man held his nose contemplatively between his 
 finger and thumb, and reviewed the signatures 
 with his solitary optic. 
 
 Miss Ashwoode then withdrew, and Mr. 
 Craven and the " young gentleman" made their 
 bows. Sir Richard beckoned to j\Ir. Craven, 
 and he glided back and closed the door, having 
 commanded the " young gentleman" to see if 
 the coach was ready. 
 
 " You see, Mr. Craven," said Sir Richard, 
 who, spite of all his philosophy, felt a little 
 ashamed even that the attorney should have 
 seen the transaction which had just been com- 
 pleted — " you see, sir, I may as well tell you 
 candidly : my daughter, who has just signed 
 this deed, is about immediately to be married 
 to Lord Aspenly; he kindly offered to lend me 
 
CHAP, xin.] THE PARCHMENT. 211 
 
 some fifteen thousand pounds, or thereabouts, 
 and I converted this offer, (which I, of 
 course, accepted,) into the assignment, from his 
 bride, that is to be, of this Httle property, 
 giving, of course, to his lordship my personal 
 security for the debt which I consider as owed 
 to him : this an-angement his lordship prefeiTcd 
 as the most convenient possible. I thought it 
 right, in strict confidence, of course, to explain 
 the real state of the case to you, as at first sight 
 the thing looks selfish, and I do not wish to 
 stand worse in my friends' books than I actually 
 deserve to do." This was spoken with vSir 
 Richard's most engaging smile, and ]\Ir. Craven 
 smiled in return, most artlessly — at the same 
 time he mentally ejaculated, " d — d sly !" 
 " You'll brmg tliis security, my dear Mr. 
 Craven," continued the baronet, "into the 
 market with all despatch — do you think you 
 can manage twenty thousand upon it ?" 
 
 '- I fear not more than fourteen, or perhaps, 
 sixteen, with an effort. I do not think Glen- 
 varlogh would carry much more — I fear not ; 
 but rely upon me. Sir Eichard ; I'll do every 
 
212 THE COCK AND ANCHOR. [chap. xiii. 
 
 thing that can be done — at all events, I'll lose 
 no time about it, depend upon it — I may as well 
 take this deed along with me — I have the rest ; 
 and title is very — very satisfactory — good 
 morning, Sir Richard," and the man of parch- 
 ments withdrew, leaving Sir Eichard in a more 
 benevolent mood than he had experienced for 
 many a long day. 
 
 The attorney had not been many seconds 
 gone, when a second vehicle thundered up to 
 the door, and a perfect storm of knocking and 
 ringing announced the arrival of Lord Aspenly 
 himself. 
 
.1. xiT.] THE LETTER. 213 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 ABOUT A CERTAIN GAKDEX AND A DAMSEL — AND ALSO CON- 
 CEBNING A LETTEB AND A RED LEATHERN BOX. 
 
 Several days passed smoothly away — Lord 
 Aspenly was a perfect paragon of politeness ; 
 but although his manner invariably assumed a 
 peculiar tenderness whenever he approached 
 Miss Ashwoode, yet that young lady remained 
 in happy ignorance of his real intentions. She 
 saw before her a grotesque old fop, who might 
 without any extraordinary parental precocity have 
 very easily been her grandfather, and in his airs 
 and graces, his rappee and his rouge, (for his 
 lordship condescended to borrow a few attrac- 
 tions from art,) and in the thousand and one 
 et ceteras of foppery which were accumulated, 
 with great exactitude and precision, on and 
 about his little person, she beheld nothing more 
 than so manv indications of obstinate and inve- 
 
214 THE COCK AND ANCHOR. [chap, xiv 
 
 terate celibacy, and, of course, interpreted the 
 exquisite attentions which were meant to 
 enchain her young heart, merely as so much 
 of that formal target practice in love's archery^ 
 in which gallant single gentlemen of seventy, 
 or thereabout, will sometimes indulge them- 
 selves. Emily Copland, however, at a glance, 
 saw and understood the nature of Lord As- 
 penly's attentions, and she saw just as clearly 
 the intended parts and the real position of the 
 other actors in this somcAvhat ill-assorted 
 drama, and thereupon she took counsel with 
 herself, like a wise damsel, and arrived at the 
 conclusion, that with some little management 
 she might, very possibly, play her own cards 
 to advantage among them. 
 
 We must here, however, glance for a few 
 minutes at some of the subordinate agents in 
 our narrative, whose interposition, nevertheless, 
 deeply, as well as permanently, affected the 
 destinies of more important personages. 
 
 It was the habit of the beautiful Mistress 
 Betsy Carey, every morning, weather permit- 
 ting, to enjoy a ramble in the grounds of 
 
CHAF. XIV.] THE LETTER. 215 
 
 Morley Court ; and as chance (of course it was 
 chance) would have it, this early ramble inva- 
 riably led her through several quiet fields, and 
 over a stile, into a prettily -situated, but 
 neglected flower-garden, Avhich was now, how- 
 ever, undergoing a thorough reform, according 
 to the Dutch taste, under the presiding inspi- 
 ration of Tobias Potts. Now Tobias Potts 
 was a widower, having been in the course of his 
 life twice disencumbered. The last Mrs. Potts 
 had disappeared some five winters since, and 
 Tobias was now well stricken in years ; he pos- 
 sessed the eyes of an owl, and the complexion of 
 a turkey-cock, and was, moreover, extremely 
 hard of hearing, and, withal, a man of fcAv 
 words ; he was, however, hale, upright, and 
 burly — perfectly sound in wind and limb, and 
 free from vice and children — had a snug domi- 
 cile, consisting of two rooms and a loft, enjoyed 
 a comfortable salary, and had, it Avas confidently 
 rumoured, put by a good round sum of money 
 somewhere or other. It therefore struck Mrs. 
 Carey very forcibly, that to be INlrs. Potts was 
 a position Avorth attaining ; and accordingly, 
 
216 THE COCK AND ANCHOR. [chap, xiv- 
 
 without inciuTing any suspicion — for the young 
 women generally regarded Potts with awe, and 
 the young men with contempt — she began, 
 according to the expressive phrase in such case 
 made and provided, to set her cap at Tobias. 
 
 In this, his usual haunt, she discovered the 
 object of her search, busily employed in super- 
 intending the construction of a terrace walk, 
 and issuing his orders, with the brevity, deci- 
 sion, and clearness, of a consummate gardener. 
 
 " Good morning, Mr. Potts," said the 
 charming Betsy. Mr. Potts did not hear. 
 ''Good morning, Mr. Potts," repeated the 
 damsel, raising her voice to a scream. 
 
 Tobias touched his hat with a gruff acknow- 
 ledgment. 
 
 " Well, but how beautiful you are doing it," 
 shouted the handmaid again, gazing rapturously 
 upon the red earthen rampart, in which none 
 but the eye of an artist could have detected the 
 rudiments of a terrace, ''it's wonderful neat, all 
 must allow, and indeed it puzzles my head to 
 think how you can think of it all ; it is now, 
 raly elegant, so it is.*' 
 
CHAP. XIV.] THE LETTER. 217 
 
 Tobias did not reply, and the maiden con- 
 tinued ^vith a sentimental air, and still hallo- 
 ing at the top of her voice — 
 
 '* Well, of all the trades that is — and big and 
 little, there's a plenty of them — there's none I'd 
 choose, if I was a man, before the trade of a 
 gardener." 
 
 ^' No, you would not, Fm sure," was the 
 laconic reply. 
 
 '* Oh, but I declare and purtest / would 
 though," bawled the young woman; *' for gar- 
 deners, old or young, is always so good- 
 humoured, and pleasant, and fresh-like — O, 
 dear, but I would like to be a gardener." 
 
 " Not an old one, howsomever," growled 
 Mr. Potts. 
 
 " Yes, but I would though, I declare and 
 purtest to goodness gracious," persisted the 
 nymph ; " Pd rather of the two perfer to be an 
 old gardener;" (this was a bold stroke of 
 oratory; but Potts did not hear it,) " Pd 
 rather be an old gardener," she screamed a 
 second time; " Pd rather be an o/c/ gardener, 
 of the two, so I would." 
 
 VOL. I. L 
 
218 THE COCK AND ANCHOR. [chap. xiv. 
 
 " That's more than / would," replied Potts 
 very abruptly, and with an air of uncommon 
 asperity, for he silently cherished a lingering 
 belief in his own juvenility, and not the less 
 obstinately that it was fast becoming desperate — 
 a peculiarity of which, unfortunately, until that 
 moment the damsel had never been apprised. 
 This, therefore, was a turn which a good deal 
 disconcerted the young woman, especially as 
 she thought she detected a satirical leer upon 
 the countenance of a young man in crazy inex- 
 pressibles, who was trundling a wheelbarrow in 
 the immediate vicinity ; she accordingly ex- 
 claimed, not loud enough for Tobias, but quite 
 loud enough for the young man in the infirm 
 breeches to hear — 
 
 " AYhat an old fool. I purtest it's meat and 
 drink to me to teaze him — so it is ;" and with 
 a forced giggle she tripped lightly away to re- 
 trace her steps towards the house. 
 
 As she approached the stile we have men- 
 tioned, she thought she distinguished what ap- 
 peared to be the inarticulate miu'murings of 
 some subterranean voice almost beneath her 
 
cu*p. XIV.] THE LETTER. 219 
 
 feet. A good deal startled at so prodigious a 
 phenomenon, she stopped short, and imme- 
 diately heard the following brief apostrophe de- 
 livered in a rich brogue : — 
 
 *' Aiqually beautiful and engaging — vartuous 
 Betsy Carey — listen to the voice of tindhev 
 emotion." 
 
 The party addressed looked with some alarm 
 in all directions for any visible intimation of the 
 speaker's presence, but in vain. At length 
 from among an unusually thick and luxuriant 
 tuft of docks and other weeds, which grew at 
 the edge of a ditch close by, she beheld some- 
 thing red emerging, which in a few moments 
 she clearly perceived to be the classical counte- 
 nance of Larry Toole. 
 
 *' The Lord purtect us all, Mr. Toole. Why 
 in the world do you frighten people this way ?" 
 ejaculated the nymph rather shrilly. 
 
 «' Whisht ! most evangelical iv women," ex- 
 claimed Larry in a low key, and looking round 
 suspiciously — " whisht ! or we are ruined." 
 
 " La ! ]Mr. Lawrence, what are you after ?" 
 rejoined the damsel with a good deal of aspe- 
 
220 THE COCK AND ANCHOR. [chap, xit- 
 
 rity. " I'll have you to know I'm not used to 
 talk with a man that's squat in a ditch, and his 
 head in a dock plant. That's not the way for 
 to come up to an honest woman, sir — no more 
 it is." 
 
 " I'd live ten years in a ditch, and die in a 
 dock plant," replied Larry with enthusiasm, 
 " for one sight iv you." 
 
 '' And is that what brought you here ?" re- 
 plied she with a toss of her head. " I purtest 
 some people's quite overbearing, so they are, 
 and knows no bounds." 
 
 " Stop a minute, most beautiful bayin — for 
 one instant minute pay attintion," exclaimed 
 Mr. Toole eagerly, for he perceived that she had 
 commenced her retreat. " Tare an owns ! divine 
 crature, it's not goin^ you are ?'* 
 
 " I have no notions good or bad, Mr. 
 Toole," replied the young lady with great volu- 
 biUty and .dignity, " and no idaya in the wide 
 world for to be standing here prating, and 
 talking, and losing my time with such as you 
 — if my business is neglected, it is not on your 
 back the blame will light. I have my work. 
 
CHAP. XIV.] THE LETTER. 221 
 
 and my duty, and my business to mind, and ii' 
 I do not mind them, no one else will do it 
 for me ; and I am astonished and surprised 
 beyant telling, so I am, at the impittence of 
 some people, thinking that the likes of me has 
 nothing else to be doing but listening to them 
 discoorsing in a dirty ditch, and more particular 
 when their conduct has been sich as some 
 people's that is old enough at any rate to know 
 better." 
 
 The fair handmaiden had now resumed her 
 retreat; so that Larry, having raised himself 
 from his lowly hiding-place, was obliged to 
 follow for some twenty yards before he again 
 came up with her. 
 
 " Wait one half second — stop a bit, for the 
 Lord's sake," exclaimed he with most earnest 
 energy. 
 
 "Well, wonst for all, Mr. Lawrence," ex- 
 claimed Mistress Carey severely, «« what is your 
 business with me ?" 
 
 " Jist this," rejoined Larry, with a myste- 
 rious wink, and low^ering his voice — "a letter 
 to the young mistress from" — here he ^hmced 
 
222 THE COCK AND ANCHOR. [chap. xiv. 
 
 jealously round, and then bringing himself close 
 beside her, he whispered in her ear — "from 
 Mr. O'Connor — whisht — not a word — into her 
 own hand, mind." 
 
 The young Avoman took the letter, read the 
 superscription, and forthwith placed it in her 
 bosom, and re-arranged her kerchief. 
 
 "Never fear — ^never fear," said she, "Miss 
 Mary shall have it in half an hour. And 
 how," added she maliciously, " is Mr. O'Con- 
 nor ? He is a lovely gentleman — is not he ?" 
 
 " He's uncommonly well in health, the Lord 
 be praised," replied Mr. Toole with very unac- 
 countable severity. 
 
 "Well, for my part," continued the girl, " I 
 never seen the man yet to put beside him— =■ 
 unless, indeed, the young master may be. He*s 
 a very pretty young man — and so shocking 
 agreeable." 
 
 Mr. Toole nodded a pettish assent, coughed, 
 muttered something to himself, and then in- 
 quired when he should come for an answer. 
 
 " I'll have an answer to-morrow morning — 
 maybe this evening," pursued she ; " but do 
 
CHAV. XIV.] THE LETTER. 223 
 
 not be coming so close up to the house. Who 
 knows who might be on our backs in an in- 
 stant here. I'll walk down whenever I get it 
 to the two mulberries at the old gate ; and I'll 
 go there either in the morning at this hour, 
 or else a little before supper-time in the 
 evening." 
 
 Mr. Toole, having gazed rapturously at 
 the object of his tenderest aspirations during 
 the delivery of this address, Avas at its termi- 
 nation so far transported by his feelings, as 
 absolutely to make a kind of indistinct and 
 flurried attempt to kiss her. 
 
 " Well, I purtest, this is overbearing," ex- 
 claimed the virgin ; and at the same time be- 
 stowing Mr. Toole a sound box on the ear, she 
 tripped lightly toward the house, leaving her 
 admirer a prey to what are usually termed con- 
 flicting emotions. 
 
 When Sir Richard returned to his dressing- 
 room at about noon, to prepare for dinner, 
 he had hardly walked to the toilet, and 
 rung for his Italian servant, when a knock 
 Avas heard at his chamber door; and, in 
 
22i THE COCK AND ANCHOR. [chap. xiv. 
 
 obedience to his summons. Mistress Carey 
 entered. 
 
 " Well, Carey,'* inquired the baronet, as 
 soon as she had appeared, " do you bring me 
 any news ?" 
 
 The lady's-maid closed the door carefully. 
 
 " News ?" she repeated. *' Indeed but I do. 
 Sir Richard, and bad news, I'm afeard, sir. 
 Mr. O'Connor has written a great long letter to 
 my mistress, if you please, sir." 
 
 " Have you gotten it?" inquired the baronet 
 quickly. 
 
 "Yes, sir," rejoined she, "safe and sound 
 here in my breast, Sir Richard." 
 
 " Your young mistress has not opened it — or 
 read it ?" inquired he. 
 
 "Oh, dear! Su' Richard, is it after all you 
 said to me only the other day," rejoined she in 
 virtuous horror. " I hope I know my place 
 better than to be fetching and carrying notes 
 and letters, and all soarts, unnonst to my 
 master. Don't I know, sir, very well how that 
 you're the best judge what's fitting and what 
 isn't for the sight of your own precious child ? 
 
CHAP. XIV. J THE LETTER. 22o 
 
 and wouldn't I be very unnatural, and very 
 hardened and ungrateful, if I was to be making 
 secrets in the family, and if any ill-w411 or mis- 
 fortunes was to come out of it ? I purtest I 
 never — never would forgive myself — never — net 
 more I ought — never." 
 
 Here Mistress Carey absolutely wept. 
 
 ** Give me the letter," said Sir Richard 
 drily. 
 
 The damsel handed it to him ; and he, hav- 
 inoj crlanced at the seal and the address, de- 
 posited the document safely in a small leathern 
 box which stood upon his toilet, and having 
 locked it safely therein, he turned to the maid, 
 and patting her on the cheek with a smile, he 
 remarked — 
 
 *' Be a good girl, Carey, and you shall find 
 you have consulted your interest best." 
 
 Here Mistress Carey was about to do justice 
 to her OAvn disinterestedness in a very strong 
 protestation ; but the baronet checked her 
 with an impatient wave of the hand, and con- 
 tinued — 
 
 '* Say not on any account one word to any 
 
 l2 
 
226 THE COCK AND ANCHOR. [chap. xiv. 
 
 person touching this letter, until you have your 
 directions from me. Stay — this will buy you 
 a ribbon. Good bye — be a good girl." 
 
 So saying, the baronet placed a guinea in the 
 girl's hand, which, with a courtesy, having 
 transferred to her pocket, she withdrew rather 
 hurriedly, for she heard the valet in the next 
 room. 
 
CHAP. XV.] THE TRAITOR. 227 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 THE TRAITOR. 
 
 Upon the day following, O'Connor had not yet 
 received any answer to his letter. He was, 
 however, not a little surprised instead to re- 
 ceive a second visit from young Ashwoode. 
 
 " I am very glad, my dear O'Connor,"' said 
 the young man as he entered, 'Vto have found 
 you alone. I have been wishing very much 
 for this opportunity, and was half afraid as I 
 came up stairs that I should again have been 
 disappointed. The fact is, I wish much to 
 speak to you upon a subject of great difficulty 
 and delicacy — one in which, however, I natu- 
 rally feel so strong an interest, that I may 
 speak to you upon it, and freely, too, Avithout 
 impertinence. I allude to your attachment to 
 my sister. Do not imagine, my dear O'Connor 
 
228 THE COCK AND ANCHOR. [chap. xv. 
 
 that I am going to lecture you on prudence and 
 all that, and above all, my dear fellow, do not 
 think I want to tax your confidence more deeply 
 than you are willing I should ; I know quite 
 enough for all I would suggest ; I know the 
 plain fact that you love my sister — I have long 
 known it, and this is enough." 
 
 '* Well, sir, what follows?" said O'Connor 
 dejectedly. 
 
 ** Do not call me, sir — call me friend — fellow 
 — fool — any thing you please but that," replied 
 Ashwoode, kindly ; and after a brief pause he 
 continued — " I need not, and cannot disguise 
 it from you, that I was much opposed to this, 
 and vexed extremely at the girl's encouragement 
 of what I considered a most imprudent suit. 
 I have, however, learned to think differently — 
 very differently. After all my littlenesses and 
 pettishness, for which you must have — if not 
 abhorred, at least despised me from your veiy 
 heart; — after all this, I say, your noble conduct 
 in risking your own life to save my worthless 
 blood is what I never can enough admire, and 
 honour, and thank." Here he grasped O'Con- 
 
CHAP. XV.] THE TRAITOR. 229 
 
 nor's hand, and shook it warmly. " After this, 
 I tell you, O'Connor, that Avere there offered 
 to me, on my sister's behoof, on the one side, 
 the most brilliant alliance in wealth and rank 
 that ever ambition dreamed of, and upon the 
 other side this hand of yours, I would, so 
 heaven is my witness, forego every allurement 
 of titles, rank, and riches, and give my sister to 
 you. I have come here, O'Connor, frankly to 
 offer you my aid and advice — to prove to you 
 my sincerity, and, if possible, to realise your 
 wishes. 
 
 O'Connor could hardly believe his senses. 
 Here was the man who, scarcely six days 
 since, he felt assured, would more readily have 
 suffered him to thrust him through the bod) , 
 than consent to his marriage with Mary Ash- 
 woode, now not merely consenting to it, but 
 offering cortlially and spontaneously all the as- 
 sistance in his power toward effecting that very 
 object. Had he heard him aright ? One look 
 at liis expressive face — the kindly pressure of 
 his hand — every thing assured him that he had 
 justly comprehended all that Ashvvoode had 
 
230 THE COCK AND ANCHOR. [chap. xv. 
 
 spoken, and a glow of hope, warmer than had 
 visited him for years, cheered his heart. 
 
 " In the mean time," continued Ashwoode, 
 *'I must tell you exactly how matters stand 
 at ]\lorley Court. The Earl of Aspenly, of 
 whom you may have heard, is paying his ad- 
 dresses to my sister." 
 
 " The Earl of Aspenly," echoed O'Connor, 
 slightly colouring. '' I had not heard of this 
 before — she did not name him." 
 
 " Yet she has known it a good while," re- 
 turned Ashwoode, with well affected surprise — 
 "a month, I believe, or more. He's now at 
 Morley Court, and means to make some stay — 
 are you sure she never mentioned him ?" 
 
 " Titled, and, of course, rich," said O'Con- 
 nor, scarce hearing the question. " Why should 
 I have heard of this by chance and from another 
 — why this reserve — this silence ?" 
 
 " Nay, nay," replied Henry, " you must not 
 run away with the matter thus. Mary may 
 have forgotten it, or — or not liked to tell you — 
 not cared to give you needless uneasiness." 
 
 " I wish she had — I wish she had — I am — I 
 
CHAP. XV.] THE TRAITOR. 231 
 
 am indeed, Ashwoode, very, very unhappy," 
 said O'Connor, with extreme dejection. "For- 
 give me — forgive my folly, since folly it seems 
 — 1 fear I weary you." 
 
 " Well, well, since it seems you have not 
 heard of it," rejoined Henry, carelessly throw- 
 ing himself back in his chair, " you may as 
 well learn it now — not that there is any real 
 cause of alarm in the matter, as I shall pre- 
 sently show you, but simply that you may 
 understand the position of the enemy. Lord 
 Aspenly, then, is at present at Morley Court, 
 where he is received as Mary's lover — observe 
 me, only as her lover — not yet, and I trust 
 never as her accepted lover." 
 
 " Go on — pray go on," said O'Connor, with 
 suppressed, but agonised anxiety. 
 
 '' Now, though my father is very hot about 
 the match," resumed his visitor, *' it may appear 
 strange enough to you that /never was. There 
 are a few — a very few advantages in the matter, 
 of course viewing it merely in its worldly as- 
 pect. But Lord Aspenly's property is a good 
 deal embarrassed, and he is of violently AVhig 
 
232 THE COCK AND ANCHOR. [ch\p xv. 
 
 politics and connections, the very thing most 
 hated by my old Tory uncle Oliver French, 
 whom my father has been anxious to cultivate ; 
 besides, the disparity in years is so very great 
 that it is ridiculous — I might almost say, inde- 
 cent — and this even in point of family standing, 
 and indeed of reputation, putting aside every 
 better consideration, is objectionable. 1 have 
 urged all these things upon my father, and per- 
 haps we should not find any insurmountable 
 obstacle there ; but the fact is, there is another 
 difficulty, one, of which until this morning I 
 never dreamed — the most whimsical difficulty 
 imaginable." Here the young man raised his 
 eyebrows, and laughed faintly, while he looked 
 upon the floor, and O'Connor, with increasing 
 earnestness, implored him to proceed. " It ap- 
 pears so very absurd and perverse an obstacle," 
 continued Ashwoode, with a very quizzical ex- 
 pression, " that one does not exactly know how 
 to encounter it — to say the truth, I think that 
 the girl is a little — perhaps the least imaginable 
 degree — taken — dazzled — caught by the notion 
 of being a countess ; it's very natural, you 
 
cUAf. XV.] THE TRAITOR. 233 
 
 know, but then I would have expected better 
 from her." 
 
 "By heavens it is impossible!" exclaimed 
 O'Connor, starting to his feet; " I cannot be- 
 lieve it ; you must, indeed, my dear Ashwoode, 
 you must have been deceived." 
 
 "Well, then," rejoined the young man, " I 
 have lost my skill in reading young ladies* minds 
 — that's all ; but even though I should be right 
 — and never believe me if I am not right — it 
 does not follow that the giddy whim won't 
 pass away just as suddenly as it came ; her 
 most lasting impressions — Avith, I should hope, 
 one exception — were never very enduring. I 
 have been talking to her for nearly half-an-hour 
 this morning — laughing with her about Lord 
 Aspenly's suit, and building castles in the air 
 about what ' she w ill and what she won't do 
 when she's a countess. But, by the way, how 
 did you let her know that you intend returning 
 to France at the end of this month, only, as she 
 told me, however, for a few weeks ? She men- 
 tioned it yesterday incidentally. Well, it is a 
 comfort that I hear your secrets, though you 
 
234 THE COCK AND ANCHOR. [chap. xt. 
 
 won't entrust them to me. But do not, my 
 dear fellow — do not look so very black — you 
 very much overrate the firmness of women's 
 minds, and greatly indeed exaggerate that of 
 my sister's character if you believe that this 
 vexatious whim which has entered her giddy 
 pate will remain there longer than a week. 
 The simple fact is, that the excitement and 
 bustle of all this has produced an unusual flow 
 of high spirits, which will, of course, subside 
 with the novelty, of the occasion. Pshaw ! why 
 so cast down ? — there is nothing in the matter 
 to surprise one — the caprice of women knows no 
 rule. I tell you I would almost stake my repu- 
 tation as a prophet, that when this giddy excite- 
 ment passes away, her feelings will return to their 
 old channel." O'Connor still paced the room 
 in silence. " Meanwhile," continued the young 
 man, " if any thing occur to you — if I can be 
 useful to you in any way, command me abso- 
 lutely, and, till you see me next, take heart of 
 grace." He grasped O'Connor's hand ; it was 
 cold as clay, and, bidding him farewell, once 
 more took his departure. 
 
CBAP. XV.] THE TRAITOR. 235 
 
 '* Well," thought he, as he threw his leg 
 across his high bred gelding at the inn door, 
 " I have shot the first shaft home." 
 
 And so he had, for the heart at which it was 
 directed, unfenced by suspicion, lay open to 
 his traitorous practices. O'Connor's letter, an 
 urgent and a touching one, was still unan- 
 swered ; it never, for a moment, crossed his 
 mind that it had not reached the hand for which 
 it was intended. The maid who had faithfully 
 delivered all the letters which had passed be- 
 tween them had herself received it ; and young 
 Ashwoode had but the moment before men- 
 tioned, from his sister's lips^ the subject on 
 which it was written — his meditated departure 
 for France. This, too, it appeared, she had 
 spoken of in the midst of gay and light-hearted 
 trifling, and projects of approaching magnifi- 
 cence and dissipation with his rich and noble 
 rival. Twice since the delivery of that letter 
 had his servant seen Miss Ashwoode's maid ; 
 and in the communicative colloquy Avhich had 
 ensued she had told — no doubt according to 
 well-planned instructions — how gay and un- 
 
236 THE COCK AND ANCHOR. [chap xt. 
 
 usually merry her mistress was, and how she 
 passed whole hours at her toilet, and the rest 
 of her time in the companionship of Lord 
 Aspenly — so that between his lordship's so- 
 ciety, and her own preparations for it, she had 
 scarcely allowed herself time to read the letter 
 in question, much less to answer it. 
 
 All these things served to fill O'Connor's 
 mind with vague but agonizing doubts — doubts 
 which he vainly strove to combat ; fears which 
 had not their birth in an alarmed imagination, 
 ])ut which, alas ! Avere but too surely approved by 
 reason. The notion of a systematic plot, em- 
 bracing so many agents, and conducted with 
 such deep and hellish hypocrisy, with the sole 
 purpose of destroying affections the most beauti- 
 ful, and of alienating hearts the truest, was a 
 thought so monstrous and unnatural that it 
 never for a second flashed upon his mind ; still 
 his heart struggled strongly against despair. 
 Spite of all that looked gloomy in what he saw — 
 spite of the boding suggestions of his worst fears, 
 he would not believe her false to him — that she 
 who had so long and so well loved and trusted 
 
cnAP. XV.] THE TRAITOR. 23/ 
 
 liim — she whose gentle heart he knew un- 
 changed and unchilled by years, and distance, 
 and misfortunes — that she should, after all, have 
 fallen away from him, and given up that heart 
 which once was his, to vanity and the hollow 
 glitter of the world — this he could hardly bring 
 himself to believe, yet what was he to think ? 
 alas ! what ? 
 
238 THE COCK AND ANCHOR. [chap, xvi 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 SHOWING SIGNOK PARUCCT ALONE WITH THE WIG-BLOCKS 
 
 THE baronet's HAND-BELL, AND THE ITALIAN'S TASK. 
 
 MoRLEY Court was a queer old building — 
 very large and very irregular. The main 
 part of the dwelling, and what appeared to be 
 the original nucleus, upon which after-additions 
 had grown like fantastic incrustations, was built 
 of deep red brick, with many recesses, and 
 projections, and gables, and tall and gro- 
 tesquely-shaped chimneys, and having broad, 
 jutting, heavily-sashed windows, such as be- 
 longed to Henry the Eighth's time, to which 
 period the origin of the building was, with suf- 
 ficient probability, referred. The great avenue, 
 which extended in a direct line to more than the 
 long half of an Irish mile, led through double 
 rows of splendid old lime trees, some thirty paces 
 apart, and arching in a vast and shadowy groin- 
 
CHAF. XVI.] THE WIG-BLOCKS. 239 
 
 ing over head, to the front of the building. To 
 the rearward extended the rambling additions 
 which necessity or caprice had, from time to 
 time, suggested, as the place, in the lapse of 
 years, passed into the hands of different masters. 
 One of these excrescences, a quaint little pro- 
 minence, with a fanciful gable and chimney of 
 its own, jutted pleasantly out upon the green 
 sward, courting the friendly shelter of the -wild 
 and graceful trees, and from its casement com- 
 manding through the parting boughs no views 
 but those of quiet fields, distant woodlands, and 
 the far off blue hills. This portion of the build- 
 ing contained in the upper story one small room, 
 to the full as oddly shaped as the outer casing 
 of fantastic masonry in which it was inclosed — 
 the door opened upon a back staircase which led 
 from the lower apartments to Sir Richard's 
 dressing-room ; and partly owing to this conve- 
 nient arrangement, and partly, perhaps, to the 
 comfort and seclusion of the chamber itself, it 
 had been long appropriated to the exclusive oc- 
 cupation of Signor Jacopo Parucci, Sir Richard's 
 valet and confidential servant. This man was, 
 
240 THE COCK AND ANCHOR. [chap. xri. 
 
 as his name would imply, an Italian. Sir 
 Richard had picked him up some thirty years 
 before the period at which we have dated our 
 story, in Naples, where it was said the baronet 
 had received from him very important instruc- 
 tions in the inner mysteries of that golden 
 science which converts chance into certainty — a 
 science in which Sir Richard was said to have 
 become a masterly proficient ; and indeed so loudly 
 had fame begun to bruit his excellence therein, 
 that he found it at last necessary, or at least 
 highly advisable, to forego the fascinations of the 
 gaming-table, and to bid to the worship of for- 
 tune an eternal fare av ell, just at the moment 
 when the fickle goddess promised with golden 
 profusion to reward his devotion. 
 
 Whatever his reason was, Sir Richard had 
 been to this man a good master ; he had, it was 
 said, and not without reason, enriched him ; and 
 moreover it was a strange fact, that in all his 
 capricious and savage moods, from whose conse- 
 quences not only his servants but his own chil- 
 dren had no exemption, he had never once 
 treated this person otherwise than with the most 
 
CHAP. XVI.] THE WIG-BLOCKS. 241 
 
 marked civility. What the man's services had 
 actually been, and to what secret influence he 
 owed the close and confidential terms upon which 
 he unquestionably stood with Sir Richard, these 
 things were mysteries, and, of course, furnished 
 inexhaustible matter of scandalous speculation 
 among the baronet's dependents and most inti- 
 mate friends. 
 
 The room of which we speak Avas Parucci's 
 snuggery ; it contained in a recess behind the 
 door that gentleman's bed — a plain, low^, uncur- 
 tained couch ; and variously disposed about the 
 apartment an abundance of furniture of much 
 better kind ; the recess of the window was filled 
 by a kind of squat press, which was constructed 
 in the lower part, and which contained, as cer- 
 tain adventurous chamber-maids averred, having 
 peeped into its dimn recesses, when some pre- 
 cious opportunity presented itself, among other 
 shadowy shapes, the forms of certain flasks and 
 bottles with long necks, and several tall glasses 
 of different dimensions. Two or three tables of 
 various sizes of dark shining wood, with legs 
 after the fashion of the nether limbs of hippo- 
 
 VOL. I. M 
 
242 THE COCK AND ANCHOR. [chap. xvt. 
 
 griffs and fauns, seemed about to walk from 
 their places, and to stamp and claw at random 
 about the floor. A large old press of polished 
 oak, witli spiral pillars of the same flanking it 
 in front, contained the more precious articles of 
 Signor Parucci's wardrobe. Close beside it, in 
 a small recess, stood a set of shelves, on which 
 were piled various matters, literary and other- 
 wise, among which perhaps none were disturbed 
 twice in the year, with the exception of six or 
 eight packs of cards, with which, for old as- 
 sociation's sake, Signor Jacopo used to amuse 
 himself now and again in his solitary hours. 
 
 On one of the tables stood two blocks sup- 
 porting each a flowing black peruke, which it 
 was almost the only duty of the tenant of this 
 interesting sanctuary to tend, and trim, and 
 curl. Upon the dusky tapestry were pinned 
 several coloured prints, somewhat dinmied by 
 time, but evidently of very equivocal morality. 
 A birding-piece and a fragment of a fishing-rod 
 covered with dust, neither of which SigTior 
 Parucci had ever touched for the last twenty 
 years, were suspended over the mantel-piece ; 
 
CHAP. XVI.] THE WIG-BLOf KS. 2 IS 
 
 and upon the side of the recess, and f'ully 
 lighted by the window, in attestation of his 
 gentler and more refined pursuits, hung a dingy 
 old guitar apparently still in use, for the strings, 
 though a good deal coljbled and knotted, were 
 perfect in number. A huge high-backed well- 
 stuffed chair, in which a man might lie as 
 snugly as a kernel in its shell, was placed at 
 the window, and in it reclined the presiding 
 genius of the place himself, with his legs ele- 
 vated so as to rest upon the broad window-sill, 
 formed by the roof of the mysterious press 
 which we have already mentioned. The Ita- 
 lian was a little man, veiy slight, with long 
 hair, a good deal gi'izzled, flowing upon his 
 shoulders : he had a sallow complexion and 
 thin hooked nose, piercing black eyes, lean 
 cheeks, and sharp chin — and altogether a lank, 
 attenuated, and somewhat intellectual cast of 
 face, with, however, a certain expression of ma- 
 lice and cunning about the leer of his eye, as 
 well as in the character of his thin and colour- 
 less lip, which made him by no means a ve'v 
 pleasant object to look upon. 
 
244 THE COCK AND ANCHOR. [cifai-. xvi. 
 
 " Fine weather — almost Italy," said the lit- 
 tle man, lazily pushing open the casement with 
 his foot. '' I am surprise, good dear sweet Sir 
 Richard, his bell is stop so long quiet. Why- 
 is it not go ding, ding, dingeri, dingeri, ding a 
 ding ding, as usual. Damnation ! what do I 
 care he ring de bell and I leesten. We are not 
 always young, and I must be allow to be a 
 leetle deaf Avhen he is allow to be a leetle 
 gouty. Gode blace my body, how hot is the 
 sun. Come down here, leer of Apollo — come 
 to my arm, meestress of my heart — Orpheus' 
 leer, come queekly." This was addressed to 
 the ancient instrument of music which we have 
 already mentioned, and the invitation was ac- 
 companied by an appropriate elevation of his 
 two little legs, which he raised until he gently 
 closed his feet upon the sides of the '' leer of 
 Apollo," which, with a good deal of dexterity, 
 he anhung from its peg, and conveyed within 
 reach of his hand. He cast a look of fond ad- 
 miration at its dingy and time-dried face, and 
 forthwith, his heels still resting upon the ^vin- 
 dow-sill, he w^as soon thrumming a tinkling 
 
cUAP. XVI.] THE WIG-BLOCKS. 245 
 
 symphony, none of the most harmonious, and 
 then, with uncommon zeal, he began, to his 
 own accompaniment, to sing some ditty of Ita- 
 lian love. While enf?ao^ed in this refined and 
 touching employment, he espied, with unutter- 
 able indignation, a young urchin, who, attracted 
 by the sounds of his amorous minstrelsy, and 
 with a view to torment the performer, who was 
 an extremely unpopular personage, had sta- 
 tioned himself at a little distance before the 
 casement, and accompanied the vocal perform- 
 ance of the Italian with the most hideous gri- 
 maces, and the most absurd and insulting ges- 
 ticulations. 
 
 Signor Parucci would have given a good 
 round sum to have had the engaging boy by 
 the ears ; but this he knew was out of the 
 question ; he therefore, (for he was a philoso- 
 pher,) played and sung on without evincing the 
 smallest consciousness of what was going for- 
 ward. His plans of vengeance were, however, 
 speedily devised and no less quickly executed. 
 There lay upon the window-sill a fragment of 
 biscuit, which in the course of an extatie 
 
24o THE COCK AND ANCHOR. [chai-. xvi. 
 
 flourish the Uttle man kicked carelessly over. 
 The bait had hardly touched the ground be- 
 neath the casement when Jacopo, continuing to 
 play and sing the while, and apparently un- 
 conscious of any thing but his own music, to 
 his infinite delight beheld the boy first abate 
 his exertions, and finally put an end to his 
 affronting pantomime altogether, and begin to 
 manoeuvre in the direction of the treacherous 
 Avindfall. The youth gradually approached it, 
 and just at the moment when it was within his 
 grasp, Signer Parucci with another careless 
 touch of his foot sent over a large bow-pot well 
 stored with clay, which stood upon the win- 
 dow-block. The descent of this ponderous 
 missile was followed by a most heart-stirring 
 acclamation from below ; and good Mr. Parucci, 
 clambering along the window-sill, and gazing 
 downward, was regaled by the spectacle of the 
 gesticulating youth stamping about the grass 
 among what appeared to be the fragments of an 
 hundred flower-pots, writhing and bellowing 
 in transports of indignation and bodily torment. 
 " Povero rasazzo — Carissimo fisflio," ex- 
 
CHAP. XVI. ] THE WIG-BLOCKS. 2-17 
 
 claimed the valet, looking out with an expres- 
 sion of infinite sweetness, " my dear child and 
 charming boy. how av you broke my flower- 
 pote, and when av you come here. Ah ! per 
 Bacco, I think I av see you before. Ah ! yees, 
 you are that sweetest leetel boy that was lees- 
 tening at my music — so charming just now. 
 How much clay is on your back ! a cielo ! 
 amiable child, you might av keel yourself. 
 Sacro numine, what an escape ! Say your 
 prayer, and thank heaven you are safe, my 
 beautiful sweetest leetel boy. Gode blace you. 
 Now rone away very fast, for fear you pool 
 the other two flower-potes on your back, 
 sweetest child. Gode bless you, amiable boy — 
 they are very large and very heavy." 
 
 The youth took the hint, and having had quite 
 enough of Mr. Parucci's music for the evening, 
 withdrew imder the combined influence.^ of fury 
 and lumbago. The little man threw himself 
 back in his chair, and hugged his shins in .sheer 
 delight, grinning and chattering like a delirious 
 monkey, and rolling himself about, and laugh- 
 ing with the most exquisite relish. At length. 
 
248 THE COCK AND ANCHOR. [chap. xvi. 
 
 after this had gone on for some time, with the 
 air of a man who has had enough of trifling, 
 and must now apply himself to matters of 
 graver importance, he arose, hung up his guitar, 
 sent his chair, which was upon casters, rolling 
 to the far end of the room, and proceeded to 
 arrange the curls of one of the two magnificent 
 perukes, on which it was his privilege to ope- 
 rate. After having applied himself with un- 
 common attention to this labour of taste for 
 some time in silence, he retired a few paces 
 to contemplate the effect of his performance — 
 whereupon he fell into a musing mood, and 
 began after his fashion to soliloquize with a 
 good deal of energy and volubility in that 
 dialect which had become more easy to him than 
 his mother tongue. 
 
 " Corjjo di Bacco ! what thing is life ! who 
 Avould believe thirty years ago I should be here 
 now in a barbaroose island to curl the wig of 
 an old gouty blackguard — but what matter. I 
 am philosopher — damnation — it is very well as 
 it is — per Bacco. I can go way when I like. 
 I am reech leetle fellow, and with Sir Richard, 
 
CHAP. XVI. j THE WIG-BLOCKS. 149 
 
 good Sir Richard, I do always whatever 1 may 
 choose. Good Sir Richard," he continued, ad- 
 dressing the block on which hung the object of 
 his tasteful labours, as if it had been the baro- 
 net in person — *' good Sir Richard, Avhy are 
 yuu so kind to me, when you are so cross as the 
 old devil in hell with all the rest of the world? 
 —why, why, why? Shall I say to you the 
 reason, good, kind Sir Richard ? Well I weel. 
 It is because you dare not — dare not — dare not 
 — da-a-a-are not vaix me. I am, you know, 
 dear Sir Richard, a poor leetle foreigner, who 
 is depending on your goodness. I ave nothing 
 but your great pity and good charity — oh no. 
 I am nothing at all ; but still you dare not 
 vaix me — you moste not be angry — note at all 
 — but very quiet — you muste not go in a pas- 
 vjion — oh I never — weeth me — even if I was to 
 make game of you, and to insult you, and to 
 pool your nose." 
 
 Here the Italian seized, with the tongs which 
 he had in his hand, upon that prominence in 
 the wooden block which corresponded in posi- 
 tion with the nose, which at other times the 
 
 m2 
 
2.50 THE COCK AND ANCHOR. [ch*h. xvj 
 
 l)eruke overshadowed, and with a grin of in- 
 finite glee pinched and twisted the iron instru- 
 ment until the requirements of his dramatic 
 fancy were satisfied, when he delivered two or 
 three sharp knocks on the smooth face of the 
 block, and resumed his address. 
 
 '' No, no — you moste not be angry, fore it 
 would be great misfortune — oh it would — if 
 you and I should quarrel together ; but tell me 
 now, old truffatore — tell me, I say, am I not 
 very quiet, good-nature, merciful, peetying 
 faylow ? Ah yees — very, very — Madre di 
 J) 10 — very moche ; and dear good Sir Richard, 
 shall I tell you why I am so very good-nature ? 
 It is because I love you joste as moche as you 
 love me — it is because, most charitable patron, 
 it is my convenience to go on weeth you quietly 
 and av no fighting yet — bote you are going to 
 get money. Oh ! so coning you are, you think 
 I know nothing — you think I am asleep — bote 
 I know it — I know it quite well. You think 
 I know nothing about the land you take from 
 jVliss Mary. Ah ! you are very coning — oh ! 
 very ; but I av hear it all, and I tell you — and 
 
CHAP. XVI.] THE WIG-BLOCKS. 251 
 
 I swear j)er saugne di D , when you get 
 
 that money I shall, and will, and moste — 
 mo-ooste av a very large, comfortable, beeg 
 handfull — do you hear me? Oh, you very 
 coning old rascal ; and if you weel not geeve 
 it, oh my dear Sir Richard, echelent master, I 
 am so moche afraid we will av a fight between 
 us — a quarrel — that Aviil spoil our love and 
 friendship, and maybe, helas ! horte your repu- 
 tation — shoking — make the gentlemen spit on 
 you, and avoid you, and call you all the ogly 
 names — oh ! shoking." 
 
 Here he was interrupted by a loud ringing in 
 Sir Richard's chamber. 
 
 " There he is to pool his leetle bell — damna- 
 tion what noise. I weel go up joste now — 
 time enough, dear, good, patient Sir Richard — 
 time enough — oh plainty, plainty." 
 
 The little man then leisurely fumbled in his 
 pocket until he brought forth a bunch of keys, 
 from which having selected one, he applied it 
 to the lock of the little press which we have 
 already mentioned, whence he deliberately pro- 
 duced one of the flasks which we have hinted 
 
252 THE COCK AND ANCHOR. [chap. xvi. 
 
 at, along with a tall glass with a spiral stem, 
 and filling himself a bumper of the liquor 
 therein contained, he coolly sipped it to the 
 bottom, accompanied throughout the perform- 
 ance by the incessant tinkhng of Sir Eichard's 
 hand-bell. 
 
 " Ah very good, most echellent — thank you. 
 Sir Richard, you av give me so moche time and 
 so moche music, I av drunk your very good 
 health.'^ 
 
 So saying, he locked up the flask and glass 
 again, and taking the block which had just re- 
 presented Sir Richard in the imaginary col- 
 loquy in his hand, he left his own chamber, and 
 ran up stairs to the baronet's dressing-room. 
 He found his master alone. 
 
 '' Ah, Jacopo," exclaimed the baronet, look- 
 ing somewhat flushed, but speaking, neverthe- 
 less, in a dulcet tone enough, " I have been 
 ringing for nearly ten minutes ; but I suppose 
 you did not hear me." 
 
 *' Joste so as you av say," replied the man. 
 " Your signoria is very seldom wrong. I was so 
 charmed with my work I could not hear nothing." 
 
CHAP. XVI.] THE WIG-BLOCKS. 253 
 
 "^* Parucci," rejoined Sir Richard after a slight 
 pause, *' you know I keep no secrets from 
 you." 
 
 " Ah, you flatter me, signor — you flatter 
 nie — indeed you do," said the valet with 
 ironical humility. 
 
 His master well understood the tone in 
 which the fellow spoke, but did not care to 
 notice it. 
 
 " The fact is, Jacopo," continued Sir 
 Richard, " you already know so many of 
 my secrets, that I have now no motive in 
 excluding you from any." 
 
 " Goode, kind — oh very kind,'" ejaculated 
 the valet. 
 
 *' In short," continued his master, who 
 felt a little uneasy under the praises of his 
 attendant — " in short, to speak plainly, I 
 want your assistance. I know your talents 
 well. You can imitate any hand- writing 
 you please to copy with perfect accuracy. 
 You must copy in the hand-writing of this 
 manuscript the draught of a letter which 
 I will hand you this evening. You require 
 
254 THE COCK AND ANCHOR. [chap. xvi. 
 
 some little time to study the character : so take 
 the letter with you, and be in my room at ten 
 to-night. I will then hand j^ou the draught of 
 what I want written. You understand ?" 
 
 " Understand ! To be sure — most certilly I 
 weel do it," replied the Italian, " so that the 
 great devil himself will not tell the Avriting of 
 the two, Vun dalValtro^ one from the other. 
 Never fear — geeve me the letter. I must learn 
 the writing. I weel be here to-night before 
 you are arrive, and I weel do it very fast, and 
 so like — bote you know how well I can copy. 
 Ah ! yees ; you know it, signor. I need not 
 tell." 
 
 " No more at present," said the baronet with 
 a gesture of caution. " Assist me to dress." 
 
 The Italian accordingly was soon deep in 
 the mysteries of his elaborate functions, where 
 we shall leave him and his master for the pre- 
 sent. 
 
CH.Ai'. XVII. ] DUBLIN CASTLE. 255 
 
 CHAPTEK XVII. 
 
 DUBLIN CASTLE BY NIGHT THE DRAWING-ROOM LORD 
 
 WHARTON AND HIS COURT. 
 
 Sir Kichard Ashwoode has set his heart 
 upon having Lord Aspenly for his son-in law ; 
 and all things considered, his lordship was, per- 
 haps, according to the standard by which the 
 baronet measured merit, as good a son-in-law 
 as he had any right to hope for. It was true, 
 Lord Aspenly was neither very young nor very 
 beautiful. Spite of all the ingenious arts by 
 which he reinforced his declining graces, it was 
 clear as the light that his lordship Avas not very 
 far from seventy ; and it was just as apparent that 
 it was not to any extraordinary^ supply of bone, 
 muscle, or flesh that his vitality was attributa- 
 ble. His lordship was a little spindle-shanked 
 gentleman, with the complexion of a consump- 
 tive frog, and features as sharp as edged tools. 
 
256 THE COCK AND ANCHOR. [chap. xvm. 
 
 He condescended to borrow from the artistic 
 talents of his valet the exquisite pencilling of 
 his eyebrows, as well as the fine black line 
 Avhich gave effect to a set of imaginary eye- 
 lashes, and depth and brilliancy to a pair of 
 eyes which, although naturally not very singu- 
 larly effective, had, nevertheless, nearly as 
 much vivacity in them as they had ever had. 
 His smiles were perennial and unceasing, very 
 winning, and rather ghastly. He used much 
 gesticulation, and his shrug was absolutely 
 Parisian. To all these perfections he added a 
 wonderful facility in rounding the periods of a 
 compliment, and an inexhaustible affluence of 
 something which passed for conversation. 
 Thus endoAved, and having, moreover, the ad- 
 ditional recommendation of a handsome income, 
 a peerage, and an unencumbered celibacy, it is 
 hardly wonderful that his lordship was unani- 
 mously voted by all prudent and discriminating- 
 persons, without exception, the most fascinating 
 man in all Ireland. Su' Eichard Ashwoode 
 was not one whit more in earnest in desiring 
 the match than was Lord Aspenly himself. 
 
CHAP, xvn.] DUBLIN CASTLE. 2.,) / 
 
 His lordship had for some time begun to sus- 
 pect that he had nearly sown his wild oats — 
 that it was time for him to reform — that he 
 was ripe for the domestic virtues, and ought 
 to renounce scamphood. He therefore in the 
 laboratory of his secret soul compounded a vir- 
 tuous passion, which he resolved to expend 
 upon the first eligible object who might present 
 herself. Mary Ashwoode was the fortunate 
 damsel who fii'st happened to come within the 
 scope and range of his lordship's premeditated 
 love ; and he forthwith in a matrimonial 
 paroxysm applied, according to the good old 
 custom, not to the lady herself, but to Sir 
 Richard Ashwoode, and was received with 
 open arms. 
 
 The baronet indeed, as the reader is aware, 
 anticipated many difficulties in bringing the 
 match about ; for he Avell knew how deeply his 
 daughter's heart was engaged, and his misgiv- 
 ings were more sombre and frequent than he 
 cared to acknowledge even to himself. He 
 resolved, however, that the thing should be ; 
 and he w^as convinced, that if his lordship only 
 
2.58 THE COCK AND ANCHOR. [chap. xvn. 
 
 were firm, spite of fate he would effect it. In 
 order then to inspire Lord Aspenly with this 
 desirable firmness, he not unwisely believed 
 that his best course was to exhibit him as much 
 as possible in public places, in the character of 
 the avowed lover of Mary Ashwoode ; a posi- 
 tion which when once unequivocally assumed, 
 afforded no creditable retreat, except through 
 the gates of matrimony. It was arranged, 
 therefore, that the young lady, under the pro- 
 tection of Lady Stukely, and accompanied by 
 Lord Aspenly and Henry Ashwoode, should 
 attend the first drawing-room at the castle, a 
 ceremonial which had been fixed to take place 
 a few days subsequently to the arrival of Lord 
 Aspenly at Morley Court. Those who have 
 seen the castle of Dublin only as it now stands, 
 have beheld but the creation of the last sixty or 
 seventy years, with the exception only of the 
 wardrobe tower, an old gray cylindar of ma- 
 sonry, very dingy and dirty, which appears to 
 have gone into half mourning for its departed 
 companions, and presents something of the im- 
 posing character of an overgroAvn, mouldy band- 
 
CHAP. XVII.] DUBLIN CASTLE. 259 
 
 box. At the beginning of the last century, 
 however, mattters were very different. The 
 trim brick buildings Avith their spacious windows 
 and symmetrical regularity of structure, which 
 now complete the quadrangles of the castle, had 
 not yet appeared ; but in their stead masses of 
 building, constructed with very little attention 
 to architectural precision, either in their indivi- 
 dual formation or in their relative position, stood 
 ranged together, so as to form tw^o irregular 
 and gloomy squares. That portion of the build- 
 ing which was set apart for state occasions and 
 the viceregal residence had undergone so many 
 repairs and modifications, that very little if any 
 of it could have been recognised by its original 
 builder. Not so, however, with other portions 
 of the pile : the ponderous old towers Avhich 
 have since disappeared, with their narrow loop- 
 holes and iron studded doors looming darkly 
 over the less massive fabrics of the place with 
 stern and gloomy aspect, reminded the passer 
 every moment, that the building, whose courts 
 he trod, was not merely the theatre of stately 
 ceremonies, but a fortress and a prison. 
 
260 THE COCK AND ANCHOR. [chap, xviu 
 
 The vice-royalty of -the Earl of Wharton 
 was within a few weeks of its abrupt termina- 
 tion ; the approaching discomfiture of the 
 Whigs was not, however, sufficiently clearly 
 revealed, to thin the levees and drawing-rooms 
 of the Whig Lord Lieutenant. The castle-yards 
 were, therefore, upon the occasion in question, 
 crowded to excess with the gorgeous equipages 
 in which the Irish aristocracy of the time 
 delighted. The night had closed in unusual 
 darkness, and the massive buildings, whose 
 summits were buried in dense and black obscu- 
 rity, were lighted only by the red reflected glow 
 of crowded flambeaux and links — which, as the 
 respective footmen who attended the crowding- 
 chairs and coaches, flourished them according 
 to the approved fashion, scattered their wide 
 showers of sparks into the eddying air, and illu- 
 mined in a broad and ruddy glare,. like that of a 
 bonfire, the gorgeous equipages with which the. 
 square was noAv thronged, and the splendid 
 figures Avhich they successively discharged. 
 There were coaches and four — out-riders — 
 running footmen and hanging footmen — crush- 
 
CHAP. XVII. J DUBLIN CASTLE. 261 
 
 ing and rushing — ^jostling and swearing — and 
 burley coachmen with inflamed visages, lashing- 
 one another's horses and their own. Lackeys 
 collaring and throttling one another, all *' for 
 their master's hononr," in the hot and disor- 
 derly dispute for precedence, and some even 
 threatening an appeal to the swords — which, 
 according to the barbarous fashion of the day, 
 they carried, to the no small peril of the 
 public and themselves. Others dragging the 
 reins of stranger's horses, and backing them 
 to make way for their own ; — a proceeding 
 which, of course, involved no small expen- 
 diture of blasphemy and vociferation. On the 
 whole, it would not be easy to exaggerate 
 the scene of riot and confusion which, under 
 the very eye of the civil and military executive 
 of the country was perpetually recumng, and 
 that too ostensibly in honour of the supreme 
 head of the Irish government. 
 
 Through all this crash, and clatter, and 
 brawling, and vociferation, the party whom we 
 are bound to follow, made their way with some 
 difficulty and considerable delay. 
 
2i)2 THE COCK AND ANCHOR. [chap xvii, 
 
 The Earl of Wharton with his countess, sur- 
 rounded by a brilHant staff, and amid all the 
 pomp and state of viceregal dignity, received 
 the distinguished courtiers who thronged the 
 castle chambers. At the time of which we 
 write, Lord Wharton was in his seventieth 
 year. Few, however, would have guessed his 
 age at more than sixty, though many might 
 have supposed it under that. He was rather 
 a spare figure, with an erect and dignified 
 bearing, and a countenance which combined 
 vivacity, good-humour, and boldness in an 
 eminent degi'ee. His manners were, to those 
 who did not know how unreal was every thing 
 in them that bore the promise of good, singu- 
 larly engaging, and that in spite of a very 
 strong spice of coarseness, and a very deter- 
 mined addiction to profane swearing. He had, 
 however, in his whole air and address a kind 
 of rollicking, good-humoured familiarity, which 
 was very generally mistaken for the quintescence 
 of candour and good fellowship, and w^hich con- 
 sequently rendered him unboundedly popular 
 among those who were not aware of the fact. 
 
ciiKV. xvii.] DUBLIN CASTLE. 263 
 
 that his complimentary speeches meant just 
 nothing, and were very often followed, the 
 moment the object of them had withdrawn, by 
 the coarsest ridicule, and even by the grossest 
 abuse. For the rest, he was undoubtedly an 
 able statesman, and had clearly discerned and 
 adroitly steered his way through the straits and 
 perils of troublous and eventful times. He 
 was, moreover, a steady and uncompromising 
 V/hig, upon whom, throughout a long and 
 active life, the stain of inconsistency had never 
 rested ; a thorough partizan, a quick and ready 
 debater, and an unscrupulous and daring politi- 
 cal intriguer. In private, however, entirely 
 profligate — a sensualist and an infidel, and in 
 both characters equally without shame. 
 
 Through the rooms there wandered a ver}' 
 wild madcap boy of some ten or eleven years, 
 venting his turbulent spirits in all kinds of 
 mischievous pranks — sometimes planting him- 
 self behind Lord Wharton, and mimicking, 
 with ludicrous exaggeration, which the courtly 
 spectators had enough to do to resist, the cere- 
 monious gestures and gi'acious nods of the 
 
264 THE COCK AND ANCHOR. [chap. xvii. 
 
 viceroy ; at other times assuming a staid and 
 manly carriage, and chatting with his elders 
 with the air of perfect equality, and upon sub- 
 jects which one would have thought immea- 
 sureably beyond his years, and this with a 
 sound sense, suavity, and precision, which would 
 have done honour to many grey heads in the 
 room. This strange, bold, precocious boy of 
 eleven was Philip, afterwards Duke of Whar- 
 ton, the wonder and the disgrace of the British 
 peerage. 
 
 " Ah ! Mr. Morris," exclaimed his excel- 
 lency, as a middle-aged gentleman, with a flut- 
 tered air, a round face, and vacant smile, 
 approached, "I am delighted to see you — by 
 
 Almighty I am — give me your hand. I 
 
 have ^vritten across about the matter we wot 
 of; but for these cursed contrary winds I make 
 no doubt I should have had a letter before 
 now. Is the young gentleman himself here ?" 
 
 " A — a — not quite, your excellency. That 
 is not at — all," stammered the gentleman 
 in mingled delight and alarm. " He is, 
 my lord, a — a — laid up. He — a — it is a 
 
CH*p. xvii.l DUBLIN CASTLE. 265 
 
 sore throat. Your excellency is most gra- 
 cious." 
 
 '' Tell hira from me," rejoined Wharton, 
 '* that he must get well as quickly as mav be. 
 We don't know the moment he may be wanted. 
 You understand me ?" 
 
 ** I — a — do indeed," replied ^h. ]Morris, re- 
 tirino^ in sn-aceful confusion. 
 
 " A d d impudent booby," whispered 
 
 Wharton to Addison, who stood beside him, 
 uttering the remark without the change of a 
 single muscle. "He has made some cursed 
 unconscionable request about his son. I'gad, 
 I forget what ; but we want his vote on 
 Tuesday ; and civility, you know, costs no 
 coin." 
 
 Addison smiled faintly, and shook his head. 
 
 *« May the Lord pardon us all," exclaimed 
 a country clergyman in a rusty gown and ill- 
 dressed wig, with a pale attenuated eager face, 
 which told mournful tales of short commons 
 and hard work ; he had been for some time 
 an intense and a grieved listener to the lord 
 lieutenant's conversation, and was now slowlv 
 
 VOL. I. N 
 
266 THE COCK AND ANCHOR. [chap xvu. 
 
 retiring with a companion as humble as himself 
 fi'om the circle which surrounded his excellency 
 with simple horror impressed upon his pale 
 features — '' may the Lord preserve us all^ how 
 awful it is to hear one so highly trusted by 
 Hlm^ take his name thus momentarily in vain. 
 Lord Wharton is, I fear me much, an habitual 
 profane swearer." 
 
 " Believe me, sir, you are very simple," re- 
 joined a young clergyman who stood close to 
 the position which the speaker now occupied. 
 " His excellency's object in swearing by the 
 different persons of the Trinity is to show that 
 he believes in revealed religion — a fact which 
 else were doubtful ; and this being his main 
 object, it is manifestly a secondary considera- 
 tion, to what particular asseveration or pro- 
 mises his excellency happens to tack his 
 oaths." 
 
 The lank, pale-faced prebendary looked sud- 
 denly and earnestly round upon the person who 
 had accosted him, with an expression of cu- 
 riosity and wonder, evidently in some doubt as 
 to the spirit in which the observation had been 
 
CHAP. XVII.] DUBLIN CASTLE. 267 
 
 made. He beheld a tall stalwarth man, ar- 
 rayed in a clerical costume as rich as that of a 
 churchman who has not attained to the rank of 
 a dignitary in his profession could well be, and 
 in all points equipped with the most perfect 
 neatness. In the face he looked in vain for 
 any indication of jocularity. It was a striking 
 countenance — striking for the extreme severity 
 of its expression, and for its stem and hand- 
 some outline. The eye which encountered the 
 enquiring glance of the elder man was of the 
 clearest blue, singularly penetrating and coni- 
 mandino; — the evebrow dark and shacfsv — the 
 lips fuU and finely formed, but in their habitual 
 expression bearing a character of haughty 
 and indomitable determination — the complexion 
 of the face was dark ; and as the country pre- 
 bendary gazed upon the countenance, full, as it 
 seemed, of a scornful, stern, merciless energy 
 and decision, something told him that he looked 
 upon one born to lead and to command the 
 people. All this he took in at a glance ; and 
 while he looked, Addison, who had detached 
 himself from the viceregal coterie, laid his hand 
 
268 THE COCK AND ANCHOR. [chap, xvii. 
 
 upon the shoulder 'of the stem-featured young 
 clergyman. 
 
 " Swift," said he, drawing him aside, '' we 
 see you too seldom here. His excellency be- 
 gins to think and to hope you have re-con- 
 sidered what I spoke about when last we met. 
 Believe me you wrong yourself in not render- 
 ing what service you can to men who are not 
 ungrateful, and who have the power to reward. 
 You Avere always a Whig, and a pamphlet were 
 with you but the work of a few days." 
 
 " Were I to write a pamphlet," rejoined 
 Swift, "it is odds his excellency would not 
 like it." 
 
 " Have you not always been a Whig," urged 
 Addison. 
 
 " Sir, I am not to be taken by nicknames," 
 rejoined Swift. " I know Godolphin and I know 
 Lord Wharton. I have long distrusted the 
 government of each. I am no courtier, Mr. 
 Secretary. What I suspect I will not seem to 
 trust — what I hate I hate entirely, and re- 
 nounce openly. I have heard of my Lord 
 Wharton's doings, too. When 1 refused before 
 
CHAP. XVII.] DUBLIN CASTLE. 269 
 
 to understand your overtures to me to write a 
 pamphlet for his friends, he was pleased to say 
 I refused because he would not make me his 
 chaplain — in saying which he knowingly and 
 malignantly lied ; and to this lie he, after his 
 accustomed fashion, tacked a blasphemous oath. 
 He is therefore a perjured liar. I renounce 
 him as heartily as I renounce the devil. I am 
 come here, Mr. Secretary, not to do reverence 
 to Lord Wharton — God forbid — but to offer 
 my homage to the majesty of England, whose 
 brightness is reflected even in that cracked and 
 battered piece of pinchbeck yonder. Believe 
 me, should his excellency be rash enough to 
 engage me in talk to-night, I shall take care 
 to let him know Avhat opinion I have of 
 him." 
 
 *' Come, come, you must not be so dogged," 
 rejoined Addison. '' You know Lord Whar- 
 ton's way. He says a good deal more than he 
 cares to be believed — every body knows tJiat- — 
 and all take his lordship's asseverations Avith a 
 grain of allowance ; besides, you ought to con- 
 sider that when a man unused to contradiction 
 
270 THE COCK AND ANCHOR. [chap. xvii. 
 
 is crossed by disappointment, he is apt to be 
 choleric, and to forget his discretion. We 
 all know his faults ; but even you will not 
 deny his merits." 
 
 Thus speaking, he led Swift toward the vice- 
 regal circle, which they had no sooner reached 
 than Wharton, with his most good-humoured 
 smile, advanced to meet the young clergyman, 
 exclaiming — 
 
 " Swift ! so it is by I am glad to see 
 
 you — by I am." 
 
 " I am glad, my lord," replied Swift gravely, 
 '• that you take such frequent occasion to re- 
 mind this godless company of the presence of 
 the Almighty." 
 
 " Well, you know," rejoined Wharton good- 
 humouredly, " the Scripture saith that the 
 righteous man sweareth to his neighbour." 
 
 ''And disappoint eth him not," rejoined 
 Swift. 
 
 " And disappointeth him not," repeated 
 
 Wharton; ''and by " continued he with 
 
 marked earnestness, and drawing the young 
 politician aside as he spoke, " in whatsoever I 
 
CHAP. XVII. ] DUBLIN CASTLE. 2/1 
 
 swear to thee there shaU be no disappoint- 
 ment." 
 
 He paused, but Swift remained silent. The 
 lord lieutenant well knew that an English pre- 
 ferment was the nearest object of the young 
 churchman's ambition. He therefore conti- 
 nued — 
 
 '' On my soul, we want you in England — 
 
 this is no staoje for you. Bv vou cannot 
 
 hope to serve either yourself or your friends in 
 this place." 
 
 *'Very few thrive here but scoundrels, my 
 lord," rejoined Swift. 
 
 " Even so," replied Wharton with perfect 
 equanimity — '' it is a nation of scoundrels — 
 dissent on the one side and popery on the 
 other. The upper order harpies, and the 
 lower a mere prey — and all equally liars, 
 
 rogues, rebels, slaves, and robbers. By 
 
 some fine day the devil will carry off the island 
 bodily. For very safety you must get out of 
 it. By he'll have it." 
 
 "I am not enough in the devil's confidence 
 to speak of his designs with so much authority 
 
•27-> 
 
 THE COCK AND ANCHOR. [chap. xvii. 
 
 as your lordship," rejoined Swift; "but I in- 
 cline to think that under your excellency's ad- 
 ministration it will answer his end as well to 
 leave the island w^here it is." 
 
 " Ah I Swift, you are a wag," rejoined the 
 
 viceroy ; '' but by I honour and respect 
 
 your spirit. I knoAv we shall agree yet — by 
 
 I know it. I respect your independence 
 
 and honesty all the more, that they are seldom 
 met with in a presence-chamber. By — — I 
 respect and love you more and more every 
 day." 
 
 " If your lordship will forego your professions 
 of love, and graciously confine yourself to the 
 backbiting which must follow, you will do for 
 me to the full as much as I either expect or 
 desire," rejoined Swift with a grave reverence. 
 
 " Well, well," rejoined the viceroy with the 
 most unruffled good humour, " I see, Swift, 
 you are in no mood to play the courtier just 
 now. Nevertheless, bear in mind what Addi- 
 son advised you to attempt ; and though we 
 part thus for the present, believe me I love you 
 all the better for your honest humour." 
 
CHAP. XVII.] DUBLIN CASTLE. 273 
 
 " Farewell, my lord," repeated Swift ab- 
 ruptly, and with a formal boAv lie retired among 
 the common throng. 
 
 " A hungry, ill-conditioned dog," said 
 Wharton, turning to the person next him, 
 " who, having never a bone to gnaw, whets lii.-^ 
 teeth on the shins of the company." 
 
 Having vented this little criticism, the vice- 
 roy resumed once more the formal routine of 
 state hospitality. 
 
 *' It is time w^e were going," suggested 
 Mary Ashw^oode to Emily Copland. " My 
 lord," she continued, turning to Lord Aspenly, 
 whose- attentions had been just as conspicuous 
 and incessant as Sir Richard Ashwoode could 
 have wished them, *' do you know where Lady 
 Stukely is ?" 
 
 Lord Aspenly professed his ignorance. 
 
 " Have you seen her ladyship ?" inquired 
 Emily Copland of the gallant Major O'Leary, 
 who stood near her. 
 
 *' Upon my conscience I have," rejoined the 
 Major. " I'm not considered a poltroon ; but 
 1 plead guilty to one weakness. 1 am bothered 
 
 N 2 
 
2/4 THE COCK AND ANCHOR. [chap. xvii. 
 
 if I can stand fire when it appears in the nose 
 of a gentlewoman ; so as soon as I saw her I 
 beat a retreat, and left my valorous young 
 nephew to stand or fall under the blaze of her 
 artillery. She is at the far end of the room." 
 
 The major was easily persuaded to under- 
 take the mission, and a w^ord to young Ash- 
 woode settled the matter. The party accord- 
 ingly left the rooms, having, however, pre- 
 viously to their doing so, arranged that Major 
 O'Leary should pass the next day at Morley 
 Court, and afterwards accompany them in the 
 evening to the theatre, whither Sir Richard, in 
 pursuance of his plans, had arranged that they 
 should all repair. 
 
CHAP. XTiii.] THE BROKEN SEAL. 275 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 THE TWO COUSINS THE NEGLECTED JEWELS AND THE 
 
 BBOKEN SEAL. 
 
 It was drawinoj towai'd evenino' when Emilv 
 Copland, in high spirits, and richly and be- 
 comingly dressed, ran lightly to the door of 
 her cousin's chamber. She knocked, but no 
 answer was returned. She knocked again, but 
 still without any reply. Then opening the 
 door, she entered the room, and beheld her 
 cou.sin Mary seated at a small work-table, at 
 which it was her wont to read. There she 
 lay motionless — her small head leaned upon 
 her orraceful arms, over which flowed all negli- 
 gently the dark luxuriant hair. An open letter 
 was on the table before her, and two or three 
 rich ornaments lay unheeded on the floor beside 
 her, as if they had fallen from her hand. There 
 was in her attitude such a passionate abandon- 
 
276 THE COCK AND ANCHOR. [chap. xvin. 
 
 ment of grief, that she seemed the breathing 
 image of despair. Spite of all her levity, the 
 young lady was touched at the sight. She 
 approached her gently, nnd laying her hand 
 upon lier shoulder, she stooped down and 
 kissed her. 
 
 "Mary, dear Mary, what grieves you?" she 
 said. " Tell me. It's I, dear — your cousin 
 Emily. There's a good girl — what has hap- 
 pened to vex you ?" 
 
 Mary raised her head, and looked in her 
 cousin's fixce. Her eye was wild — she was 
 pale as marble, and in her beautiful face was an 
 expression so utterly woeful and piteous, that 
 Emily was almost moved. 
 
 " Oh ! I have lost him — for ever and ever I 
 have lost him," said she despairingly. *« Oh ! 
 cousin, dear cousin, he is gone from me. God 
 pity me — I am forsaken." 
 
 " Nay, cousin, do not say so — be cheerful — 
 it cannot be — there, there;" and Emily Cop- 
 land kissed the poor girl's pale lips. 
 
 "Forsaken — forsaken," continued Mary, for 
 she heard not and heeded not the voice of vain 
 
CHAP, xviii] THE BROKEN SEAL. 277 
 
 consolation. '• He has thrown me off for ever 
 — for ever — quite — quite. God pity me, where 
 .<hall I look for hope ?" 
 
 " Maiy, dear Mary," said her cousin, "you 
 are ill — do not give way thus. Be assured 
 it is not as you think. You must be in 
 error." 
 
 " In error I Oh ! that I could think so. 
 God knows how gladly I would give my 
 poor life to think so. No, no — it is real — 
 all real. Oh ! cousin, he has forsaken 
 me." 
 
 •' I cannot believe it — I can not," said 
 Emily Copland. " Such folly can hardly 
 exist. I will not believe it. What reason 
 have you for thinking him changed ?" 
 
 "Kead — oh, read it, cousin," replied the girl, 
 motioning toward the letter, which lay open on 
 the table — *'read it once, and you will not 
 bid me hope any more. Oh ! cousin, dear 
 cousin, there is no more joy for me in this 
 world, turn where I will, do what 1 may — I 
 am heart-broken." 
 
 Emily Copland glanced through the letter, 
 
2/8 THE COCK AND ANCHOR. [chap, xviii. 
 
 shook her head, and dropped the note agam 
 where it had been lying. 
 
 " You know, cousin Emily, how I loved 
 Inm," continued Mary, while for the first time 
 the tears flowed fast — " you know that day 
 after day, among all that happened to grieve 
 me, my heart found rest in his love — in the 
 hope and trust that he would never grow cold ; 
 and — and — oh ! God pity me — 7iow where is it 
 all ? You see — you know his love is gone 
 from me — for evermore — gone from me. Oh ! 
 how I used to count the days and hours till the 
 time would come round when I could see him 
 and speak to him — but this is all gone. Here- 
 after all days are to me the same — morning or 
 evening, summer time or winter — no change of 
 seasons or of hours can bring to me any more 
 hope or gladness, but ever the same — sorrow 
 and desolate loneliness — for oh I cousin, I 
 am very desolate, and hopeless, and heart- 
 broken." 
 
 The poor girl threw her arms round her 
 cousin's neck, and sobbed and wept, and wept 
 and sobbed again, as though her heart would 
 
CHAP, xvm.] THE BROKEN SEAL. 279 
 
 break. Long and bitterly she wept upon her 
 cousin's neck in silence, unbroken, except by 
 her sobs. After a time, however, Emily Cop- 
 land exclaimed — 
 
 " Well, Mary, to say the truth, I never 
 much liked the matter ; and as he is a fool, 
 and an ujif/rateful fool to boot, I am not soiTy 
 that he has shown his character as he has done. 
 BeUeve me, painful as such discoveries are when 
 made thus early, they are incomparably more 
 agonizing when made too late. A little — a 
 very little time, will enable you quite to forget 
 him." 
 
 " No, cousin," replied Mary — " no, 1 never 
 will forget him. He is changed indeed — greatly 
 changed from what he was — bitterly has he 
 disappointed and betrayed me ; but I cannot 
 forget him. There shall indeed never more pass 
 word or look between us ; he shall be to me as 
 one that is dead, whom I shall hear and see no 
 more ; but the memory of what he w^as — the 
 memory of what I vainly thought him — shall 
 remain with me while my poor heart beats." 
 
