The Cock and Anchor. Joseph Sheridan Le Fanu

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СКАЧАТЬ him!—seen whom?—old Nick, if I may judge from your looks. Whom have you seen, dear?" eagerly inquired Miss Copland.

      "I have seen Edmond O'Connor," answered she.

      "Edmond O'Connor!" 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 anything more rash and ill-judged than his coming over just now?"

      "It is indeed, I greatly fear, very rash," replied 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 afraid of Sir Richard as I have been for the last two days; he has been a perfect bruin—begging your pardon, my dear girl—but even you must admit, let filial piety and all the cardinal virtues say what they will, that whenever Sir Richard is recovering from a fit of the gout he is nothing short of a perfect monster. I wager my diamond cross to a thimble, that 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 mood just now to listen to heroics."

      A sharp knocking upon the floor immediately above the chamber in which the young ladies sate, interrupted the conference at this juncture.

      "There is my father's signal—he wants 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!—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 position. The girl is full of nonsense; but what's that to me? she'll unlearn 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.

CHAPTER V.

       Table of Contents

      OF O'CONNOR'S MOONLIGHT WALK TO THE "COCK AND ANCHOR," AND WHAT BEFELL HIM BY THE WAY.

      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 approached the spot, he observed a small man, with a pipe in his mouth, and his person arranged in an attitude of ease and graceful negligence, admirably calculated to exhibit the symmetry and perfection of his bodily proportions. This man had planted himself in the middle of the road, so as completely to command the pass, and, as our reader need scarcely be informed, was no other than Larry 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 bowl with 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 suffer delay or listen to foolery;" and observing that Larry was preparing 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, barrin' a few small exceptions,"—here he glanced complacently at his right leg, which was a little in advance of its companion—"as similiar 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 gentleman, 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 haven't the smallest taste of a conciption who it is you're spakin' too, Mr. O'Connor."

      "And pray who may you be, friend?" inquired he, somewhat surprised at being thus addressed by name.

      "Who else would I be, your honour," rejoined the persevering applicant—"who else could I be, if you had but a glimmer iv light to contemplate my forrum and fatures, but Laurence Toole—called by the men for the most part Misthur Toole, and (he added in a softened tone) by the girls most commonly 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 enough between them about the way things is goin' 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 am to see it. An' there's Miss Emily—that's Miss Copland—a rale jovial slip iv a young lady. I think you've seen her once or twice up at the manor; but now, since her father, the ould General, died, she is stayin' for good with 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?"

      He paused for a moment, and receiving no answer, which he interpreted as a sign that the announcement was operating as it ought, he added with a confidential wink—

      "I thought I might as well put you up to it, you know, for no one knows where a blessin' may light."

      "Larry," said O'Connor, after a considerable silence, somewhat abruptly and suddenly recollecting 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 short of it is, I left Sir Richard more than a week since. Not that I was turned СКАЧАТЬ