The rush of feet among the leaves grew every moment closer and closer upon them, and now they heard the breathing of their pursuer the sounds came near—nearer—they approached—they reached them.
‘Oh, God! they are up with us—they are upon us,’ said Mary, stumbling blindly onward, and at the same moment she felt something laid heavily upon her shoulder—she tottered—her strength forsook her, and she fell helplessly among the branching roots of the old trees.
‘My lady—oh, my lady—thank God, it's only the dog,’ cried Flora Guy, clapping her hands in grateful ecstasies; and at the same time, Mary felt a cold nose thrust under her neck and her chin and cheeks licked by her old favourite, poor Rover. More dead than alive, she raised herself again to her feet, and before her sat the great old dog, his tail sweeping the rustling leaves in wide circles, and his good-humoured tongue lolling from among his ivory fangs. With many a frisk and bound the fine dog greeted his long-lost mistress, and seemed resolved to make himself one of the party.
‘No, no, poor Rover,’ said Mary, hurriedly— ‘we have rambled our last together—home, Rover, home.’
The old dog looked wonderingly in the face of his mistress.
‘Home, Rover—home,’ repeated she, and the noble dog did credit to his good training by turning dejectedly, and proceeding at a slow, broken trot homeward, after stopping, however, and peeping round his shoulder, as though in the hope of some signal relentingly inviting his return.
Thus relieved of their immediate fears, the two fugitives, weak, exhausted, and breathless, reached the great gate, and
The moon was high in the heavens, but the dark, drifting scud was sailing across her misty disc, and giving to her light the character of ceaseless and ever varying uncertainty. The road on which they walked was that which led to Dublin city, and from each side was embowered by tall old trees, and rudely fenced by unequal grassy banks. They had proceeded nearly half-a-mile without encountering any living being, when they heard, suddenly, a little way before them, the sharp clang of horses' hoofs upon the road, and shortly after, the moon shining forth for a moment, revealed distinctly the forms of two horsemen approaching at a slow trot.
‘As sure as light, my lady, it's they,’ said Flora Guy, ‘I know Sir Henry's grey horse—don't stop, my lady—don't try to hide—just draw the hood over your head, and walk on steady with me, and they'll never mind us, but pass on.’
With a throbbing heart, Mary obeyed her companion, and they walked side by side by the edge of the grassy bank and under the tall trees—the distance between them and the two mounted figures momentarily diminishing.
‘I say he's as lame as a hop-jack,’ cried the well-known voice of Nicholas Blarden, as they approached—‘hav'n't you an eye in your head, you mouth, you—look there—another false step, by Jove.’
Just at this moment the girls, looking neither to the right nor left, and almost sinking with fear, were passing them by. ‘Stop you, one of you, will you?’ said Blarden, addressing them, and at the same time reining in his horse.
Flora Guy stopped, and making a slight curtsey, awaited his further pleasure, while Mary Ashwoode, with faltering steps and almost dead with terror, walked slowly on.
‘Have you light enough to see a stone in a horse's hoof, my dimber hen?—have you, I say?’
‘Yes, sir,’ faltered the girl, with another curtsey, and not venturing to raise her voice, for fear of detection.
‘Well, look into them all in turn, will you?’ continued Blarden, ‘while I walk the beast a bit. Do you see anything? is there a stone there?—is there?’ ‘No, sir,’ said she again, with a curtsey. ‘No, sir,’ echoed he— ‘but I say ‘yes, sir,’ and I'll take my oath of it. D——n it, it can't be a strain. Get down, Ashwoode, I say, and look to it yourself; these blasted women are fit for nothing but darning old stockings—get down, I say, Ashwoode.’
Without awaiting for any more formal dismissal, Flora
Meanwhile Nicholas Blarden and Sir Henry Ashwoode mended their pace, and proceeded at a brisk trot toward the manor of Morley Court. Both rode on more than commonly silent, and whenever Blarden spoke, it was with something more than his usual savage moroseness. No doubt their rapid approach to the scene where their hellish cruelty and oppression were to be completed, did not serve either to exhilarate their spirits or to soothe the asperities of Blarden's ruffian temper. Now and then, indeed, he did indulge in a few flashes of savage exulting glee at his anticipated triumph over the hereditary pride of Sir Henry, against whom, with all a coward's rancour, he still cherished a ‘lodged hate,’ and in mortifying and insulting whom his kestrel heart delighted and rioted with joy. As they approached the ancient avenue, as if by mutual consent, they both drew bridle and reduced their pace to a walk.
‘You shall be present and give her away—do you mind?’ said Blarden, abruptly breaking silence.
‘There's no need for that—surely there is none?’ said Ashwoode.
‘Need or no need, it's my humour,’ replied Blarden.
‘I've suffered enough already in this matter,’ replied Sir Henry, bitterly; ‘there's no use in heaping gratuitous annoyances and degradation upon me.’
‘Ho, ho, running rusty,’ exclaimed Blarden, with the harsh laugh of coarse insult—‘running rusty, eh? I thought you were broken in by this time—paces learned and mouth made, eh?—take care, take care.’
‘I say,’ repeated Ashwoode, impetuously, ‘you can have no object in compelling my presence, except to torment me.’
‘Well, suppose I allow that—what then, eh?—ho, ho!’ retorted Blarden.
Sir Henry did not reply, but a strange fancy crossed his mind.
‘I say,’ resumed Blarden, ‘I'll have no argument about it; I choose it, and what I choose must be done—that's enough.’
The road was silent and deserted; no sound, save the ringing of their own horses' hoofs upon the stones, disturbed
‘What are you staring at me for?—am I a stone wall, eh?’ exclaimed Blarden, who instinctively perceived something odd in Ashwoode's air and attitude, spite of the obscurity in which they rode.
The spell was broken. Ashwoode felt as if awaking from a dream, and looked fearfully round, almost expecting to behold the visible presence of the principle of mischief by his side, so powerful and vivid had been the satanic impulse of the moment before.
They turned into the great avenue through which so lately the fugitives had fearfully sped.
‘We're at home now,’ cried Blarden; ‘come, be brisk, will you?’And so saying, he struck Ashwoode's horse a heavy blow with his whip. The spirited animal reared and bolted, and finally started at a gallop down the broad avenue towards the mansion, and at the same pace Nicholas Blarden also thundered to the hall door.