 *' Well, Mary, time will show," said Emily. 
 
280 THE COCK AND ANCHOR. [chap, xviii. 
 
 " Yes, time will show — time will show," 
 replied she mom'iifully ; "be the time long or 
 short, it will show." 
 
 " You must forget 4iim — you loill forget him; 
 a few weeks, and you will thank your stars you 
 found him out so soon." 
 
 " Ah, cousin," replied Mary, " you do not 
 know how all my thoughts, and hopes, and 
 recollections — every thing I liked to remember, 
 and to look forward to ; you cannot know how 
 
 all that was happy in my life but what 
 
 boots it, I will keep my troth with him ; I will 
 love no other, and wed with no other ; and 
 while this sorrowful life remains I will never — 
 never — forget him." 
 
 " I can only say, that were the case my own," 
 rejoined Emily, " I would show the fellow how 
 lightly I held him and his worthless heart, and 
 marry within a month ; but every one has her 
 own way of doing things. Remember it is 
 nearly time to start for the theatre ; the coach 
 will be at the door in half-an~hour. Surely 
 you Avill come ; it would seem so very strange 
 were you to change your mind thus suddenly : 
 
CHAP. xviiT.] THE BROKEN SEAL. 281 
 
 and you may be very sure that, by some means 
 or other, the impudent fellow — about whom, I 
 cannot see why, you care so much — would hear 
 of all your grieving, and pining, and love- 
 sickness. Pah ! I'd rather die, than please the 
 hollow, Avorthless creature, by letting him think 
 he had caused me a moment's uneasiness ; and 
 then, above all, Sir Richard would be so out- 
 rageously angry — why you slioidd never hear 
 the end of it. Come, come, be a good girl. 
 After all, it is only holding up your head, and 
 looking pretty, which you can't help, for an 
 hour or tAvo. You must come to silence gossip 
 abroad, as well as for the sake of peace at home 
 — you must come." 
 
 " I would lain stay here at home," said the 
 poor girl; "heart and head are sick; but if 
 you think my father would be angry Avith me 
 for staying at home, I will go. It is indeed, as 
 you say, a small matter to me where I pass an 
 hour or two ; all times, all places — crowds or 
 solitudes — are henceforward indifferent to me. 
 What care I where they bring me. Cousin 
 Emily, I will do whatever you think best." 
 
282 THE COCK AND ANCHOR. [chap, xviii. 
 
 The poor girl spoke with a voice and look of 
 such utter wretchedness, that even her light- 
 hearted, worldly, selfish cousin was touched 
 with pity. 
 
 " Come, then ; I will assist you,'* said she, 
 kissing the pale cheek of the heart-stricken 
 girl. *'Come, Mary, cheer up, you must call 
 up your good looks, it would never do to be 
 seen thus." And so talking on, she assisted 
 her to dress. 
 
 Gaily and richly arrayed in the gorgeous and 
 by no means unbecoming style of the times, 
 and sparkling with brilliant jewels, poor Mary 
 Ashwoode — a changed and stricken creature, 
 scarcely conscious of what was going on 
 around her — took her place in her father's 
 carriage, and was borne rapidly toward the 
 theatre. 
 
 The party consisted of the two young ladies, 
 who were respectively under the protection of 
 Lord Aspenly, who sate beside ]Mary Ash- 
 woode, happily too much pleased with his own 
 voluble frivolity to require any thing more from 
 her than her appearing to hear it, and young 
 
CUAV. XVIII.] THE BROKEN SEAL. 283 
 
 AsliAvoode, who chatted gaily with his pretty 
 cousin. 
 
 " ^Vhat has become of my venerable true- 
 love, Major O'Leary ? inquired Miss Copland. 
 
 " He will follow on horseback," replied 
 Ashwoode. '* I beheld him, as I passed down 
 stairs, admiring himself before the looking-glass 
 in his new regimentals. He designs tremen- 
 dous havoc to-night. His coat is a perfect phe- 
 nomenon — the investment of a year's pay at 
 least — with more gold about it than I thought 
 the country could afford, and scarlet enough to 
 make a whole wardrobe for the lady of Baby- 
 lon ; — a coat which, if left to itself, Avould stomi 
 the hearts of nine girls out of ten, and which, 
 even with an officer in it, will enthral half the 
 sex." 
 
 '' And here comes the coat itself," exclaimed 
 the young lady, as the major rode up to the 
 coach- window — "I'm half in love with it my- 
 self already." 
 
 *' Ladies, your devoted slave : gentlemen, 
 your most obedient," said the major, raising his 
 three-cornered hat. " I hope to see you before 
 
284 THE COCK AND ANCHOR. [chat, xviii. 
 
 half-an-liour, under circumstances more favour- 
 able to conversation. Miss Copland, depend 
 upon it, with your permission, I'll pay my 
 liomage to you before half an hour, the more 
 especially as 1 have a scandalous story to tell 
 you. Meanwhile I wish you all a safe journey, 
 and a pleasant one." So saying the major rode 
 on, at a brisk pace, to the " Cock and Anchor," 
 there intending to put up his horse, and to 
 exchange a few words with young O'Connor. 
 
 In the mean time the huge old coach, which 
 contained the rest of the party, jolted and 
 rumbled on, until at length, amid the confusion 
 and clatter of crowded vehicles, restive horses, 
 and vociferous coachmen, with all their accom- 
 paniments of swearing and whipping, the clank 
 of scrambling hoofs, the bumping and hustling 
 of carriages, and the desperate rushing of chair- 
 men, bolting this way or that, with their living 
 loads of foppery and fashion — the coach-door 
 was thrown open at the box-entrance of the 
 Theatre Royal, in Smock-alley. 
 
CHAP. XIX..] THE THEATRE. 285 
 
 CHAPTEPv XIX 
 
 THE THEATRE THE EUFFIAX THE ASSAULT, AKD THE 
 
 BEXCONTRE. 
 
 Major O'Leary had hardly dismounted in the 
 quadrangle of the "Cock and Anchor," when 
 O'Connor rode slowly into the inn-yard. 
 
 *' How are you, my dear fellow," exclaimed 
 the man of scarlet and gold; " I was just ask- 
 ing where you were. Come down off that 
 beast, I want to have a word in your ear — a 
 bit of news — some fun. Descend, I say, 
 descend." 
 
 O'Connor accordingly dismounted. 
 
 " Now then — a hearty shake — so. I have 
 great news, and only a minute to tell it. Jack, 
 run like a shot, and get me a chair. Here, 
 Tim, take a napkin and an oyster-knife, and do 
 not leave a bit of mud, or the sign of it, upon 
 my back : take a general survey of the coat 
 
286 THE COCK AND ANCHOR. [chap. xix. 
 
 and breeches, and a particular review of the 
 wig. And Jem, do you give my boots a 
 harum-scarum sort of a superficial scrub, and 
 touch up the hat — gently, do you mind — and 
 take care of the lace. So while the fellows are 
 finishing my toilet, I may as well tell you my 
 morsel of news. Do you know who is to be 
 at the play-house to-night ?" 
 
 O'Connor expressed his ignorance. 
 
 *' Well then, I'll tell you, and make what 
 use you like of it," resumed the major. " Miss 
 ]\Iary Ashwoode ! There's for you. Take my 
 advice, get into a decent coat and breeches, and 
 run down to the theatre — it is not five minutes' 
 walk from this ; you'll easily find us, and I'll 
 take care to make room for you. Why you do 
 not seem half pleased : what more can you wish 
 for, unless you expect the girl to put up for the 
 evening at the "Cock and Anchor?" Rouse 
 yourself. If you feel modest, there is nothing 
 like a pint or two of Madeira : don't try brandy 
 — it's the father and mother of all sorts of in- 
 discretions. Now mind you have the hint ; it 
 is an opportunity you ought to improve. By 
 
CHAP. XIX.] THE THEATRE. 287 
 
 the powers, if / was in your place — but no 
 matter. You may not have an opportunity of 
 seeing her again these six months ; and unless 
 I'm completely mistaken, you are as much in 
 
 love with the girl, as I am with several that 
 
 shall be nameless. Heigho ! next after Bur- 
 gundy, and and the cock-pit, and the fox- 
 hounds, and two or three more frailties of the 
 kind, there is nothing in the world I prefer to 
 flirtation, without much minding whether I'm 
 the principal or tlie second in the affair. But 
 here comes the vehicle." 
 
 Accordingly, without waiting to say any more, 
 the major took his seat in the chair, and was 
 borne by the lusty chairmen, at a swinging 
 pace, through the narrow streets, and without 
 let or accident, safely deposited within the 
 principal entrance of the theatre. 
 
 The theatre of Smock-alley (or as it was 
 then called Orange-street) was not quite what 
 theatres are now-a-days. It was a large building 
 of the kind, as theatres were then rated, and 
 contained three galleries, one above the other, 
 supported by heavy wooden caryatides, and 
 
288 THE COCK AND ANCHOR. [chap. xix. 
 
 richly gilded and painted. The curtain, instead 
 of rising and falling, opened, according to the 
 old fashion, in the middle, and was drawn side- 
 Avays apart, disclosing no triumphs of illusive 
 colouring and perspective, but a succession of 
 plain tapestry-covered screens, which, from 
 early habit, the audience accommodatingly ac- 
 cepted for town or country, dry land or sea, or, 
 in short, for any locality whatsoever, according 
 to the manager's good will and pleasure. This 
 docility and good faith on the part of the 
 audience were, perhaps, the more praiseworthy, 
 inasmuch as a very considerable number of 
 the aristocratic spectators actually sate in long 
 lines down, either side of the stage — a circum- 
 stance involving, by the continuous presence of 
 the same perukes, and the same embroidered 
 waistcoats, the same set of countenances, and 
 the same set of legs, in every variety of clime 
 and situation through which the wayward in- 
 vention of the playwright hurried his action, 
 a very severe additional tax upon the imagina- 
 tive faculties of the audience. But perhaps the 
 most striking peculiarities of the place were 
 
CHAP. XIX.] THF THEATRE. 289 
 
 exhibited in the grim persons of two bond 
 fide sentries, in genuine cocked hats and scarlet 
 coats, with their enormous muskets shouldered, 
 and the ball-cartridges dangling in ostentatious 
 rows from their bandaleers, planted at the front, 
 and facing the audience, one at each side of tho 
 stage — a vivid evidence of the stern vicissitudes 
 and insecurity of the times. For the rest, the 
 audience of those days, in the brilliant colours, 
 and glittering lace, and profuse ornament, which 
 the gorgeous fashion of the time allowed, pre- 
 sented a spectacle of rich and dazzling magni- 
 ficence, such as no modern assembly of the kind 
 can even faintly approach. 
 
 The major had hardly made his way to the 
 box where his party were seated, when his 
 attention was caught by an object which had 
 for him all but in-esistible attractions : this was 
 the buxom person of Mistress Jannet Rumble, 
 a plump, good-looking young widow, of five- 
 and-forty, with a jolly smile, a hearty laugh, 
 and a killing acquaintance with the language of 
 the eyes. These perfections — for of course her 
 jointure, which, by the way, was very consider- 
 
 VOL. I. O 
 
290 THE COCK AND ANCHOR. [chap. xix. 
 
 able, could have had nothing to do with it — 
 Avere too much for Major O'Leary. He met 
 the widow accidently, made a few careless in- 
 quiries about her finances, and fell over head 
 and ears in love with her, upon the shortest 
 possible notice. Our friend had, therefore, 
 hardly caught a glimpse of her, when Miss Cop- 
 land, beside whom he was seated, observed that 
 he became unusually meditative, and at length, 
 after two or three attempts to enter again into 
 conversation — all resulting in total and inco- 
 herent failure, the major made some blundering 
 excuse, took his departure, and in a moment 
 had planted himself beside the fascinating Mis- 
 tress Rumble — where we shall allow him the 
 protection of a generous concealment, and suffer 
 him to read the lady's eyes, and insinuate his 
 soft nonsense, without intruding for a moment 
 upon the sanctity of lover's mutual confi- 
 dences. 
 
 Emily Copland having watched and enjoyed 
 the manoeuvres of her military friend till she was 
 iairly tired of the amusement, and having in 
 vain sought to engage Henry Ashwoode, who 
 
CHAP. XIX. ] THF. THEATRE. 291 
 
 was unusually moody and absent, in conversa- 
 tion, at length, as a last desperate resource, 
 turned her attention to what was passing upon 
 the stage. 
 
 While all this was going forward, young 
 Ashwoode was a good deal disconcerted at ob- 
 serving, among the crowd in the pit, a person- 
 age with whom, in the vicious haunts which he 
 frequented, he had made a sort of ambiguous 
 acquaintance. The man was a bulky, broad- 
 shouldered, ill-looking fellow, with a large, vul- 
 gar, red face, and a coarse, sensual mouth, whose 
 blue, swoln lips indicated habitual intempe- 
 rance, and the nauseous ugliness of which was 
 fiu-ther enhanced by the loss of two front teeth, 
 probably by some violent agency, as was testi- 
 fied by a deep scar across the mouth ; the eyes 
 of the man carried that uncertain expression, 
 half of shame and half of defiance, which be- 
 longs to the coward, bullv, and ruffian. The 
 blackness of habitually-indulged and ferocious 
 passion was upon his countenance ; and the re- 
 volting character of the face was the more une- 
 quivocally marked by a sort of smile, or rather 
 
292 THE COCK AND ANCHOR. [chap. xix. 
 
 sneer, which had in it neither intellectuality nor 
 gladness — an odious libel on the human smile, 
 Avith nothing but brute insolence and scorn, and 
 a sardonic glee in its baleful light — a smile from 
 which every human sympathy recoiled abashed 
 and affrighted. Let not the reader imagine 
 that the man and the character are but the 
 dreams of fiction ; the wretch, whose outward 
 seeming Ave have imperfectly sketched, lived 
 and moved in the scenes w^here Ave have fixed 
 our narrative — there grcAV rich — there rioted in 
 the indulgence of every passion Avhich hell can 
 inspire or to Avhich Avealth can pander — there 
 ministered to his insatiate avarice, by the de- 
 struction and beggary of thousands of the 
 young and thoughtless — and there at length, 
 in the fulness of his time, died— in the midst 
 of splendour and infamy : Avith malignant and 
 triumphant perseverence having persisted to his 
 latest hour in the prosecution of his satanic 
 mission; luring the unAvary into the toils of 
 crime and inextricable madness, and thence into 
 the pit of temporal and eternal ruin. This 
 man, Nicholas Blarden, esquire, was the pro- 
 
CHAP. XIX.] THE THEATRE. 293 
 
 prietor of one of those places where fortunes 
 are squandered, time sunk, habits, temper, 
 character, morals, all, corrupted, blasted, de- 
 stroyed — one of those places which are set apart 
 as the especial temples of avarice, in which, 
 year after year, are for ever recurring the same 
 perennial scenes of mad excess, of calculating 
 merciless fraud, of bleak brain-stricken despair 
 — places to which has been assigned, in a spirit 
 of fearful truth, the appellative of " hell." 
 
 The man whom we have mentioned, it had 
 never been young Ashwoode's misfortune to 
 meet, except in those scenes where his acquaint- 
 ance was useful, without being actually discre- 
 ditable ; for it was the fellow's habit, with the 
 instinctive caution which marks such gentlemen, 
 to court public observation as little as possible, 
 and to skulk systematically from the eye of 
 popular scrutiny — seldom embarrassing his aris- 
 tocratic acquaintances, by claiming the privilege 
 of recognition at unseasonable times ; and con- 
 fining himself, for the most part, exclusively to 
 his own coterie. Independently of his unplea- 
 sant natural peculiarities, there were other cir- 
 
294 THE COCK AND ANCHOR. [chap. xix. 
 
 cumstances which tended to make him a con- 
 spicuous object in the crowd — the fellow was 
 extravagantly over-dressed, and had planted 
 himself in a standing postm'e upon a bench, 
 and from this elevated position was, m ith steady 
 eifrontery, gazing into the box in which young 
 Ashwoode's party w^ere seated, exchanging whis- 
 pers and horse-laughs, with three or four men 
 who looked scarcely less villainous than himself, 
 and, as soon became apparent, directing his 
 marked and exclusive attention to Miss Ash- 
 woode, who w^as too deeply absorbed in her 
 own sorrowful reflections, to heed what was 
 passing around her. The young man felt his 
 choler mount, as he beheld the insolent conduct 
 of the fellow — he saw, however, that Blarden 
 was evidently not perfectly sober, and hesitated 
 what course he should take. Strongly as he 
 was temi)ted to spring at once into the pit, and 
 put an end to the unpertinence by caning the 
 fellow within an inch of his life, he yet felt that 
 a disreputable conflict of the kind had better be 
 avoided, and could not well be justified except 
 as a last resource ; lie, therefore, made up his 
 
CHAP. XIX. ] THE THEATRE. 295 
 
 mind to bear it as long as human endurance 
 could. 
 
 Whatever hopes he entertained of escaping a 
 collision with this man were, however, destined 
 to be disappointed. Xicky Blarden, (as his 
 friends endearingly called him) to the great 
 comfort of that part of the audience in his im- 
 mediate neifjhbourhood, at lenorth descended 
 from his elevated stand, but not to conceal him- 
 self among the less obtrusive spectators. With 
 an insolent swaororer the fellow shouldered his 
 way among the crowd towards the box where 
 the object of Ms gaze was seated ; and, having 
 planted himself directly beneath it, he stared 
 impudently up at young Ashwoode, exclaiming 
 at the same time — 
 
 " I say, Ashwoode, how does the world 
 wag with you — why ain't you rattling the 
 bones this evening ; d — n me, you may as well 
 be off, and let me take care of the dimber mot 
 up there ?" 
 
 " Do you speak to me^ sir ?" inquired young 
 Ashwoode, turning almost livid with passion, 
 and speaking in that subdued tone, and with 
 
2«J6 THE COCK AND ANCHOR. [chap. xix. 
 
 that constrained coolness wliicli precedes some 
 ungovernable outburst of fury. 
 
 " \yhy, me, how great we've got all 
 
 at once — I say, you don't know me — Eh ! don't 
 you ?" exclaimed the fellow, with vulgar scorn, 
 at the same time rather roughly poking Ash- 
 woode's hand with the hilt of his sword. 
 
 «« I shall show you, sir, when your drunken 
 folly has passed away, by very sore proofs, that 
 I do know you," replied the young man, clutch- 
 ing his cane with such a gripe as threatened to 
 force his fingers into it — " be assm-ed, sir, I 
 shall know you, and you me, as long as you 
 have the power to remember." 
 
