THE CONFERENCE--SHOWING HOW OLIVER FRENCH BURST INTO A RAGE AND FLUNG
HIS CAP ON THE FLOOR.
Mr. Audley followed Black M'Guinness as we have said up the stairs, and
was, after an introductory knock at the door, ushered by him into
Oliver French's bed-room. Its arrangements were somewhat singular--a
dressing-table with all the appliances of the most elaborate
cultivation of the graces, and a huge mirror upon it, stood directly
opposite to the door; against the other wall, between the door and this
table, was placed a massive sideboard covered with plate and wine
flasks, cork-screws and cold meat, in the most admired disorder--two
large presses were also visible, one of which lay open, exhibiting
clothes, and papers, and other articles piled together in a highly
original manner--two or three very beautiful pictures hung upon the
walls. At the far end of the room stood the bed, and at one side of it
a table covered with wines and viands, and at the other, a large
iron-bound chest, with a heavy bunch of keys dangling from its lock--a
little shelf, too, occupied the wall beside the invalid, abundantly
stored with tall phials with parchment labels, and pill-boxes and
gallipots innumerable. In the bed, surrounded by the drapery of the
drawn curtains, lay, or rather sat, Oliver French himself, propped up
by the pillows: he was a corpulent man, with a generous double chin; a
good-natured grey eye twinkled under a bushy, grizzled eye-brow, and a
countenance which bore unequivocally the lines of masculine beauty,
although considerably disfigured by the traces of age, as well as of
something very like intemperance and full living: he wore a silk
night-gown and a shirt of snowy whiteness, with lace ruffles, and on
his head was a crimson velvet cap.
Grotesque as were the arrangements of the room, there was,
nevertheless, about its occupant an air of aristocratic superiority and
ease which at once dispelled any tendency to ridicule.
"Mr. Audley, I presume," said the invalid.
Mr. Audley bowed.
"Pray, sir, take a chair. M'Guinness, place a chair for Mr. Audley,
beside the table here. I am, as you see, sir," continued he, "a
confirmed valetudinarian; I suffer abominably from gout, and have not
been able to remove to my easy chair by the fire for more than a week.
I understand that you have some matters of importance to communicate to
me; but before doing so, let me request of you to take a little wine,
you can have whatever you like best--there's some Madeira at your elbow
there, which I can safely recommend, as I have just tasted it
myself--o-oh! d---- the gout--you'll excuse me, sir--a cursed twinge."
"Very sorry to see you suffering," responded Mr. Audley--"very, indeed,
sir."
"It sha'n't, however, prevent my doing you reason, sir," replied he,
with alacrity. "M'Guinness, two glasses. I drink, sir, to our better
acquaintance. Now, M'Guinness, you may leave the room."
Accordingly Mr. M'Guinness withdrew, and the gentlemen were left
_tête-à-tête_.
"And now, sir," continued Oliver French, "be so good as to open the
subject of your visit."
Mr. Audley cleared his voice twice or thrice, in the hope of clearing
his head at the same time, and then, with some force and embarrassment,
observed,--
"I am necessarily obliged, Mr. French, to allude to matters which may
possibly revive unpleasant recollections. I trust, indeed, my dear
sir,--I'm sure that you will not suffer yourself to be distressed or
unduly excited, when I tell you that I must recall to your memory a
name which I believe does not sound gratefully to your ear--the name of
Ashwoode."
"Curse them," was the energetic commentary of the invalid.
"Well, sir, I dare venture to say that you and I are not very much at
variance in our estimate of the character of the Ashwoodes generally,"
said Mr. Audley. "You are aware, I presume, that Sir Richard has been
some time dead."
"Ha! actually _gone_ to hell?--no, sir, I was not aware of this. Pray,
proceed, sir," responded Oliver French.
"I am aware, sir, that he treated his lady harshly," resumed Audley.
"Harshly, _harshly_, sir," cried the old man, with an energy that well
nigh made his companion bounce from his seat--"why, sir, beginning with
neglect and ending with blows--through every stage of savage insult and
injury, his wretched wife, my sister--the most gentle, trusting, lovely
creature that ever yet was born to misery, was dragged by that inhuman
monster, her husband, Sir Richard Ashwoode; he broke her heart--he
killed her, sir--_killed_ her. She was my sister--my only sister; I was
justly proud of her--loved her most dearly, and the inhuman villain
broke her heart."
Through his clenched teeth he uttered a malediction, and with a
vehemence of hatred which plainly showed that his feelings toward the
family had undergone no favourable change.
"Well, sir," resumed Mr. Audley, after a considerable interval, "I
cannot wonder at the strength of your feelings in this matter, more
especially at this moment. I myself burn with indignation scarce one
degree less intense than yours against the worthy son of that most
execrable man, and upon grounds, too, very nearly similar."
He then proceeded to recount to his auditor, waxing warm as he went on,
all the circumstances of Mary Ashwoode's sufferings, and every
particular of the grievous persecution which she had endured at the
hands of her brother, Sir Henry. Oliver French ground his teeth and
clutched the bed-clothes as he listened, and when the narrative was
ended, he whisked the velvet cap from his head, and flung it with all
his force upon the floor.
"Oh, God Almighty! that I had but the use of my limbs," exclaimed he,
with desperation--"I would give the whole world a lesson in the person
of that despicable scoundrel. I would--but," he added bitterly, "I am
powerless--I am a cripple."
"You are not powerless, sir, for purposes nobler than revenge,"
exclaimed Audley, with eagerness; "you may shelter and protect the
helpless, friendless child of calamity, the story of whose wrongs has
so justly fired you with indignation."
"Where is she--where?" cried Oliver French, eagerly--"I ought to have
asked you long ago."
"She is not far away--she even now awaits your decision in the little
village hard by," responded Mr. Audley.
"Poor child--poor child!" ejaculated Oliver, much agitated. "And did
she--could she doubt my willingness to befriend her--good God--could
she doubt it?--bring her--bring her here at once--I long to see
her--poor bird--poor bird--the world's winter has closed over thee too
soon. Alas! poor child--tell her--tell her, Mr. Audley, that I long to
see her--that she is most welcome--that all which I command is heartily
and entirely at her service. Plead my apology for not going myself to
meet her--as God knows I would fain do; you see I am a poor cripple--a
very worthless, helpless, good-for-nothing old man. Tell her all better
than I can do it now. God bless you, sir--God bless you, for believing
that such an ill-conditioned old fellow as I am had yet heart enough to
feel rightly sometimes. I had rather die a thousand deaths than that
you had not brought the poor outcast child to my roof. Tell her how
glad--how very, very happy--how proud it makes me that she should come
to her old uncle Oliver--tell her this. God bless you, sir!"
With a cordial pressure, he gripped Audley's hand, and the old
gentleman, with a heart overflowing with exultation and delight,
retraced his steps to the little village, absolutely bursting with
impatience to communicate the triumphant result of his visit.