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

but it's a terrible shocking bad world, so it is."

      Mary Ashwoode leaned her head upon her hand in fearful agitation. This ruffian, who had menaced and insulted and pursued her, a single glance at whose guilty and frightful aspect was enough to warn and terrify, was in league and close alliance with her own brother to entrap 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 dingy and faded to have a place in the lower rooms. She had thus an opportunity of hearing any step which ascended the stairs, and waited, in breathless expectation, for the sounds of her brother's approach. As the interval was prolonged her impatience increased, and again and again she was tempted to go down stairs and seek him herself; but the dread 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 swelled almost to bursting, as, with excited anticipation, 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 kindly, 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 rosy 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.

      "Flora Guy, may it please your ladyship," replied the newcomer, with another courtesy.

      "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 modesty, the girl smiled, and looked down upon the floor, and then coloured to the eyes at her own presumption.

      "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 spoke 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 dicing, 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 winking 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, fumbling in the profundity 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 remains of averting 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 fully 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 imploring earnestness of entreaty in the young lady's accents and manner, and a degree of excited terror in her dilated 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 constrained 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?"

      So the poor girl in her own simple way strove to comfort and encourage her desolate mistress.

      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