A BED IN THE "COCK AND ANCHOR"--A LANTERN AND AN UGLY VISITOR BY THE
BEDSIDE.
Leaving the public room to such as chose to push their revels beyond
the modesty of midnight, our young friend betook himself to his
chamber; where, snugly deposited in one of the snuggest beds which the
"Cock and Anchor" afforded, with the ample tapestry curtains drawn from
post to post, while the rude wind buffeted the casements and moaned
through the antique chimney-tops, he was soon locked in the deep,
dreamless slumber of fatigue.
How long this sweet oblivion may have lasted it was not easy to say;
some hours, however, had no doubt intervened, when the sleeper was
startled from his repose by a noise at his chamber door. The latch was
raised, and someone bearing a shaded light entered the room and
cautiously closed the door again. In the belief that the intruder was
some guest or domestic of the inn who either mistook the room or was
not aware of its occupation, the young man coughed once or twice
slightly in token of his presence, and observing that his signal had
not the desired effect, he inquired rather sharply,--
"Who is there?"
The only answer returned was a long "Hist!" and forthwith the steps of
the unseasonable visitor were directed to the bedside. The person thus
disturbed had hardly time to raise himself half upright when the
curtains at one side were drawn apart, and by the imperfect light which
forced its way through the horn enclosure of a lantern, he beheld the
bronzed and sinister features of his fireside companion of the previous
evening. The stranger was arrayed for the road, with his cloak and
cocked hat on. Both parties, the visited and the visitor, for a time
remained silent and in the same fixed attitude.
"Pray, sir," at length inquired the person thus abruptly intruded upon,
"to what special good fortune do I owe this most unlooked-for visit?"
The elder man made no reply; but deliberately planted the large dingy
lantern which he carried upon the bed in which the young man lay.
"You have tarried somewhat too long over the wine-cup," continued he,
not a little provoked at the coolness of the intruder. "This, sir, is
not your chamber; seek it elsewhere. I am in no mood to bandy jests.
You will consult your own ease as well as mine by quitting this room
with all dispatch."
"Young gentleman," replied the elder man in a low, firm tone, "I have
used short ceremony in disturbing you thus. To judge from your face you
are no less frank than hardy. You will not require apologies when you
have heard me. When I last night sate with you I observed about you a
token long since familiar to me as the light--you wear it on your
finger--it is a diamond ring. That ring belonged to a dear friend of
mine--an old comrade and a tried friend in a hundred griefs and perils:
the owner was Richard O'Connor. I have not heard from him for ten years
or more. Can you say how he fares?"
"The brave soldier and good man you have named was my father," replied
the young man, mournfully.
"_Was!_" repeated the stranger. "Is he then no more--is he dead?"
"Even so," replied the young man, sadly.
"I knew it--I felt it. When I saw that jewel last night something smote
at my heart and told me, that the hand that wore it once was cold. Ah,
me! it was a friendly and a brave hand. Through all the wars of King
James" (and so saying he touched his hat) "we were together, companions
in arms and bosom friends. He was a comely man and a strong; no
hardship tired him, no difficulty dismayed him; and the merriest fellow
he was that ever trod on Irish ground. Poor O'Connor! in exile; away,
far away from the country he loved so well; among foreigners too. Well,
well, wheresoever they have laid thee, there moulders not a truer nor a
braver heart in the fields of all the world!"
He paused, sighed deeply, and then continued,--
"Sorely, sorely are thine old comrades put to it, day by day, and night
by night, for comfort and for safety--sorely vexed and pillaged.
Nevertheless--over-ridden, and despised, and scattered as we are,
mercenaries and beggars abroad, and landless at home--still something
whispers in my ear that there will come at last a retribution, and such
a one as will make this perjured, corrupt, and robbing ascendency a
warning and a wonder to all after times. Is it a common thing, think
you, that all the gentlemen, all the chivalry of a whole country--the
natural leaders and protectors of the people--should be stripped of
their birthright, ay, even of the poor privilege of seeing in this
their native country, strangers possessing the inheritances which are
in _all_ right their own; cast abroad upon the world; soldiers of
fortune, selling their blood for a bare subsistence; many of them dying
of want; and all because for honour and conscience sake they refused to
break the oath which bound them to a ruined prince? Is it a slight
thing, think you, to visit with pains and penalties such as these, men
guilty of no crimes beyond those of fidelity and honour?"
