The Greatest Supernatural Tales of Sheridan Le Fanu (70+ Titles in One Edition). M. R. James

plot, though what worse can befall me? I am netted as completely as their worst malice can desire. It is now seven o'clock. Another hour will determine all my doubts. Hark you, sirrah!" continued he, raising his voice, and addressing a servant who had entered the chamber, "I expect a gentleman upon particular business at eight o'clock. On his arrival conduct him directly to this room."

      He then relapsed into the same train of gloomy and agitated thought.

      Chancey and his burly companion both sat snugly before the fire smoking their pipes in silent enjoyment, while their miserable host paced the room from wall to wall in mental torments indescribable.

      At length the weary interval expired, and within a few minutes of the appointed hour, Nicholas Blarden was admitted by the servant, and ushered into the chamber in which Ashwoode expected his arrival.

      "Well, Sir Henry," exclaimed Blarden, as he swaggered into the room, "you seem a little flustered still—eh? Hope you found your company pleasant. My friends' society is considered uncommon agreeable."

      The visitor here threw himself into a chair, and continued—

      "By the holy Saint Paul, as I rode up your cursed old dusky avenue, I began to think the chances were ten to one you had brought your throat and a razor acquainted before this. I have known men do it under your circumstances—of course I mean gentlemen, with fine friends and delicate habits, and who could not stand exposure and all that kind of thing. I say, Mr. Grimes, my sweet fellow, you may leave the room, but keep within call, do ye mind. Mr. Chancey and I want to have a little confidential conversation with my friend, Sir Henry. Bundle out, and the moment you hear me call your name, bolt in again like a shot."

      Mr. Grimes, without answering, rose and lounged out of the room.

      "Chancey, shut that door," continued Blarden. "Shut it tight, as tight as a drum. There, to your seat again. Now then, Sir Henry, we may as well to business; but first of all, sit down. I have no objection to your sitting. Don't be shy."

      Sir Henry Ashwoode did seat himself, and the three members of this secret council drew their chairs around the table, each with very different feelings.

      "I take it for granted," said Blarden, planting his elbow upon the table, and supporting his chin upon his hand, while he fixed his baleful eyes upon the young man, "I take it for granted, and as a matter of course, that you have been puzzling your brains all day to come at the reason why I allow you to be sitting in this house, instead of clapping your four bones under lock and key, in another place."

      He paused here, as if to allow his exordium to impress itself upon the memory of his auditory, and then resumed,—

      "And I take it for granted, moreover, that you are not quite fool enough to imagine that I care one blast if you were strung up by the hangman, and carved by the doctors, to-morrow—eh?"

      He paused again.

      "Well, then, it's possible you think I have some end of my own to serve, by letting the matter stand over this way. And so I have, by ——. You think right, if you never thought right before. I have an object in view, and it lies with you whether it's gained or lost. Do you mind?"

      "Go on—go on—go on," repeated Ashwoode, gloomily.

      "What a devil of a hurry you're in," observed Blarden, with a scornful chuckle. "But don't tear yourself; you'll have it all time enough. Now I'm going to do great things for you—do you mind me? I'm going, in the first place, to give you your life and your character—such as it is; and, what's more, I'll not let you go to jail for debt neither. I'll not let you be ruined; for Nickey Blarden was never the man to do things by halves. Do you hear all I'm saying?"

      "Yes, yes," said Ashwoode, faintly; "but the condition—come to that—the condition."

      "Well, I will come to that. I will tell you the terms," rejoined Blarden. "I suppose you need not be told that I am worth a good penny, no matter how much. At any rate I'm rich—that much you do know. Well, perhaps you'll think it odd that I have not taken up a little to live more quiet and orderly; in short, that I have not sown my wild oats, and settled down, and all that, and become what they call an ornament to society—eh? You, perhaps, wonder how it comes I have not taken a rib—why I have not got married—eh? Well, I think myself it is a wonder, especially for such an admirer of the sex as I am, and I think it's a pity besides, and so I've made up my mind to mend the matter, do you see, and to take a wife without loss of time. She must have family, for I want that, and she must have beauty, for I would not marry the queen without it—family and beauty. I don't ask money; I have more of my own than I well know what to do with. Family and beauty is what I require. And I have settled the thing in my own mind, that the very article I want, just the thing to a nicety, is your sister—little, bright-eyed Mary—sporting Molly. I wish to marry her, and her I'll have—and that's the long and the short of the whole business."

      "You—you marry my sister," exclaimed Ashwoode, returning the fellow's insolent gaze with a look of indescribable scorn and astonishment.

      "Yes—I—I myself—I, Nicholas Blarden, with more gold than a man could count in three lives," shouted Blarden, returning his gaze with a scowl of defiance—"I condescend to marry the sister of a ruined, beggared profligate—a common forger, who has one foot in the dock at this minute. Down upon your marrow-bones, and thank me for my condescension—down, I say."

      Overwhelmed with indignation and disgust, Ashwoode could not answer. All his self-command was required to resist his vehement internal impulse to strike the fellow to the ground and trample upon him. This strong emotion, however, had its spring in no generous source. No thought or care for Mary's feelings or fate crossed his mind; but only the sense of insulted pride, for even in the midst of all his misery and abasement, his hereditary pride of birth survived: that this low, this entirely blasted, this branded ruffian should dare to propose to ally himself with the Ashwoodes of Morley Court—a family whose blood was as pure as centuries of aristocratic transmission, and repeated commixture with that of nobility, could make it—a family who stood, in consideration and respect, one of the very highest of the country! Could flesh and blood endure it?

      "Make your mind up at once—I have no time to spare; and just remember that the locality of your night's lodging depends upon your decision," said Blarden, coolly, looking at his watch. "If, unfortunately for yourself, you should resolve against the connection, then you must have the goodness to accompany us into town to-night, and the law takes its course quietly with you, and your neck-bone must only reconcile itself to an ugly bit of a twist. If otherwise, you're a made man. Run the matter fairly over in your mind, and see which of us two should desire the thing most. As for me, I tell you plainly, it's a bit of a fancy—no more—and may pass off in a day or two, for I don't pretend to be extraordinarily steady in love affairs, and always had rather a roving eye; and if I should happen to cool, by ——, you'll be in a nice hobble. So I think you had best take the ball at the hop—do you mind—and make no mouths at your good fortune."

      Blarden paused, and looked at his huge chased-gold watch again, and laid it on the table, as if to measure Ashwoode's deliberation by the minute. Meanwhile the young baronet had ample time to recollect the desperate pressure of his circumstances, which outraged pride had for a moment half obliterated from his mind, and the process of remembrance was in no small degree assisted by the heavy tread of the constable, distinctly audible from the hall.

      "Blarden," said Ashwoode, in a voice low and husky with agitation, "she'll never consent—you can't expect it: she'll never marry you."

      "I'm not talking of the girl's consent just now," replied Blarden: "I'm asking only for yours in the first place. Am I to understand that you're agreed?"

      "Yes," replied Ashwoode, sullenly; "what is there left to me, but to agree?"

      "Then leave me alone to gain her consent," retorted Blarden, with a brutal smile. "I have a bit of a winning way with me—a knack of my own—for coming round a girl; and if she don't yield to that, why we must only try another course. When love is wanting, obedience is the next best thing: