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

will remain here—you can have a chamber. Farewell for the present. Conduct Mr. O'Connor to my apartment," he added, addressing the attendants, who were employed in loosening the strained cords which bound his hands; and with this direction, O'Hanlon mingled with the group at the hearth, and began to converse with them in a low voice.

      O'Connor followed his guide through a narrow, damp-stained corridor, with tiled flooring, and up a broad staircase, with heavy oaken balustrades, and steps whose planks seemed worn by the tread of centuries; and then along another passage, more cheerless still than the first—several of the narrow windows, by which in the daytime it was lighted, had now lost every vestige of glass, and even of the wooden framework in which it had been fixed, and gave free admission to the fitful night-wind, as well as to the straggling boughs of ivy which mantled the old walls and clustered shelteringly about the ruined casements. Screening the candle which he carried behind the flap of his coat, to prevent its being extinguished by the gusts which somewhat rudely swept the narrow passage, the man led O'Connor to a chamber, which they both entered. It was not quite so cheerless as the desolate condition of the approach to it might have warranted one in expecting; a wood-fire, which had been recently replenished, blazed and crackled briskly upon the hearth, and shed an uncertain but cheerful glow through the recesses of the chamber. It was a spacious apartment, hung with stamped leather, in many places stained and rotted by the damp, and here and there hanging in rags from the wall, and exposing the bare, mildewed plaster beneath. The furniture was scanty, and in keeping with the place—old, dark, and crazy; and a wretched bed, with very spare covering, was, as it seemed, temporarily strewn upon the floor, near the hearth. The man placed the candle upon a small table, black with age, and patched and crutched up like a battered pensioner, and flinging some more wood upon the fire, turned and left the room in silence.

      Alone, his first employment was to review again and again the strange events of that night; his next was to conjecture the nature of O'Hanlon's promised communication. Baffled in these latter speculations, he applied himself to examine the old chamber in which he sat, and to endeavour to trace the half-obliterated pattern of the tattered hangings. These occupations, along with sundry speculations just as idle, touching the original of a grim old portrait, faded and torn, which hung over the fireplace, filled up the tedious hours which preceded his expected interview with his preserver.

      At length the weary interval elapsed, and the anxiously expected moment arrived. The door opened, and O'Hanlon entered. He approached the young man, who advanced to meet him, and extending his hand, grasped that of O'Connor with a warm and friendly pressure.

Chapter XLVI.

      The Double Conference—Old Papers

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      "When last I saw you," said O'Hanlon, seating himself before the hearth, and motioning O'Connor to take a chair also, "I told you that you ought to tame your rash young blood, and gave you thereupon an old soldier's best advice. It seems, however, that you are wayward and headlong still. Young soldiers look for danger—old ones are content to meet it when it comes, knowing well that it will come often enough, uninvited and unsought; nevertheless, we will pass by this night's adventure, and turn to other matters. First, however, it were meet and necessary that you should have somewhat to refresh you; you must needs be weary and exhausted."

      "If you can give me some wine, it will be very welcome. I care not for anything more to-night," replied O'Connor.

      "That can I," replied he, "and will myself do you reason." He arose, and after a few minutes' absence entered with two flasks, whose dust and cobwebs bespoke their antiquity, and filled two large, long-stemmed glasses with the generous liquor.

      "Young man," said O'Hanlon, "from the moment I saw you in the inner room yonder, I know not how or wherefore my heart clave to you; and now knowing you for the son of my true friend, I feel for you the stronger love. I will tell you now how matters stand with us. I will hide nothing from you. I am old enough to have learned the last lesson of experience—the folly of too much suspicion. I will not distrust the son of Richard O'Connor. I need hardly tell you that those men whom you saw below stairs are no friends of the ruling powers, but devoted entirely to the service and the fortunes of the rightful heir of the throne of England and of Ireland, met here together not without great peril."

      "I had conjectured as much from what I myself witnessed," rejoined O'Connor.

      "Well, then, I tell you this—the cause is not a hopeless one; the exiled king has warm, zealous, and powerful friends where their existence is least suspected," continued O'Hanlon. "In the Parliament of England he has a strong and untiring party undetected—some of them, too, must soon wield the enormous powers of government, and have already gotten entire possession of the ear of the Queen; and so soon as events invite, and the time is ripe for action, a mighty and a sudden constitutional movement will be made in favour of the prince—a movement entirely constitutional and in the Parliament. This will, whether successful or not, raise the intolerant party here into fierce resistance—the resistance of the firelock and the sword; all the usurpers, the perjurers, and the plunderers who now possess the wealth and dignities of this spoiled and oppressed country, will arise in terror to defend their booty, and unless met and encountered, and defeated by the party of the young king in this island, will embolden the malignant rebels of the sister country to imitate their example, and so overawe the Parliament, and frustrate their beneficent intentions. To us, therefore, has fallen the humbler but important task of organizing here, in the heart of this country, and in entire secrecy, a power sufficient for the occasion. Fain would I have thee along with us in so great and good a work, but will not urge you now; think upon it, however—it is not so mad a scheme as you may have thought, but such a one as looked on calmly, with the cold eye of reason, seems practicable—ay, sure of success. Ponder the matter, then; give me no answer now—I will take none—but think well upon it, and after a week, and not sooner, when you have decided, tell me whether you will be one of us or not. Meanwhile, I have other matters to tell you of, in which perhaps your young heart will take a nearer interest."

      He paused, and having replenished their glasses, and thrown a fresh supply of wood upon the fire, he continued,—

      "Are you acquainted with a family named Ashwoode?"

      "Yes," replied O'Connor, quickly, "I have known them long."

      O'Hanlon looked searchingly at the young man, and then continued,—

      "Yes," said he, "I see it is even so—your face betrays it—you loved the young lady, Mary Ashwoode—deny it not—I am your friend, and seek not idly or without purpose thus to question you. What thought you of Henry Ashwoode, now Sir Henry Ashwoode?"

      "He was latterly much—entirely my friend," replied O'Connor.

      "He so professed himself?" asked O'Hanlon.

      "Ay," replied O'Connor, somewhat surprised at the tone in which the question was put, "he did so profess himself, and repeatedly."

      "He is a villain—he has betrayed you," said the elder man, sternly.

      "How—what—a villain! Henry Ashwoode deceive me?" said O'Connor, turning pale as death.

      "Yes—unless I've been strangely practised on—he has villainously deceived alike you and his own sister—pretending friendship, he has sowed distrust between you."

      "But have you evidence of what you say?" cried O'Connor. "Gracious God—what have I done!"

      "I have evidence, and you shall hear and judge of it yourself," replied O'Hanlon; "you cannot hear it to-night, however, nor I produce it—you need some rest, and so in truth do I—make use of that poor bed—a tired brain and weary body need no luxurious couch—I shall see you in the morning betimes—till then farewell."

      The young man would fain have detained O'Hanlon, and spoken with him, but in vain.

      "We have talked enough for this night," said the elder man—"I have it not in my power now to satisfy you—I shall, however, in the morning—I have taken measures for the purpose—good-night."