Next day Mistress Betsy Carey bustled1 into her young mistress's chamber2 looking very red and excited.
"Well, ma'am," said she, dropping a short indignant courtesy, "I'm come to bid you good-bye, ma'am."
"How—what can you mean, Carey?" said Mary Ashwoode.
"I hope them as comes after me," continued the handmaiden, vehemently3, "will strive to please you in all pints4 and manners as well as them that's going."
"Going!" echoed Mary; "why, this can't be—there must be some great mistake here."
"No mistake at all, ma'am, of any sort or description; the master has just paid up my wages, and gave me my discharge," rejoined the maid. "Oh, the ingratitude5 of some people to their servants is past bearing, so it is."
And so saying, Mistress Carey burst into a passion of tears.
"There is some mistake in all this, my poor Carey," said the young lady; "I will speak to my brother about it immediately; don't cry so."
"Oh! my lady, it ain't for myself I'm crying; the blessed saints in heaven knows it ain't," cried the beautiful Betsy, glancing devotionally upward through her tears; "not at all and by no means, ma'am, it's all for other people, so it is, my lady; oh! ma'am, you don't know the badness and the villainy of people, my lady."
"Don't cry so, Carey," replied Mary Ashwoode, "but tell me frankly7 what fault you have committed—let me know why my brother has discharged you."
"Just because he thinks I'm too fond of you, my lady, and too honest for what's going on," cried she, drying her eyes in her apron8 with angry vehemence9, and speaking with extraordinary sharpness and volubility; "because I saw Mr. O'Connor's man yesterday—and found out that the young gentleman's letters used to be stopped by the old master, God rest him, and Sir Henry, and all kinds of false letters written to him and to you by themselves, to breed mischief10 between you. I never knew the reason before, why in the world it was the master used to make me leave every letter that went between you, for a day or more in his keeping. Heaven be his bed; I was too innocent for them, my lady; we were both of us too simple; oh dear! oh dear! it's a quare world, my lady. And that wasn't all—but who do you think I meets to-day skulking11 about the house in company with the young master, but Mr. Blarden, that we all thought, glory be to God, was I don't know how far off out of the place; and so, my lady, because them things has come to my knowledge, and because they knowed in their hearts, so they did, that I'd rayther be crucified than hide as much as the black of my nail from you, my lady, they put me away, thinking to keep you in the dark. Oh! but it's a dangerous, bad world, so it is—to put me out of the way of tellin' you whatever I knowed; and all I'm hoping for is, that them that's coming in my room won't help the mischief, and try to blind you to what's going on;" hereupon she again burst into a flood of tears.
"Good God," said Mary Ashwoode, in the low tones of horror, and with a face as pale as marble, "is that dreadful man here—have you seen him?"
"Yes, my lady, seen and talked with him, my lady, not ten minutes since," replied the maid, "and he gave me a guinea, and told me not to let on that I seen him—he did—but he little knew who he was speaking to—oh! ma'am, but it's a terrible shocking bad world, so it is."
Mary Ashwoode leaned her head upon her hand in fearful agitation13. This ruffian, who had menaced and insulted and pursued her, a single glance at whose guilty and frightful14 aspect was enough to warn and terrify, was in league and close alliance with her own brother to entrap15 and deceive her—Heaven only could know with what horrible intent.
"Carey, Carey," said the pale and affrighted lady, "for God's sake send my brother—bring him here—I must see Sir Henry, your master—quickly, Carey—for God's sake quickly."
The young lady again leaned her head upon her hand and became silent; so the lady's maid dried her eyes, and left the room to execute her mission.
The apartment in which Mary Ashwoode was now seated, was a small dressing-room or boudoir, which communicated with her bed-chamber, and itself opened upon a large wainscotted lobby, surrounded with doors, and hung with portraits, too dingy16 and faded to have a place in the lower rooms. She had thus an opportunity of hearing any step which ascended17 the stairs, and waited, in breathless expectation, for the sounds of her brother's approach. As the interval18 was prolonged her impatience19 increased, and again and again she was tempted20 to go down stairs and seek him herself; but the dread12 of encountering Blarden, and the terror in which she held him, kept her trembling in her room. At length she heard two persons approach, and her heart swelled21 almost to bursting, as, with excited anticipation22, she listened to their advance.
"Here's the room for you at last," said the voice of an old female servant, who forthwith turned and departed.
"I thank you kindly23, ma'am," said the second voice, also that of a female, and the sentence was immediately followed by a low, timid knock at the chamber door.
"Come in," said Mary Ashwoode, relieved by the consciousness that her first fears had been delusive—and a good-looking wench, with rosy24 cheeks, and a clear, good-humoured eye, timidly and hesitatingly entered the room, and dropped a bashful courtesy.
"Who are you, my good girl, and what do you want with me?" inquired Mary, gently.
"I'm the new maid, please your ladyship, that Sir Henry Ashwoode hired, if it pleases you, ma'am, instead of the young woman that's just gone away," replied she, her eyes staring wider and wider, and her cheeks flushing redder and redder every moment, while she made another courtesy more energetic than the first.
"And what is your name, my good girl?" inquired Mary.
"Well, Flora," said her new mistress, "have you ever been in service before?"
"No, ma'am, if you please," replied she, "unless in the old Saint Columbkil."
"The old Saint Columbkil," rejoined Mary. "What is that, my good girl?"
The ignorance implied in this question was so incredibly absurd, that spite of all her fears and all her modesty26, the girl smiled, and looked down upon the floor, and then coloured to the eyes at her own presumption27.
"It's the great wine-tavern and eating-house, ma'am, in Ship Street, if you please," rejoined she.
"And who hired you?" inquired Mary, in undisguised surprise.
"It was Mr. Chancey, ma'am—the lawyer gentleman, please your ladyship," answered she.
"Mr. Chancey!—I never heard of him before," said the young lady, more and more astonished. "Have you seen Sir Henry—my brother?"
"Oh! yes, my lady, if you please—I saw him and the other gentleman just before I came upstairs, ma'am," replied the maid.
"What other gentleman?" inquired Mary, faintly.
"I think Sir Henry was the young gentleman in the frock suit of sky-blue and silver, ma'am—a nice young gentleman, ma'am—and there was another gentleman, my lady, with him; he had a plum-coloured suit with gold lace; he spoke28 very loud, and cursed a great deal; a large gentleman, my lady, with a very red face, and one of his teeth out. I seen him once in the tap-room. I remembered him the minute I set eyes on him, but I can't think of his name. He came in, my lady, with that young lord—I forget his name, too—that was ruined with play and dicing29, my lady; and they had a quart of mulled sack—it was I that brought it to them—and I remembered the red-faced gentleman very well, for he was turning round over his shoulder, and putting out his tongue, making fun of the young lord—because he was tipsy—and winking30 to his own friends."
"What did my brother—Sir Henry—your master—what did he say to you just now?" inquired Mary, faintly, and scarcely conscious what she said.
"He gave me a bit of a note to your ladyship," said the girl, fumbling31 in the profundity32 of her pocket for it, "just as soon as he put the other girl—her that's gone, my lady—into the chaise—here it is, ma'am, if you please."
Mary took the letter, opened it hurriedly, and with eyes unsteady with agitation, read as follows:—
"My dear Mary,—I am compelled to fly as fast as horseflesh can carry me, to escape arrest and the entire loss of whatever little chance remains33 of averting34 ruin. I don't see you before leaving this—my doing so were alike painful to us both—perhaps I shall be here again by the end of a month—at all events, you shall hear of me some time before I arrive. I have had to discharge Carey for very ill-conduct I have not time to write fully35 now. I have hired in her stead the bearer, Flora Guy, a very respectable, good girl. I shall have made at least two miles away in my flight before you read this. Perhaps you had better keep within your own room, for Mr. Blarden will shortly be here to look after matters in my absence. I have hardly a moment to scratch this line.
"Always your attached brother,
"Henry Ashwoode."
Her eye had hardly glanced through this production when she ran wildly toward the door; but, checking herself before she reached it, she turned to the girl, and with an earnestness of agony which thrilled to her very heart, she cried,—
"Is he gone? tell me, as you hope for mercy, is he—is he gone?"
"Who, who is it, my lady?" inquired the girl, a good deal startled.
"My brother—my brother: is he gone?" cried she more wildly still.
"I seen him riding away very fast on a grey horse, my lady," said the maid, "not five minutes before I came up stairs."
"Then it's too late. God be merciful to me! I am lost, I have none to guard me; I have none to help me—don't—don't leave me; for God's sake don't leave the room for one instant——"
There was an imploring36 earnestness of entreaty37 in the young lady's accents and manner, and a degree of excited terror in her dilated38 eyes and pale face, which absolutely affrighted the attendant.
"No, my lady," said she, "I won't leave you, I won't indeed, my lady."