 " Whieu, d it, don't frighten us," said the 
 
 fellow, looking round for the approbation of his 
 companions. '' I say, d — n it, don't fi'ighten 
 the people — come, come, no gammon. I say, 
 Ashwoode, you must introduce me, or present 
 me, or whatever's the word, to your sister up 
 there — I say you must.'' 
 
 " Quit this part of the house this instant, 
 sir, or nothing shall prevent me flogging you 
 until I leave not a whole bone in your body — 
 
cHah. XIX.] THE THEATBi:. 297 
 
 this warning is the last — profit by it," rejoined 
 Ashwoode, in a low tone of bittei' rage. 
 
 " Oh, ho ! it's there you are — is it ?" rejoined 
 the fellow, with a wink at his comrades, " so 
 you're going to beat the people — why, d — n it 
 you're enough to make a horse laugh. I say I 
 want to know your sister, or your miss, or 
 whatever she is, with the black hair up here, 
 and if you won't introduce me, d — n it I must 
 only introduce myself." 
 
 So saying, the fellow made a spring and 
 caught the ledge of the front of the box, with 
 the intention of vaulting into the place. Lord 
 Aspenly and the young ladies had arisen in 
 some alarm. 
 
 " My lord," said young Ashwoode, " have 
 the goodness to conduct the ladies to the lobby 
 — I will join you in a moment." 
 
 This direction \va.6 promptly obeyed, and at 
 the same moment the yoimg man caught the fel- 
 low, already half into the box, by the neckcloth, 
 dragged his body across the wooden pai-apet, and 
 while he struggled helplessly to disengage liim- 
 self^ — half strangled, and without the power 
 
 () 2 
 
298 THE COCK AND ANCHOR. [chap. xix. 
 
 to get either up or down — with his heavy cane, 
 the young gentleman — every nerve, sinew, and 
 muscle being strung to tenfold poAver by fury — 
 inflicted upon his back and ribs, a castigation, 
 so prolonged and tremendous, that before it had 
 ended, the scoundrel was perfectly insensible, 
 in Avhich state, Henry Ashwoode flung him 
 down again into the pit, amid the obstreperous 
 acclamations of all parts of the house — an up- 
 roar of applause in which the spectators in the 
 pit joined with such hearty enthusiasm, that at 
 length, touched with a kindred heroism, they 
 turned upon the associates of the fallen cham- 
 pion, and fairly kicked and cuifed them out of 
 the house. 
 
 This feat accomplished, the young gentle- 
 man went down the stairs to the street-en- 
 trance, and after considerable delay succeeded, 
 with the assistance of the footman w^ho had at- 
 tended him into the house, in finding out their 
 carriage, and having it brought to the door — 
 not judging it expedient that the ladies should 
 return to their places, where they would, of 
 course, be exposed to the gazing curiosity of 
 
CHAP. XIX.] THE THEATRE. 299 
 
 the multitude. He found the party in the lobby, 
 quite recovered from whatever was unpleasant 
 in the excitement of the scene, the more violent 
 part of which they had not witnessed. Lord 
 Aspenly and Emily Copland were laughing over 
 the adventure ; and Mary, flushed and agitated, 
 was looking better than she had before upon 
 that night. Taking his cousin under his own 
 protection, and consigning his sister to that of 
 Lord Aspenly, young Ashwoode led tlic way 
 to the carriage. As they passed slowly along 
 the lobby, the quick eye of Mary Ashwoode 
 discerned a form, at sight of which her heart 
 swelled and throbbed, as though it would burst 
 — the colour fled from her cheeks, and she felt 
 for a moment on the point of swooning ; the 
 pride of her sex, however, sustained her ; the 
 tingling blood again mounted warmly to her 
 cheeks, her eye brightened, and she listened 
 with more apparent interest than perhaps she 
 ever did before, to Lord Aspenly 's remarks — 
 the form was O'Connor's. As she passed him, 
 she returned his salute mth a slight and haughty 
 bow, and saw, and felt the stern, cold, proud 
 
300 THE COCK AND ANCHOR. [chap. xix. 
 
 expression which marked his pale and handsome 
 featm-es. In another moment she was seated in 
 the carriage ; the doors Avere closed, crack went 
 the whip, and clatter go the iron hoofs on the 
 pavement — but before they had traversed a him- 
 di'ed yards on their homeward way, poor IMary 
 Ashwoode sunk back in her place, and fainted 
 
CHAP XX.] THE YEW HEDGES. 301 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 THE 1-ODGING YOUNG MELANCHOLY AND OLD REMEMBKANCES 
 
 AN ADVENTURE AMONG THE YEW HEDGES OF MORLET 
 
 COURT. 
 
 " There is no more doubt — no more hope" — 
 said O'Connor, as, Avrapt in his cloak, he slowly 
 pursued his way homeward — " the worst is true 
 — she is quite estranged from me — how de- 
 ceived — how utterly blind I have been — yet 
 who could have thought it ? Light-hearted, 
 vain, worthless — it is all, all true — my own 
 eyes have seen it. Well, even tliis must be 
 borne — borne as best it may, and with a manly 
 spirit. I have been, indeed, miserably cheated" 
 — he continued wath bitter vehemence — " and 
 what remains for me ? I've been infatuated — 
 a self-flattered fool, and waken thus to find all 
 lost — but grief avails not — there lie before me 
 many paths of honourable toil, and many ave- 
 nues to honourable death — the ambition of mv 
 
302 THE COCK AND ANCHOR. [chap. xx. 
 
 life is over — henceforth the world has nothing 
 to offer me. I will leave this, the country of 
 my ill-fated birth — leave it for ever, and end 
 my days honourably, and God grant soon, far 
 away from the only one I ever loved — from her 
 who has betrayed me." 
 
 Such were the thoughts Avhich darkly and 
 vaguely hurned through O'Connor's mind as he 
 retraced his steps. Before he had arrived, how- 
 ever, at the " Cock and Anchor," whitherward 
 he had mechanically directed his course, he be- 
 thought himself, and turned in a different direc- 
 tion towards the house in which his worthy 
 friend Mr. Audley — having an inveterate pre- 
 judice against all inns, Avhich, Avithout exception, 
 he averred to be tlie especial sanctuaries of damp 
 sheets, bugs, thieves and rheumatic fevers — had 
 already established himself as a weekly lodger. 
 " Pooh, pooh ! you foolish boy," ejaculated the 
 old bachelor, with considerable energy, in reply 
 to O'Connor's gloomy and passionate language ; 
 '' nonsense, sir, and folly, and absurdity — you'll 
 give me the vapours if you go on this way — 
 what the devil do ycu want of foreign service 
 
CHAP. XX.] THF, YEW HEDGES. 303 
 
 and foreign gi'aves — do you think, boob}', it was 
 for that I came over here — tilly vally, tilly 
 vally — I know as well as you, or any other 
 jackanapes, what love is. I tell yon, sin'iih, / 
 have been in love, and / have been jilted — 
 jilted sir ! and when I icas jilted, I thought the 
 jilting itself quite enough, without improving 
 the matter by getting myself buried, dead or 
 alive." Here the little gentleman knocked the 
 table recklessly Avith his knuckles, buried his 
 hands in his breeches pockets, and rising from 
 his chau*, paced the room with an impressive 
 tread. '' Had you ever seen Letty Bodkin you 
 might, indeed, have known what love is" — he 
 continued, breathing very hard — " Lettv Bod- 
 kin jilted me, and I got over it. I did not ask 
 for razors, or cannon balls, or foreign interment, 
 sir ; but T vented my indignation like a man of 
 business, in totting up the books, and running 
 up a heavy aiTcar in the office accounts — yes, 
 sir, I did more good in the way of arithmetic 
 and book-keeping during that three weeks of 
 love-sick agony, than an ordinaiy man v.ithout 
 the stimulus, would do in a year" — there was 
 
304 THE COCK AND ANCHOR. [tH^P xx. 
 
 anotlier pause here, and he resumed in a soft- 
 ened tone — "but Letty Bodkin was no ordi- 
 nary woman. Oh ! }'0u scoundrel had you seen 
 her, you'd have been neither to hold nor to 
 bind — there was nothing she could not do — she 
 embroidered a waistcoat for me — heigho ! scarlet 
 geraniums and parsley sprigs — and she danced 
 like — like a — a spring board — she'd sail through 
 a minuet like a duck in a pond, and hop and 
 bounce through ' Sir Roger de Coverly,' like a 
 hot chestnut on a griddle — and then she sang — 
 oh, her singing ! — I've heard turtle doves and 
 thrushes, and in fact most kind of fowls of all 
 sorts and sizes ; but no ni^htino-ale ever came 
 up to her in ' The Captain endearing and tall,' 
 and ' The Shepherdess dying for love' — there 
 never lived the man*' — continued he, with in- 
 creasing vehemence — " I don't care when or 
 where, Avho could have stood, sate, or walked 
 in her company for half-an-hour, without making 
 an old fool of himself — she was just my age, 
 perhaps a year or two more — I wonder whether 
 she is much changed — heigho !" 
 
 Having thus delivered himself, ^Ir. Audley 
 
CIIAI'. XX.! 
 
 THE YEW HEDGES. 305 
 
 lapsed into meditation, and thence into a faint 
 and rather painful attempt to vocalize his re- 
 membrance of ' The Captain endearing and tall,' 
 engaged in which desperate operation of me- 
 mory, O'Connor left the old gentleman, and 
 returned to his temporary abode to pass a sleej)- 
 less night of vain remembrances, regrets, and 
 despair. 
 
 On the morning subsequent to the somewhat 
 disorderly scene which we have described as 
 having occurred in the theatre, Mary Ashwoode, 
 as usual, sate silent and melancholy, in the dres- 
 sing-room of her father, Sir Richard. The 
 baronet was not yet sufficiently recovered to 
 venture down stairs to breakfast, w^hich in those 
 days was a very early meal indeed. After an 
 unusually prolonged silence, the old man, turn- 
 ing suddenly to his daughter, abruptly said, 
 " Mary, you have now had some days to study 
 Lord Aspenly — how do you like him ?" 
 
 The girl raised her eyes, not a little surj^rised 
 at the question, and doubtful whether she had 
 heard it aright. 
 
 " I say," resumed he, " you ought to have 
 
306 THE COCK AND ANCHOR. [chap. xx. 
 
 been able by this time to arrive at a fair judg- 
 ment as to Lord Aspenly's merits — what do you 
 think of him — do you like him ?" 
 
 " Indeed, father," replied she, " I have ob- 
 served him very little — he may be a very esti- 
 mable man, but I have not seen enough of him 
 to form any opinion ; and indeed, if I had, my 
 opinion must needs be a matter of the merest 
 indifference to him and every one else." 
 
 " Your opinion upon this point," replied Sir 
 Richard, tartly, "happens not to be a matter 
 of indifference." 
 
 A considerable pause again ensued, during 
 which Mary Ashwoode had ample time to reflect 
 upon the very unpleasant doubts which this brief 
 speech, and the tone in which it was uttered, 
 were calculated to inspire. 
 
 " Lord Aspenly's manners are very agreeable, 
 very," continued Sir Richard, meditatively — 
 " I may say, indeed, fascinating- very — do you 
 think so ?" he added sharply, turning towards 
 his daughter. 
 
 This was rather a puzzling question. The 
 girl had never thought about him except as a 
 
CHAP. XX.] THE YKW HEDGES. 307 
 
 frivolous old beau ; yet it was plain she could 
 nut say so without vexing her father ; she there- 
 lore adopted the simplest expedient under such 
 perplexing circumstances, and preserved an em- 
 baiTassed silence. 
 
 " The fact is," said Sir Kichard, raising him- 
 self a little, so as to look full in his daughter's 
 face, at the same time speaking slowly and 
 sternly, " the iact is, I had better be explicit 
 on this subject. / am anxious that you should 
 think well of Lord Aspenly ; it is, in short, 
 my wish and pleasure that you should like him ; 
 you understand me — you had better understand 
 me." This was said with an emphasis not to 
 be mistaken, and another pause ensued. " For 
 the present," continued he, " run down and 
 amuse yourself — and — stay — offer to show his 
 lordship the old terrace garden — do you mind. 
 Now, once more, run away." 
 
 So saying, the old gentleman turned coolly 
 from her, and rang his hand-bell vehemently. 
 Scarcely knowing what she did, such was her 
 astonishment at all that had passed, Mary Ash- 
 woode left tlie ruom without any very clear 
 
308 THE COCK AND ANCHOR. [( iiai. xx. 
 
 notion as to whither she was going, or what to 
 do ; nor was her confusion much relieved when, 
 on entering the hall, the first object which 
 encountered her, was Lord Aspenly himself, 
 with his triangular hat under his arm, wliile he 
 adjusted his deep lace ruffles — he had never 
 looked so ugly before. As he stood beneath her, 
 while she descended the broad stair-case, smiling 
 from ear to ear, and bowing with the most 
 chivalric profundity, his skinny lemon-coloured 
 face, and cold, glittering little eyes raised 
 toward her — she thought that it was impossible 
 for the human shape so nearly to assume the 
 outward semblance of a squat, emaciated toad. 
 
 " Miss Ashwoode, as I live !" exclaimed the 
 noble peer, with his most gracious and fascinating 
 smile. " On what mission of love and mercy 
 does she move? Shall I hope that her first 
 act of pity may be exercised in favour of the 
 most devoted of her slaves ? I have been look- 
 ing in vain for a guide through the intricacies 
 of Sir Richard's yew hedges and leaden statues ; 
 may I hope that my presiding angel lias sent 
 me one in you ?" 
 
CH.vr. XX.] THE YEW HEDGES. 309 
 
 Lord Aspenly paused, and grinned wider 
 and wider, but receiving no answer, he re- 
 sumed — 
 
 " I understand, ^liss Ashwoode, that the 
 pleasure-grounds, which surround us, abound 
 in samples of your exquisite taste, as a votary 
 of Flora ; may I ask, if the request be not too 
 bold, that you will vouchsafe to lead a bewil- 
 dered pilgrim to tlie object of his search. There 
 is — is there not ? — shrined in the centre of these 
 rustic labyrinths, a small flower-garden which 
 owes its sweet existence to your creative genius; 
 if it be not too remote, and if you can afford 
 so much leisure, allow me to implore your 
 guidance." 
 
 As he thus spoke, with a graceful flourish, 
 the little gentleman extended his hand, and 
 com'teously taking hers by the extreme points of 
 the fingers, he led her forward in a manner, 
 as he thought, so engaging as to put resistance 
 out of the question. Mary Ashwoode felt far 
 too little interest in any thing but the one ever 
 present grief which weighed upon her heart, to 
 deny the old fop his trifling request ; shrouding 
 
310 THE COCK AND ANCHOR. [chap. xx. 
 
 her graceful limbs, therefore, in a short cloak, 
 and drawing the hood over her head, she walked 
 forth, ^vith slow steps and an aching heart, 
 araong the trim hedges which fenced the old- 
 fashioned pleasure walks. 
 
 "Beauty," exclaimed the nobleman, as he 
 walked with an aii' of romantic gallantry by her 
 side, and glancing as he spoke at the flowers 
 which adorned the border of the path — "beauty 
 is no where seen to greater advantage than in 
 spots like this ; where nature has amassed what- 
 ever is most beautiful in the inanimate creation, 
 only to prove how unutterably more exquisite 
 are the charms of living loveliness : these Avalks 
 but this moment to me a wilderness, are now 
 so many paths of magic pleasure — how can I 
 enough thank the kind enchantress to whom 
 I owe the transformation?" Here the little 
 gentleman looked unutterable things, and a 
 silence of some minutes ensued, during which 
 he effected some dozen very wheezy sighs. 
 Emboldened by Miss Ashwoode's silence, which 
 he interpreted as a very unequivocal proof of 
 conscious tenderness, he resolved to put an end 
 
CHAP XX.] THE YEW HEDGES. 311 
 
 to the skirmishiDg with which he had opened 
 his attack, and to commence the action in down- 
 right earnestness. *' This place breathes an at- 
 mosphere of romance ; it is a spot consecrated to 
 the worship of love ; it is — it is the shrine of 
 passion, and I — / am a votary — a w^orshipper." 
 
 Miss Ashwoode paused in mingled surprise 
 and displeasure, for his vehemence had become 
 so excessive as, in conjunction with his asthma, 
 to threaten to choak his lordship outright. 
 When Mary Ashwoode stopped short. Lord 
 Aspenly took it for granted that the crisis had 
 arrived, and that the moment for the decisive 
 onset was now come, he therefore ejaculated 
 with a rapturous croak — 
 
 '' And you — you are my divinity !" and at 
 the same moment he descended stiffly upon his 
 two knees, caught her hand in his, and began 
 to mumble it with unmistakable devotion. 
 
 " My lord — Lord Aspenly ! — surely your 
 
 lordship cannot mean have done, my lord," 
 
 exclaimed the astonished girl, withdrawing her 
 hand indignantly from his grasp. '' Rise, my 
 lord ; you cannot mean otherwise than to mock 
 
312 THE COCK AND ANCHOR. [chap. xx. 
 
 nie bj such extravagance. My lord — my lord, 
 you surprise and shock me beyond expression." 
 
 " Angel of beauty ! most exquisite — most 
 perfect of your sex," gasped his lordship, '' I 
 love you — yes, to distraction. Answer me, if 
 you would not have me expire at your feet, — 
 ugh — ugh — tell me that I may hope — ugh — 
 that I am not indifferent to you ; — ugh, ugh, 
 ugh, — that — that you can love me ?" Here 
 his lordship was seized with so violent a fit of 
 coughing, that Miss Ashwoode began to fear 
 tliat he would expire at her feet in downright 
 earnest. During the paroxysm, in which, with 
 one hand pressed upon his side, he supported 
 himself by leaning with the other upon the 
 ground, Mary had ample time to collect her 
 thoughts, so that when at length he had reco- 
 vered his breath, she addressed him with com- 
 posure and decision. 
 
 "My lord," she said, "I am grateful for 
 your preference of me ; although, when I con- 
 sider the shortness of my acquaintance with 
 you, and how few have been your opportunities 
 of knowing me, I cannot but wonder very much 
 
CHAP. XX.] THE YEW HEDGES. 313 
 
 at its vehemence. For me, your lordship cannot 
 feel more than an idle fancy, -which will, no 
 doubt, pass away just as lightly as it came ; and 
 as for my feelings, I have only to say, that it is 
 wholly impossible for you ever to establish in 
 them any interest of the kind you look 
 for. Indeed, indeed, my lord, I hope I have 
 not given you pain — nothing can be flirther 
 from my -svish than to do so ; but it is my duty 
 to tell you plainly and at once my real feelings. 
 1 should otherwise but trifle with your kindness, 
 for which, although I cannot return it as you 
 desire, I shall ever be grateful." 
 
