THE BARONET'S ROOM.
Desperately wounded, O'Connor lay between life and death for many weeks
in the dim and secluded apartment whither O'Hanlon had borne him after
his combat with Sir Henry Ashwoode. There, fearing lest his own
encounter with Wharton, and its startling result, should mark them for
pursuit and search, he placed O'Connor under the charge of trusty
creatures of his own--for some time not daring to visit him except
under cover of the night. This alarm, however, soon subsided; and
consequently less precaution was adopted. O'Connor's wounds were, as we
have said, most dangerous, and for fully two months he lay upon the
fiery couch of fever, alternately raving in delirium, and locked in the
dull stupor of entire apathy and exhaustion. Through this season of
pain and peril he was sustained, however, by the energies of a young
and vigorous constitution. The fever, at length, abated, and the
unclouded light of reason returned; still, however, in body he was
weak, so weak that, sorely against his will, he was perforce obliged to
continue the occupant of his narrow bed, in the dingy and secluded
lodgings in which he lay. Impatient to learn something of her who
entirely filled his thoughts, and of the truth of whose love for him he
now felt the revival of more than hope, he chafed and fretted in the
narrow limits of his dark and gloomy chamber. Spite of all the
remonstrances of the old crone who attended him, backed by the more
awful fulminations of his apothecary, O'Connor would not submit any
longer to the confinement of his bed; and, but for the firm and
effectual resistance of O'Hanlon, would have succeeded, weak as he was,
in making his escape from the house, and resuming his ordinary
occupations and pursuits, as though his health had not suffered, nor
his strength become impaired, so as to leave him scarcely the power of
walking a hundred steps, without the extremest exhaustion and
lassitude. To O'Hanlon's expostulations he was forced to yield, and
even pledged his word to him not to attempt a removal from his hated
lodgings, without his consent and approbation. In reply to a message to
his friend Audley, he learned, much to his mortification, that that
gentleman had left town, and as thus full of disquiet and anxiety, one
day O'Connor was seated, pale and languid, in his usual place by the
window, the door of his apartment opened, and O'Hanlon entered. He took
the hand of the invalid and said,--
"I commend your patience, young man, you have been my _parole_ prisoner
for many days. When is this durance to end?"
"I'faith, I believe with my life," rejoined O'Connor, "I never knew
before what weariness and vexation in perfection are--this dusky room
is hateful to me, it grows narrower and narrower every day--and those
old houses opposite--every pane of glass in their windows, and every
brick in their walls I have learned by rote--I am tired to death. But,
seriously, I have other and very different reasons for wishing to be at
liberty again--reasons so urgent as to leave me no rest by night or
day. I chafe and fret here like a caged bird. I have been too long shut
up--my strength will never come again unless I am allowed to breathe
the fresh air--you are all literally killing me with kindness."
"And yet," rejoined O'Hanlon, "I have never been thought an
over-careful leech, and truth to say, had I suffered you to have your
own way, you would not now have been a living man. I know, as well as
any of them, how to tend a wound, and this I will say, that in all my
practice it never yet has been my lot to meet with so ill-conditioned
and cross-grained a patient as yourself. Why, nothing short of
downright force has kept you in your room--your life is saved in spite
of yourself."
"If you keep me here much longer," replied O'Connor, "it will prove but
indifferent economy as regards my bodily health, for I shall
undoubtedly cut my throat before another week."
"There shall be no need, my friend, to find such an escape," replied
O'Hanlon, "for I now absolve you of your promise, hitherto so well
observed; nay, more, _I_ advise you to leave the house to-day. I think
your strength sufficient, and the occasion, moreover, demands that you
should visit an acquaintance immediately."
"Who is it?" inquired O'Connor, starting to his feet with alacrity,
"thank God I am at length again my own master."
"When I this day entered the yard of the 'Cock and Anchor'," answered
O'Hanlon, "the inn where you and I first encountered, I found a fellow
inquiring after you most earnestly; he had a letter with which he was
charged. It is from Sir Henry Ashwoode, who lies now in prison, and
under sentence of death. You start, and no wonder--his old associates
have convicted him of forgery."
"Gracious Heaven, is it possible?" exclaimed O'Connor.
"Nay, _certain_," continued O'Hanlon, "nor has he any longer a chance
of escape. He has been twice reprieved--but his friend Wharton is
recalled--his reprieve expires in three days' time, and then he will be
inevitably executed."
"Good God, is this--can it be reality?" exclaimed O'Connor, trembling
with the violence of his agitation, "give me the letter." He broke the
seal, and read as follows:--
"EDMOND O'CONNOR,--I know I have wronged you sorely. I have
destroyed your peace and endangered your life. You are more than
avenged. I write this in the condemned cell of the gaol. If you can
bring yourself to confer with me for a few minutes, come here. I
stand on no ceremony, and time presses. Do not fail. If you be
living I shall expect you.
"HENRY ASHWOODE."
O'Connor's preparations were speedily made, and leaning upon the arm of
his elder friend, he, with slow and feeble steps, and a head giddy with
his long confinement, and the agitating anticipation of the scene in
which he was just about to be engaged, traversed the streets which
separated his lodging from the old city gaol--a sombre, stern, and
melancholy-looking building, surrounded by crowded and dilapidated
houses, with decayed plaster and patched windows, and a certain
desolate and sickly aspect, as though scared and blasted by the
contagious proximity of that dark receptacle of crime and desperation
which loomed above them. At the gate O'Hanlon parted from him,
appointing to meet him again in the "Cock and Anchor," whither he
repaired. After some questions, O'Connor was admitted. The clanging of
bolts, and bars, and door-chains, smote heavily on his heart--he heard
no other sounds but these and the echoing tread of their own feet, as
they traversed the long, dark, stone-paved passages which led to the
dungeon in which he whom he had last seen in the pride of fashion, and
youth, and strength, was now a condemned felon, and within a few hours
of a public and ignominious death. The turnkey paused at one of the
narrow doors opening from the dusky corridor, and unclosing it, said,--
"A gentleman, sir, to see you."
"Request him to come in," replied a voice, which, though feebler than
it used to be, O'Connor had no difficulty in recognizing. In compliance
with this invitation, he with a throbbing heart entered the
prison-room. It was dimly lighted by a single small window set high in
the wall, and darkened by iron bars. A small deal table, with a few
books carelessly laid upon it, occupied the centre of the cell, and two
heavy stools were placed beside it, on one of which was seated a
figure, with his back to the light, to conceal, with a desperate
tenacity of pride, the ravages which the terrific mental fever of weeks
had wrought in his once bold and handsome face. By the wall was
stretched a wretched pallet; and upon the plaster were written and
scratched, according to the various moods of the miserable and guilty
tenants of the place, a hundred records, some of slang philosophy, some
of desperate drunken defiance, and some again of terror, but all
bearing reference to the dreadful scene to which this was but the
ante-chamber and the passage. Many hieroglyphical emblems of
unmistakable significance had also been traced upon the walls by the
successive occupants of the place, such as coffins, gallows-trees,
skulls and cross-bones; the most striking among which symbols was a
large figure of death upon a horse, sketched with much spirit, by some
moralizing convict, with a piece of burned stick, and to which some
waggish successor had appropriately added, in red chalk, a gigantic
pair of spurs. As soon as O'Connor entered, the turnkey closed the
door, and he and Sir Henry Ashwoode were left alone. A silence of some
minutes, which neither party dared to break, ensued.