"Oh! my poor girl," said Mary, "you little know the griefs and fears of her you've come to serve. I fear me you have changed your lot, however hard before, much for the worst in coming here; never yet did creature need a friend so much as I; and never was one so friendless before," and thus speaking, poor Mary Ashwoode leaned forward and wept so bitterly that the girl was almost constrained39 to weep too for very pity.
"Don't take it to heart so much, my lady; don't cry. I'll do my best, my lady, to serve you well; indeed I will, my lady, and true and faithful," said the poor damsel, approaching timidly but kindly to her young mistress's side. "I'll not leave you, my lady; no one shall harm you nor hurt a hair of your head; I'll stay with you night and day as long as you're pleased to keep me, my lady, and don't cry; sure you won't, my lady?"
It is a wonderful and a beautiful thing how surely, spite of every difference of rank and kind and forms of language, the words of kindness and of sympathy—be they the rudest ever spoken, if only they flow warm from the heart of a fellow-mortal—will gladden, comfort, and cheer the sorrow-stricken spirit. Mary felt comforted and assured.
"Do you be but true to me; stay by my side in this season of my sorest trouble; and may God reward you as richly as I would my poor means could," said Mary, with the same intense earnestness of entreaty. "There is kindness and truth in your face. I am sure you will not deceive me."
"Deceive you, my lady! God forbid," said the poor maid, earnestly; "I'd die before I'd deceive you; only tell me how to serve you, my lady, and it will be a hard thing that I won't do for you."
"There is no need to conceal41 from you what, if you do not already know, you soon must," said Mary, speaking in a low tone, as if fearful of being overheard; "that red-faced man you spoke of, that talked so loud and swore so much, that man I fear—fear him more than ever yet I dreaded42 any living thing—more than I thought I could fear anything earthly—him, this Mr. Blarden, we must avoid."
"Blarden—Mr. Blarden," said the maid, while a new light dawned upon her mind. "I could not think of his name—Nicholas Blarden—Tommy, that is one of the waiters in the 'Columbkil,' my lady, used to call him 'red ruin.' I know it all now, my lady; it's he that owns the great gaming house near High Street, my lady; and another in Smock Alley43; I heard Mr. Pottles say he could buy and sell half Dublin, he's mighty44 rich, but everyone says he's a very bad man: I couldn't think of his name, and I remember everything about him now; it's all found out. Oh! dear—dear; then it's all a lie; just what I thought, every bit from beginning to end—nothing else but a lie. Oh, the villain6!"
"What lie do you speak of?" asked Mary; "tell me."
"Oh, the villain!" repeated the girl. "I wish to God, my lady, you were safe out of this house——"
"What is it?" urged Mary, with fearful eagerness; "what lie did you speak of? what makes you now think my danger greater?"
"Oh! my lady, the lies, the horrible lies he told me to-day, when Sir Henry and himself were hiring me," replied she. "Oh! my lady, I'm sure you are not safe here——"
"For God's sake tell me plainly, what did they say?" repeated Mary.
"Oh, ma'am, what do you think he told me? As sure as you're sitting there, he told me he was a mad-doctor," replied she; "and he said, my lady, how that you were not in your right mind, and that he had the care of you; and, oh, my God, my lady, he told me never to be frightened if I heard you crying out and screaming when he was alone with you, for that all mad people was the same way——"
"And was Sir Henry present when he told you this?" said Mary, scarce articulately.
"He was, my lady," replied she, "and I thought he turned pale when the red-faced man said that; but he did not speak, only kept biting his lips and saying nothing."
"Then, indeed, my case is hopeless," said Mary, faintly, while all expression, save that of vacant terror, faded from her face; "give me some counsel—advise me, for God's sake, in this terrible hour. What shall I do?"
"Ah, my lady, I wish to the blessed saints I could," rejoined the girl; "haven't you some friends in Dublin; couldn't I go for them?"
"No—no," said she, hastily, "you must not leave me; but, thank God, you have advised me well. I have one friend, and indeed only one, in Dublin, whom I may rely upon, my uncle, Major O'Leary; I will write to him."
She sat down, and with cold trembling hands traced the hurried lines which implored45 his succour; she then rang the bell. After some delay it was answered by a strange servant; and, after a few brief inquiries46, to her unutterable horror she learned that all who remained of the old faithful servants of the family had been dismissed, and persons whose faces she had never seen before, hired in their stead.