 Having thus spoken, she turned from her 
 noble suitor, and began to retrace her steps 
 rapidly towards the house. 
 
 " Stay, Miss Ashwoode — remain here for a 
 moment — you must hear me I" exclaimed Lord 
 Aspenly, in a tone so altered, that she involun- 
 tarily paused, while his lordship, with some 
 difficulty, raised himself again to his feet, and 
 with a flushed and haggard face, in which still 
 lingered the ghastly phantom of his habitual 
 smile, he hobbled to her side. '* Miss Ash- 
 
 VOL. I. p 
 
314 THE COCK AND ANCHOR. [chaf. xx. 
 
 woode," lie exclaimed, in a tone tremulous with 
 emotions very different from love, " I — I — I am 
 not used to be treated cavalierly — I — I will not 
 brook it : I am not to be trifled with — jilted — 
 madam, jilted, and taken in. You have ac- 
 cepted and encouraged my attentions — atten- 
 tions which you cannot have mistaken ; and now, 
 madam, when I make you an oiFer— such as 
 your ambition, your most presumptuous ambi- 
 tion, dared not have anticipated — the offer of 
 my hand — and — and a coronet, you coolly tell 
 me you never cared for me. Why what on 
 earth do you look for or expect ? — a foreign 
 prince or potentate, an emperor, ha — ha — he — 
 he — ugh — ugh — ugh ! I tell you plainly, Miss 
 Ashwoode, that my feelings must be considered. 
 I have long made my passion known to you ; it 
 has been '^couraged ; and I have obtained Sir 
 Richard's — your father's — sanction and approval. 
 You had better re-consider what you have said. 
 I shall give you an hour ; at the end of that 
 time, unless you see the propriety of avowing 
 feelings which, you must pardon me when I say 
 it, your encom^agement of my advances has long 
 
CHAP. XX.] THE YEW HEDGES. 315 
 
 virtually acknowledged, I must lay the whole 
 case, including all the painful details of my 
 own ill usage, before Sir Richard Ashwoode, 
 and trust to his powers of persuasion to in- 
 duce you to act reasonably, and, I icill add, 
 honourably .'' 
 
 Here his lordship took several extraordinarily 
 copious pinches of snuff, after which he bowed 
 very low, conjured up an unusually hideous 
 smile, in which spite, fury, and triumph, 
 were eagerly mingled, and hobbled away, 
 before the astonished girl had time to muster 
 her spirits sufficiently to answer him. 
 
316 THE COCK AND ANCHOR. [chap xxi. 
 
 CHAPTER XXI. 
 
 WHO APPEAKED TO MARY ASHWOODE AS SHE SATE UNDER 
 THE TREES THE CHAMPION. 
 
 With flashing eyes and a swelling heart, struck 
 dumb with unutterable indignation, the beauti- 
 ful girl stood fixed in the attitude in which his 
 last words had reached her, while the enraged 
 and unmanly old fop hobbled away, with the 
 ease and grace with which a crippled ape might 
 move over a hot griddle. He had disappeared 
 for some minutes before she had recovered her- 
 self sufficiently to think or speak. 
 
 "If he were by my side," she said, " this 
 noble lord dared not have used me thus. Ed- 
 mund would have died a thousand deaths first. 
 But oh ! God look upon me, for his love is gone 
 from me, and I am now a poor, grieved, deso- 
 late creature, with none to help me." 
 
 Thus saying, she sate herself down upon the 
 
CHAP, xxi.] THE CHAMPION. 317 
 
 grass bank, beneath the tall and antique trees, 
 and wept with all the bitter and devoted aban- 
 donment of hopeless sorrow. From this unre- 
 strained transport of grief she was at length 
 aroused by the pressure of a hand, gently and 
 kindly laid upon her shoulder. 
 
 " What vexes you, Mary, my little girl ?" 
 inquired Major O'Leary, for he it was that 
 stood by her. " Come, darling, don't fret, but 
 tell your old uncle the whole business, and 
 twenty to one, he has wit enough in his old 
 noddle yet, to set matters to rights. So, so, 
 my darling, dry your pretty eyes — wipe the 
 tears away ; why should they wet your young 
 cheeks, my poor little doat, that you always 
 were. It is too early yet for sorrow to come 
 on you. Wouldn't I throw myself between 
 my little pet and all grief and danger. Then 
 trust to me, darling ; wipe away the tears, or 
 
 by I'll begin to cry myself. Dry your 
 
 eyes, and see if I can't help you one way or 
 another." 
 
 The mellow brogue of the old major had 
 never fallen before with such a tender pathos 
 
318 THE COCK AND ANCHOR. [chap. xxi. 
 
 upon the ear of his beautiful niece, as now that 
 its rich current bore full upon her heart the 
 unlooked-for words of kindness and comfort. 
 
 *'Were not you always my pet," continued 
 he, with the same tenderness and pity in his 
 tone, " from the time I first took you upon my 
 knee, my poor little Mary ? and were not you 
 fond of your old rascally uncle O'Leary? usedn't 
 I always to take your part, right or wrong, 
 and do you think I'll desert you now ? Then 
 tell it all to me — ain't I your poor old uncle, the 
 same as ever ? Come then, dry the tears — 
 there's a darling — Avipe them away." 
 
 While thus speaking, the warm-hearted old 
 man took her hand, with a touching mixture of 
 gallantry, pity, and affection, and kissed it again 
 and again, with a thousand accompanying expres- 
 sions of endearment, such as in the days of her child- 
 hood he had been wont to lavish upon his little 
 favourite. The poor gH, touched by the kindness 
 of her early friend, whose good-natured sympa- 
 thy was not to be mistaken, gradually recovered 
 her composure, and yielding to the urgencies of 
 the major, who clearly perceived that something 
 
CHAP. XXI.] THE CHAMPION. 319 
 
 extraordinarily distressing must have occurred 
 to account for her extreme agitation, she at 
 length told him the immediate cause of her 
 grief and excitement. The major listened to 
 the narrative with growing indignation, and 
 when it had ended, he inquired, in a tone, about 
 whose unnatural calmness there w^as something 
 infinitely more formidable than in the noisiest 
 clamour of fury — 
 
 " Which way, darling, did his lordship go 
 when he left you ?" 
 
 The girl looked in his face, and saw his deadly 
 purpose there. 
 
 " Uncle, my own dear uncle," she cried dis- 
 tractedly, "for God's sake do not follow him — 
 
 for God's sake — I conjure you, I implore *' 
 
 She would have cast herself at his feet, but the 
 major caught her in his arms. 
 
 ''Well, well, my darling," he exclahned, "I'll 
 not kill him, well as he deserves it — I'll not : 
 you have saved his life. I pledge you my ho- 
 nour, as a gentleman and a soldier, I'll not 
 harm him for what he has said or done this day 
 — are you satisfied ?" 
 
320 THE COCK AND ANCHOR. [chap. xxi. 
 
 " I am, I am ! thank God, thank God !" ex- 
 claimed the poor girl eagerly. 
 
 " But, Mary, I must see him," rejoined the 
 major; '' he has threatened to set Sir Richard 
 upon you — I must see him : you don't object 
 to that, under the promise I have made ? I 
 want to — to reason with him. He shall not set 
 you into trouble with the baronet ; for though 
 Richard and I came of the same mother, we 
 are not of the same marriage, nor of the same 
 mould — I would not for a cool hundred that 
 he told his story to your father." 
 
 " Indeed, indeed, dear uncle," replied the 
 girl, " I fear me there is little hope of escape 
 or ease for me. My father must know what 
 has passed ; he will learn it inevitably, and then 
 it needs no colouring or misrepresentation to 
 call down upon me his heaviest displeasure ; his 
 anger I must endure as best I may. God help 
 me. But neither threats nor violence shall make 
 me retract the answer I have given to Lord 
 Aspenly, nor ever yield consent to marry him — 
 nor any other now." 
 
 " Well, well, little Mary," rejoined the major. 
 
cuAfr. XXI ] IHE CHAMPION. 321 
 
 " I like your spirit. Stand to that, and you'll 
 never be sorry for it. In the mean time, I'll 
 venture to exercise his lordship's conversational 
 powers in a brief conference of a few minutes, 
 and if I find him as reasonable as I expect, 
 you'll have no cause to regret my interposition. 
 Don't look so frightened —havn't 1 promised, 
 on the honour of a gentleman, that I "vvill not 
 pink him for any thing said or done in his con- 
 ference with you. To send a small-sword through 
 a bolster or a bailiff," he continued, meditatively, 
 "is an indifferent action ; but to spit such a poi- 
 sonous, crawling toad as the respectable old gen- 
 tleman in question, would be nothing short of 
 meritorious — it is an act that 'id tickle the fancy 
 of every saint in heaven, and, if there's justice 
 on earth, would canonize myself. But never 
 mind, I'll let it alone — the little thing shall 
 escape, since you Avish it — Major O'Leary has 
 said it, so let no doubt disturb you. Good-bye, 
 my little darling, dry your eyes, and let me see 
 you, before an hour, as merry as in the merriest 
 days that are gone." 
 
 So saying, Major O'Leary patted her cheek, 
 
 p 2 
 
322 THE COCK AND xVNCHOR. [chap.xxi. 
 
 and taking her hand affectionately in both his, 
 he added — 
 
 " Sure I am, that there is more in all this 
 than you care to tell me, my little pet. I am 
 sorely afraid there is something beyond my 
 power to remedy, to change your light-hearted 
 nature so mournfully. What it is, I will not 
 inquire, but remember, darling, whenever you 
 want a friend, you'll find a sure one in me." 
 
 Thus having spoken, he turned from her, 
 and strode rapidly down the walk, until the 
 thick, formal hedges concealed his retreating 
 form behind their impenetrable screens of dark- 
 some verdure. 
 
 Odd as were the manner and style of the 
 major's professions, there was something tender, 
 something of heartiness, in his speech, which 
 assm^ed her that she had indeed found a friend 
 in him — rasli, volatile, and violent it might be, 
 but still one on whose truth and energy she 
 might calculate. That there was one being 
 who felt with her and for her, Avas a discovery 
 which touched her heart and moved her gene- 
 rous spirit, and she now regarded the old major, 
 
CDAP. XXI.] THE CHAMPION. 323 
 
 whose spoiled favourite in childhood she had 
 been, but whom, before, she had never known 
 capable of a serious feeling, with emotions of 
 affection and gi'atitude, stronger and more ar- 
 dent than he had ever earned from any other 
 being. Agitated, grieved, and excited, she 
 hurriedly left the scene of this interview, and 
 sought relief for her overcharged feelings in the 
 quiet and seclusion of her chamber. 
 
324 THE COCK AND ANCHOR. [chap. xxi 
 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 THE SPINET. 
 
 In no very pleasant frame of mind did Lord 
 Aspenly retrace his steps toward the old house. 
 His lordship had, all his life, been firmly per- 
 suaded, that the whole female creation had been 
 sighing and pining for the possession of his 
 heart and equipage. He knew that among 
 those with whom his chief experience lay, his 
 fortune and his coronet were considerations not 
 to be resisted ; and he as firmly believed, that 
 even without such recommendations, few wo- 
 men, certainly none of any taste or discrimina- 
 tion, could be found with hearts so steeled 
 against the archery of Cupid, as to resist the 
 fascinations of his manner and conversation, sup- 
 ported and directed, as both were, by the tact 
 and experience drawn from a practice of more 
 years than his lordship cared to count, even to 
 himself. He had, however, smiled, danced. 
 
CHAf. XXII.] THE SPINET. 325 
 
 and chatted, in impregnable celibacy, through 
 more than half a century of gaiety and frivolity 
 — breaking, as he thought, hearts innumerable, 
 and, at all events, disappointing very many cal- 
 culations — until, at length, his lordship had 
 an'ived at that precise period of existence at 
 which old gentlemen, not unfrequently, become 
 all at once romantic, disinterested, and indiscreet 
 — nobody exactly knows why — unless it be for 
 variety, or to spite an heir presumptive, or else 
 that, as a preliminary to second childhood, na- 
 ture has ordained a second boyhood too. Certain, 
 however, it is, that Lord Aspenly was seized, ' 
 on a sudden, with a matrimonial frenzy ; and, 
 tired of the hacknied schemers, in the centre of 
 whose manoeuvres he had stood and smiled so 
 long in contemptuous security, he resolved that 
 his choice should honour some simple, unsophis- 
 ticated beauty, who had never plotted his ma- 
 trimony. 
 
 Fired "with this benevolent resolution, he 
 almost instantly selected Mary Ashwoode as 
 
 the happy companion of his second childhood 
 
 acquainted Sir Richard with liis purpose of 
 
326 THE COCK AND ANCHOR. [chap, xxiu 
 
 course, received his consent and blessing — and 
 forthwith opened his entrenchments, with the 
 same certainty of success wath which the great 
 Duke of Marlborough might have invested a 
 Flanders village. The inexperience of a girl 
 who had mixed, comparatively, so little in gay 
 society — her consequent openness to flattery — 
 and susceptibility of being fascinated by the ele- 
 gance of his address and the splendour of his 
 fortune, all these considerations — accompanied 
 by a clear consciousness of his own infinite con- 
 descension in thinking of her at all — had com- 
 pletely excluded from all his calculations, the 
 very possibility of her doing any thing else than 
 jump into his arms the moment he should open 
 them to receive her. The result of the inter- 
 view, which had just taken place, had come 
 upon him with the overwhelming suddenness 
 of a thunderbolt. Rejected I — Lord Aspenly 
 rejected ! — a coronet,, and a fortune, and a man 
 whom all the male world might envy — each and 
 all rejected ! — and by whom ? — a chit of a girl, 
 who had no right to look higher than a half-pay 
 captain with a wooden leg — or a fox-hunting 
 
CHAP, xxn.] THE SPINET. 327 
 
 boor, with a few inaccessible acres of bog and 
 mountain — the daughter of a spendthrift baro- 
 net, who was, as every one knew, on the high 
 road to ruin. Death and fury ! was it to be 
 endured ? 
 
 The Httle lover, absorbed in such tranquilliz- 
 ing reflections, amved at the house, and entered 
 the drawing-room. It was not unoccupied — 
 seated by a spinet, and with a sheet of music- 
 paper in her lap, and a pencil in her hand, was 
 the fair Emily Copland. As he entered, she 
 raised her eyes, started a little, became grace- 
 fully confused, and then, with her archest smile, 
 exclaimed — 
 
 '« What shall I say, my lord ? you have de- 
 tected me — I have neither defence nor pal- 
 liation to offer — you have fairly caught me — 
 here am I engaged in, perhaps the most pre- 
 sumptuous task that ever silly maiden undertook 
 — I am wedding your beautiful verses to most 
 unworthy music of my own. After all, there 
 is nothing like a simple ballad — such exquisite 
 lines as these inspire music of themselves — would 
 that Henry Purcell had had but a peep at them 
 
328 THE COCK AND ANCHOR. [chap. xxii. 
 
 — to what might they not have prompted such 
 a genius — to what indeed ?" 
 
 So sublime was the flight of fancy suggested 
 by this interrogatory, that Miss Copland shook 
 her head slowly in poetic rapture, and gazed 
 fondly for some seconds upon the carpet, appa- 
 rently unconscious of Lord Aspenly's presence. 
 
 " She is a fine creature," half murmured he, 
 with an emphasis upon the identity which im- 
 plied a contrast not very favourable to Mary — 
 *' and — and very pretty — nay, she looks almost 
 beautiful — and so, so lively — so much vivacity 
 — never was poor poet so much flattered," con- 
 tinued his lordship, approaching, as he spoke, 
 and raising his voice, but not above its most 
 mellifluous pitch ; " to have his verses read by 
 such eyes — to have them chanted by such a 
 minstrel, were honour too high for the noblest 
 bards of the noblest days of poetry — for me it 
 is a happiness almost too great — yet if the re- 
 quest be not a presumptuous one, may I, in all 
 humility, pray that you will favour me with the 
 music to which you have coupled my most un- 
 deserving — my most favoured lines." 
 
CHAP. XXII.] THE SPINET. 329 
 
 The young lady looked modest, glanced coyly 
 at the paper which lay in her lap — looked mo- 
 dest once more, and then arch again — and at 
 length, with rather a fluttered air, she threw 
 her hands over the keys of the instrument, and 
 to a tune, of which we say enough when we 
 state, that it was in no way unworthy of the 
 words, she sang, rather better than young ladies 
 usually do, the following exquisite stanzas from 
 his lordship's pen ; — 
 
 Tho' Chloe slight me when I woo, 
 
 And scorn the love of poor Philander ; 
 
 The shepherd's heart she scorns is true. 
 His heart is true, his passion tender. 
 
 But poor Philander sighs in vain, 
 In vain laments the poor Philander ; 
 
 Fair Chloe scorns with high disdain, 
 His love so true and passion tender. 
 
 And here Philander lays him down, 
 Here will expire the poor Philander : 
 
 The victim of fair Chloe's frown, 
 Of love so true and passion tender. 
 
 Ah, well-a-day ! the shepherd's dead ; 
 
 Ay, dead and gone, the poor Philander ; 
 And Dryads crown with flowers his head, 
 
 And Cupid mourns his love so tender. 
 
330 THE COCK AND ANCHOR. [chap. xxil. 
 
 During this performance. Lord Aspenly — who 
 had now perfectly recovered his equanimity — 
 marked the time with head and hand, standing 
 the while beside the fair performer, and every 
 note she sang found its way through the wide 
 portals of his vanity directly to his heai't — 
 " Brava, brava, bravissima" — murmured his lord- 
 ship from time to time — " beautifuljbeautifulair — 
 most appropriate — most simple — not a note that 
 accords not with the word it carries — beautiful 
 indeed — a thousand thanks — I have become quite 
 conceited of lines, of which heretofore I was 
 half ashamed — I am quite elated — at once over- 
 powered by the characteristic vanity of the poet, 
 and more than recompensed by the reahty of 
 his proudest aspiration — that of seeing his verses 
 appreciated by a heart of sensibihty, and of 
 hearing them sung by the lips of beauty.*' 
 
 " 1 am but too happy if I am forgiven,'' 
 replied Emily Copland, slightly laughing, and 
 with a heightened colom^, while the momen- 
 tary overflow of merriment was followed by a 
 sigh, and her eyes sunk pensively upon the 
 gi'ound. 
 
CHAP. XXII.] THE SPINET. 331 
 
 This little by-play was not lost upon Lord 
 Aspenly. 
 
 " Poor little thing," he inwardly remarked, 
 " she is in a very bad way — desperate — quite 
 desperate— what a devil of a rascal I am to be 
 sure — egad, its almost a pity — she's a decidedly 
 supenor person — she has an elegant turn of 
 mind — refinement — taste — egad, she is a fine 
 creature — and so simple — she little knows I see 
 it all — perhaps she hardly knows herself what 
 ails her — poor, poor little thing !" 
 
 While these thoughts floated rapidly through 
 his mind, he felt, along with his spite and an- 
 ger towards Mary Ashwoode, a feeling of con- 
 tempt, almost of disgust, engendered by her 
 audacious non-appreciation of his merits — an 
 impertinence which appeared the more mon- 
 strous by the contrast of Emily Copland's ten- 
 derness. She had made it plain enough — by all 
 the artless signs which simple maidens know not 
 how to hide — that his fascinations had done their 
 fatal work upon her heart — he had seen this for 
 several days, but not with the overwhelming 
 distinctness with which he now beheld it. 
 
332 THE COCK AND ANCHOR. [chap. xxn. 
 
 *« Poor, poor little girl," said his lordship to 
 himself, " I am very — very sorry — but it can- 
 not be helped — it is no fault of mine — I am 
 really very — very — confoundedly sorry." 
 
 In saying so to himself, however, he told 
 himself a lie ; for, instead of being grieved, he 
 was pleased beyond measure, a fact which he 
 might have ascertained by a single glance at 
 the reflection of his wreathed smiles in the pon- 
 derous mirror which hung forward from the 
 pier between the windoAvs, as if staring down 
 in wondering curiosity upon the progress of 
 the flirtation. Not caring to disturb a train of 
 thoughts which his vanity told him were but 
 rivetting the subtle chains which bound another 
 victim to his conquering chariot wheels — the 
 Earl of Aspenly turned, with careless ease, 
 to a table, on which lay some specimens of that 
 worsted tapes try- work, in wliich the fair mai- 
 dens of a century and a half ago were wont to 
 exercise their taste and skill. 
 
 " Your work is very, very beautiful,'* said 
 he, after a considerable pause, and laying down 
 the canvass, upon whose unfinished worsted task 
 he had been for some time gazing. 
 
CHAP, xxn] THE SPINET. 333 
 
 " That is my cousin's work," said Emily, not 
 sorry to turn the conversation to a subject upon 
 which, for many reasons, she wished to dwell — 
 " she used to work a great deal wdth me before 
 she grew romantic — before she fell in love." 
 
 " In love ! — with whom ?" inquu-ed Lord 
 Aspenly, with remarkable quickness. 
 
 *' Don't you know, my lord ?" inquired Emily 
 Copland, in simple wonder — " may be I ought 
 not to have told you — I am sure I ought not — 
 do not ask me any more — I am the giddiest 
 girl — the most thoughtless." 
 
 " Nay, nay," said Lord Aspenly, " you need 
 not be afraid to trust me — I never tell tales ; 
 aud now that I know the fact that she is in 
 love, there can be no harm in telling me the less 
 important particulars. On my honour," conti- 
 nued his lordship, with real earnestness and 
 affected playfulness, " upon my sacred honour, 
 I shall not breathe one syllable of it to mortal — 
 I shall be as secret as the tomb. Who is the 
 happy person in question ?" 
 
 " Well, my lord, joxx'W. promise not to betray 
 me," replied she ; *' I know very well I ought 
 
334 THE COCK AND ANCHOR. [chap. xxii. 
 
 not to have said a word about it — but as I have 
 made the blunder, I see no harm in telling you 
 all I know — but you will be secret ?" 
 
 " On my honour — on my life and soul I 
 swear," exclaimed his lordship, with unaffected 
 eagerness. 
 
 '* Well, then, the happy man is a Mr. Ed- 
 mond O'Connor," replied she. 
 
 " O'Connor — O'Connor — I never saw nor 
 heard of the man before," rejoined the earl, 
 reflectively. Is he wealthy ?" 
 
 " Oh ! no, a mere beggar man," replied Emily, 
 '* and a Papist to boot." 
 
 " Ha, ha, ha — he, he, he ! a papist beggar," 
 exclaimed his lordship, with an hysterical gig- 
 gle, which was intended for a careless laugh. 
 " Has he any conversation — any manner — any 
 attraction of that kind ?" 
 
 *' Oh ! none in the Avorld — both ignorant, 
 and, / think, vulgar," replied Emily. " In 
 short, he is very nearly a stupid boor." 
 
 '« Excellent — ha, ha — he, he, he ! — ugh ! ugh ! 
 — very capital — excellent, excellent !" exclaimed 
 his lordship, although he might have found some 
 
CHAP. XXII.] THE SPINET. 33o 
 
 difficulty in explaining in what, precisely, the 
 peculiar excellence of the announcement con- 
 sisted — *' Is he — is he — a — a — handsome f 
 
 " Decidedly 726>^ what / consider handsome," 
 replied she; ''he is a large, coarse-looking fel- 
 low, with very broad shoulders — very large — 
 and, as they say of oxen, in very great condi- 
 tion — a sort of a prize man.'' 
 
 " Ha, ha ! — ugh ! ugh ! — he, he, he, he, he ! 
 — ugh, ugh, ugh ! — de — lightful — quite delight- 
 ful !" exclaimed the earl, in a tone of intense 
 chagrin, for he was conscious that his own figure 
 was perhaps a little too scraggy, and his legs a 
 leetle too nearly approaching the genus spindle, 
 and being so, there was no trait in the female 
 character which he so inveterately abhorred and 
 despised as their tendency to prefer those figures 
 which exhibited a due proportion of thew and 
 muscle. Under a cloud of rappee, his lordship 
 made a desperate attempt to look perfectly de- 
 lighted and amused, and aifected a retreat to 
 the window, where he again indulged in a titter 
 of unutterable spite and vexation. 
 
 *' And Avhat says Sir Richard to the advances 
 
336 THE COCK AND ANCHOR. [chap. xxii. 
 
 of this very desirable gentleman ?" inquired he, 
 after a little time. 
 
 " Sir Richard is, of course, violently against 
 it," replied Emily Copland. 
 
 *' So I should have supposed," returned the 
 little nobleman briskly ; and tuniing again to 
 the window, he relapsed into silence — looked 
 out intently for some minutes — took more snuff 
 — and finally, consulting his watch, with a few 
 words of apology, and a gracious smile and a 
 bow, quitted the room. 
 
cHAJ'. xxiii.] THE DARK ROOM. 337 
 
 CHAPTER XXIli. 
 
 THE DARK ROOM CONTAINING PLENTY OF SCARS AND BRUISES 
 
 AND PLANS OF VENGEANCE. 
 
 On the Fame day a very different scene ^vas 
 passing in another quarter, Avliither for a few 
 moments we must transport the reader. In a 
 large and aristocratic-looking brick house, situ- 
 ated near the then fashionable suburb of Glas- 
 nevin, surrounded by stately trees, and ^vithin 
 furnished with the most prodigal splendour, 
 combined with the strictest and most minute 
 attention to comfort and luxury, and in a large 
 and lofty chamber, carefully darkened, screened 
 round by the rich and voluminous folds of the 
 silken curtains, with spider-tables laden with 
 fruits and mnes and phials of medicine, crowded 
 around him, and rather buried than supported 
 among a luxurious pile of pillows lay — in sore 
 bodily torment, with fevered pulse, and heart 
 
 VOL. I. Q 
 
338 THE COCK AND ANCHOR. [chap, xxiii. 
 
 and brain busy with a thousand projects of 
 revenge — the identical Nicholas Blarden, whose 
 signal misadventure in the theatre, upon the 
 preceding evening, we have already recorded. 
 A decent-looking matron sate in a capacious 
 chair, near the bed, in the capacity of nurse- 
 tender : while her constrained and restless man- 
 ner, as well as the frightened expression with 
 which, from time to time, she stole a glance at 
 the bloated mass of scars and bruises, of which 
 she had the care, pretty plainly argued the 
 sweet and patient resignation with which her 
 charge endured his sufferings. In the recess of 
 the curtained window sate a little black boy, 
 arrayed according to the prevailing fashion, in a 
 fancy suit, and with a turban on his head, and 
 carrying in his awe-struck countenance, as well 
 as in the immobility of his attitude, a woeful 
 contradiction to the gaiety of his attire. 
 
 " Drink — drink — where's that d d hag ? — 
 
 give me drink I say !" howled the prostrate 
 gambler. 
 
 The woman started to her feet, and with a 
 step which fell noiselessly upon the deep-piled 
 
CHAV. xxiii.] THE DARK ROOM. 339 
 
 carpets whicli covered tlie floor, she hastened to 
 supply hlin. 
 
 " Not that, you Here, you — you hltick 
 
 devil's limb, Pompey, sth' and be d d. G — 's 
 
 death, am I to be choked with drought among 
 you. Not that I tell you, you witch — the iced 
 water ; now hock — pour in the hock — more — 
 more^ you devil's cub — stop — enough — so — so." 
 He made an attempt to take the glass which 
 held the draught, but the effort cost him such a 
 pang, as made him howl hideously through his 
 set teeth. 
 
 " d — n you for a pair of idiots — don't 
 
 you see I can't take it myself— hold it to my 
 mouth — up with it, you cursed booby." 
 
 He had hardly swallowed the draught, when 
 a low knock at the door announced a visitor. 
 
 " Come in, can't you ?" shouted Blarden. 
 
 "How do you feel now, Nicky dear?" in- 
 quired a female voice — and a handsome face, 
 with rather a bold expression, and crowned by a 
 small mob cap, overlaid with a profusion of the 
 richest lace, peeped into the room through the 
 half-open door — " how do you feel ?" 
 
340 THE COCK AND ANCHOR. [cHtP xxiii. 
 
 " In hell — that's all," shouted he. 
 
 " Doctor Mallarde is below, love," added she, 
 without evincing either surprise or emotion of 
 any kind at the concise announcement which 
 the patient had just delivered. 
 
 " Let him come up then," was the reply. 
 
 " And a Mr. M'Quirk — a messenger from 
 Mr. Chancey." 
 
 "Let him come up too. But why the hell 
 did not Chancey come himself? — That will do 
 — pack — be off. ' 
 
 The lady tossed her head, like one having 
 authority, looked half inclined to say something 
 sharp, but thought better of it, and contented 
 herself with shutting the door with more em- 
 phasis than Doctor Mallarde would have recom- 
 mended. 
 
 The physician of those days was a solemn 
 personage : he would as readily have appeared 
 without his head, as without his full-bottomed 
 wig ; and his ponderous gold-headed cane was 
 a sort of fifth limb, the supposition of whose 
 absence involved a contradiction to the laws of 
 anatomy; his dress was rich and funereal ; his 
 
CHAi. XXIII.] THE DARK ROOM. 341 
 
 step was slow and pompous ; his Avords very 
 long and very few ; his look was mysterious ; 
 his nod awful ; and the shake of his head 
 unfathomable : in short, he was in no respect 
 veiy much better than a modern cliarlatan. 
 The science which he professed was then over- 
 grown with absurdities and mystification. The 
 temper of the times was superstitious and credu- 
 lous, the physician, being wise in his generation, 
 framed his outward man (including his air and 
 language) accordingly, and the populace swal- 
 lowed his long words and bis electuaries with 
 equal faith. 
 
 Doctor Mallarde was a doctor-Uke person, 
 and, in theatrical phraseology, looked the part 
 well. He was tall and stately, saturnine and 
 sallow in aspect, had bushy grizzled brows, 
 and a severe and prominent dark eye, a thin, 
 hooked nose, and a | air of lips just as thin 
 as it. Along with these advantages he had 
 a habit of pressing the gold head of his pro- 
 fessional cane against one comer of his mouth, 
 in a way which produced a sinister and mys- 
 terious distortion of that organ ; and by ex- 
 
 Q-2 
 
342 THE COCK AND ANCHOR. [chap, xxiii. 
 
 hibiting the medical Ijaton, the outward and 
 visible sign of doctorship, in immediate juxta- 
 position with the fountain of language, added 
 enormously to the gravity and authority of the 
 words which from time to time proceeded there- 
 from. 
 
 In the presence of such u spectre as this — 
 intimately associated with all that w^as nauseous 
 and deadly on earth — it is hardly to be won- 
 dered at that even Nicholas Blarden felt him- 
 self somewhat uneasy and abashed. The phy- 
 sician felt his pulse, gazing the while upon the 
 ceiling, and pressing the gold head of his cane, 
 as usual, to the corner of his mouth ; made him 
 put out his tongue, asked him innumerable 
 questions, which we forbear to publish, and 
 ended by forbidding his patient the use of every 
 comfort in which he had hitherto found relief, 
 and by writing a prescription which might hiwe 
 furnished a country dispensary with good things 
 for a twelvemonth. He then took his leave 
 and his fee, with the grisly announcement, that 
 inless the drugs were all swallowed, and the 
 utlier matters attended to in a spirit of absolute 
 
CHAP, xxiii ] THK DARK ROOM. 343 
 
 submission, he would not answer for the Ufe of" 
 the patient. 
 
 '' I am d d glad he's gone at last," ex- 
 claimed Blarden, with a kind of gasp, as if a 
 weif^ht had been removed from his breast. 
 " Curse me, if I did not feel all the time as 
 if my coffin was in the room. Ai'e you there, 
 M 'Quirk?" 
 
 " Here I am, ]Mr. Blarden," rejoined the per- 
 son addressed, whom w^e may as well describe, 
 as we shall have more to say about him by- 
 and-by. 
 
 Mr. M'Quirk was a small, wiry man, of fifty 
 years and upwards, arrayed in that style which 
 is usually described as "shabby genteel." He 
 was gifted with one of those mean and common- 
 place countenances which seem expressly made 
 for the effectual concealment of the thoughts 
 and feelings of the possessor — an advantage 
 which he further secured by habitually keeping 
 his eyes us nearly closed as might be, so that, 
 for any indication afforded by them of the move- 
 ments of the inward man, they might as well 
 have been shut up altogether. The peculiarity. 
 
344 THE COCK AND ANCHOR. [chap, xxiii. 
 
 if not the grace, of his appearance, was height- 
 ened by a contraction of the muscles at the 
 nape of the neck, which drew his liead back- 
 ward, and produced a corresponding elevation 
 of the chin, which, along with a certain habitual 
 toss of the head, gave to his appearance a kind 
 of caricatured affectation of superciliousness and 
 hauteiLT^ very impressive to behold. Along 
 with the swing of the head, which we have 
 before noticed, there was, whenever he spoke, 
 a sort of careless libration of the whole body, 
 which, together with a certain way of jerking 
 or twitching the right shoulder from time to 
 time, Avere the only approaches to gesticulation 
 in which he indulged. 
 
 " Well, what does your master say ?" inquired 
 Blarden — " out with it, can't you." 
 
 '' Master — master — indeed ! Cock him up w^th 
 master" echoed the man, w^ith lofty disdain. 
 
 " Ay ! vv'hat does he say ?" reiterated Blar- 
 den, in no very musical tones, " D you, 
 
 are you choking, or moon-?truck ? Out with 
 it, can't you." 
 
 " Chancey says that you had better think 
 
CHAP. XXIII.] THE DARK ROOM. 346 
 
 the matter over — and that's his opinion," replied 
 M'Quirk. 
 
 " And a b y tine opinion it is,'' rejoined 
 
 Blarden, furiously. *' Why, in hell's name, 
 what's the matter with him — the — the drivelling 
 idiot ? AV hat's law for — what's the courts for ? 
 Am I to be trounced and cudgelled in the face of 
 
 hundreds, and — and hsilf murdered, by , and 
 
 nothing for it ? I tell you, I'll be beggared and 
 
 d d, before the scoundi'el shall escape. If 
 
 every penny I'm worth in the world can buy it, 
 
 I'll have justice — by I will. Tell that 
 
 sleepy sot, Chancey, that I'll make him work, 
 lio — — o — oh !" bawled the wretch, a< his an- 
 guish all returned a hundred-fold in the fruitless 
 
 attempt to raise himself in bed. *' Oh! 
 
 blast it, if I had but my Hmbs, I'd drive sense 
 into him, Td rouse him, I'd shake him, by " 
 
 ^Ir. M' Quirk inwardly rejoiced that his dear 
 friend and patron, Nickey Blarden, did Jiot hap- 
 pen to have the use of his limbs at that precise 
 moment. 
 
 *' Drink, here — drbik — Vm choking I" ex- 
 claimed the patient, in a hoar.-e, sulky tone. 
 
346 THE COCK AND ANCHOR. [ch\p. xxiii. 
 
 *' Hock and water. D you, don't look so 
 
 stupid and frightened. I'll not be bamboozled 
 by an old 'pothecary. Quick with it, you fum- 
 bling witch." 
 
 He finished the draught, and lay silently for 
 a time. 
 
 " See — mind me, M'Quirk," he said, after 
 a pause, '' tell Chancey to come out himself — 
 tell him to be here before evening, or I'll make 
 him sorry for it, do you mind ; I want to give 
 him directions. Tell him to come at once, or 
 I'll make him smoke for it, that's all." 
 
 *' I understand — all right — very well ; and so, 
 as you seem settling for a snooze, I wish you 
 good evening, Mr. Blarden, and all sorts of 
 pleasure and happiness," rejoined the messenger. 
 
 The patient answered by a grin and a stifled 
 howl, and ]\Ir. M*Quirk, having his head 
 within the curtains, which screened him effec- 
 tually from the observation of the tAvo atten- 
 dants, and observing that Mr. Blarden's eyes 
 were closely shut in the rigid compression of 
 pain, put out his tongue, and indulged for a 
 few seconds in an exceedingly ugly grimace. 
 
CHAP, xxiii.] THE DARK ROOM. 347 
 
 after which, repeating his farewell in a tone of 
 respectful sympathy, he took his departure, 
 chuckling inwardly all the way down stairs, 
 for the little gentleman had a playful tui-n for 
 mischief. 
 
 When Gordon Chancey, esquire, barrister-at- 
 law, in obedience to this summons, arrived at 
 Cherry Hill, for so the residence of the sick 
 voluptuary was called, he found his loving 
 friend and patron, Nicholas Blarden, babbling 
 not of green fields, but of green curtains, thea- 
 tres, dice boxes, bright eyes, small swords, and 
 the shades infernal — in a word, in a high state 
 of delirium. On calling next day, however, he 
 beheld him much recovered; and after an ex- 
 tremely animated discussion, these two well- 
 assorted confederates at length, by their united 
 ingenuity, succeeded in roughly sketching the 
 outlines of a plan of terrific vengeance, in all 
 respects worthy of the diabolical council in 
 which it originated, and of whose progress and 
 development this history vei-y fully treats. 
 
 END OF VOLUME I. 
 
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 PRINTED BY J. S. FOLDS AND SON, 
 
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