The stranger said this with an intensity of passion, to which the low
tone in which he spoke but gave an additional impressiveness. After a
short pause he again spoke,--
"Young gentleman," said he, "you may have heard your father--whom the
saints receive!--speak, when talking over old recollections, of one
Captain O'Hanlon, who shared with him the most eventful scenes of a
perilous time. He may, I say, have spoken of such a one."
"He has spoken of him," replied the young man; "often, and kindly too."
"I am that man," continued the stranger; "your father's old friend and
comrade; and right glad am I, seeing that I can never hope to meet him
more on this side the grave, to renew, after a kind, a friendship which
I much prized, now in the person of his son. Give me your hand, young
gentleman: I pledge you mine in the spirit of a tried and faithful
friendship. I inquire not what has brought you to this unhappy country;
I am sure it can be nothing which lies not within the eye of honour, so
I ask not concerning it; but on the contrary, I will tell you of myself
what may surprise you--what will, at least, show that I am ready to
trust you freely. You were stopped to-night upon the Southern road,
some ten miles from this. It was _I_ who stopped you!"
O'Connor made a sudden but involuntary movement of menace; but without
regarding it, O'Hanlon continued,--
"You are astonished, perhaps shocked--you look so; but mind you, there
is some difference between _stopping_ men on the highway, and _robbing_
them when you have stopped them. I took you for one who we were
informed would pass that way, and about the same hour--one who carried
letters from a pretended friend--one whom I have long suspected, a
half-faced, cold-hearted friend--carried letters, I say, from such a
one to the Castle here; to that malignant, perjured reprobate and
apostate, the so-called Lord Wharton--as meet an ornament for a gibbet
as ever yet made a feast for the ravens. I was mistaken: here is your
sword; and may you long wear it as well as he from whom it was
inherited." Here he raised the weapon, the blade of which he held in
his hand, and the young man saw it and the hilt flash and glitter in
the dusky light. "And take the advice of an old soldier, young friend,"
continued O'Hanlon, "and when you are next, which I hope may not be for
many a long day, overpowered by odds and at their mercy, do not by
fruitless violence tempt them to disable you by a simpler and less
pleasant process than that of merely taking your sword and unpriming
your pistols. Many a good man has thrown away his life by such boyish
foolery. Upon the table by your bed you will in the morning find your
rapier, and God grant that it and you may long prove fortunate
companions!" He was turning to go, but recollecting himself, he added,
"One word before I go. I am known here as Mr. Dwyer--remember the name,
Dwyer--I am generally to be heard of in this place. Should you at any
time during your stay in this city require the assistance of a friend
who has a cheerful willingness to serve you, and who is not perhaps
altogether destitute of power, you have only to leave a billet in the
hand of the keeper of this inn, and if I be above ground it will reach
me--of course address it under the name I have last mentioned--and so,
young gentleman, fare you well." So saying, he grasped the hand of his
new friend, shook it warmly, and then, turning upon his heel, strode
swiftly to the door, and so departed, leaving O'Connor with so much
abruptness as not to allow him time to utter a question or remark on
what had passed.
The excitement of the interview speedily passed away, the fatigues of
the preceding day were persuasively seconded by the soothing sound of
the now abated wind and by the utter darkness of the chamber, and the
young man was soon deep in the forgetfulness of sleep once more. When
the broad, red light of the morning sun broke cheerily into his room,
streaming through the chinks of the old shutters, and penetrating
through the voluminous folds of the vast curtains of rich, faded damask
which surmounted the huge hearse-like bed in which he lay, so as to
make its inmate aware that the hour of repose was past and that of
action come, O'Connor remembered the circumstances of the interview
which had been so strangely intruded upon him but as a dream; nor was
it until he saw the sword which he had believed irrecoverably lost
lying safely upon the table, that he felt assured that the visit and
its purport were not the creation of his slumbering fancy. In reply to
his questions when he descended, he was informed by mine host of the
"Cock and Anchor," that Mr. Dwyer had left the inn-yard upon his stout
hack, a good hour before daybreak.