These were prompt and decisive measures, and ominously47 portended48 some sinister49 catastrophe50; the whole establishment reduced to a few strangers, and—as she had too much reason to fear—tools and creatures of the wretch51 Blarden. Having ascertained52 these facts, Mary Ashwoode, without giving the letter to the man, dismissed him with some trivial direction, and turning to her maid, said,—
"You see how it is; I am beset53 by enemies; may God protect and save me; what shall I do? my mind—my senses, will forsake54 me. Merciful heaven! what will become of me?"
"Shall I take it myself, my lady?" inquired the maid.
Mary raised herself eagerly, but with sudden dejection, said,—
"No—no; it cannot be; you must not leave me. I could not bear to be alone here; besides, they must not think you are my friend; no, no, it cannot be."
"Well, my lady," said the maid decisively, "we'll leave the house to-night; they'll not be on their guard against that, and once beyond the walls, you're safe."
"It is, I believe, the only chance of safety left me," replied Mary, distractedly; "and, as such, it shall be tried."
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收听单词发音
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1
bustled
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| 闹哄哄地忙乱，奔忙( bustle的过去式和过去分词 )； 催促 | |
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2
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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3
vehemently
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| adv. 热烈地 | |
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pints
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| n.品脱( pint的名词复数 )；一品脱啤酒 | |
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5
ingratitude
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| n.忘恩负义 | |
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6
villain
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| n.反派演员，反面人物；恶棍；问题的起因 | |
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7
frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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8
apron
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| n.围裙；工作裙 | |
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9
vehemence
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| n.热切；激烈；愤怒 | |
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10
mischief
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| n.损害，伤害，危害；恶作剧，捣蛋，胡闹 | |
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11
skulking
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| v.潜伏，偷偷摸摸地走动，鬼鬼祟祟地活动( skulk的现在分词 ) | |
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12
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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13
agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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14
frightful
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| adj.可怕的；讨厌的 | |
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15
entrap
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| v.以网或陷阱捕捉，使陷入圈套 | |
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16
dingy
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| adj.昏暗的，肮脏的 | |
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17
ascended
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| v.上升，攀登( ascend的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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18
interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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19
impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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20
tempted
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| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
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21
swelled
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| 增强( swell的过去式和过去分词 )； 肿胀； （使）凸出； 充满（激情） | |
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22
anticipation
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| n.预期，预料，期望 | |
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23
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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24
rosy
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| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
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25
flora
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| n.(某一地区的)植物群 | |
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26
modesty
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| n.谦逊，虚心，端庄，稳重，羞怯，朴素 | |
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27
presumption
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| n.推测，可能性，冒昧，放肆，[法律]推定 | |
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28
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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29
dicing
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| n.掷骰子，（皮革上的）菱形装饰v.将…切成小方块，切成丁（ dice的现在分词 ） | |
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30
winking
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| n.瞬眼，目语v.使眼色( wink的现在分词 )；递眼色（表示友好或高兴等）；（指光）闪烁；闪亮 | |
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31
fumbling
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| n. 摸索,漏接 v. 摸索,摸弄,笨拙的处理 | |
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32
profundity
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| n.渊博；深奥，深刻 | |
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33
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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34
averting
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| 防止，避免( avert的现在分词 )； 转移 | |
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35
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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36
imploring
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| 恳求的，哀求的 | |
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37
entreaty
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| n.恳求，哀求 | |
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38
dilated
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| adj.加宽的，扩大的v.（使某物）扩大，膨胀，张大( dilate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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39
constrained
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| adj.束缚的,节制的 | |
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40
desolate
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| adj.荒凉的，荒芜的；孤独的，凄凉的；v.使荒芜，使孤寂 | |
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41
conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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42
dreaded
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| adj.令人畏惧的；害怕的v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的过去式和过去分词) | |
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43
alley
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| n.小巷，胡同；小径，小路 | |
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44
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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45
implored
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| 恳求或乞求（某人）( implore的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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46
inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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47
ominously
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| adv.恶兆地，不吉利地；预示地 | |
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48
portended
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| v.预示( portend的过去式和过去分词 )；预兆；给…以警告；预告 | |
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49
sinister
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| adj.不吉利的，凶恶的，左边的 | |
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50
catastrophe
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| n.大灾难，大祸 | |
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51
wretch
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| n.可怜的人，不幸的人；卑鄙的人 | |
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52
ascertained
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| v.弄清，确定，查明( ascertain的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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53
beset
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| v.镶嵌；困扰，包围 | |
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54
forsake
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| vt.遗弃，抛弃；舍弃，放弃 | |
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