his look and presence; I dread him instinctively. For God's sake, dear, dear brother, do not keep company with him—he will harm you—it cannot lead to good."
"This is mere folly—downright raving," said Ashwoode, vehemently, but with an uneasiness which he could not conceal. "He is my guest, and will remain so for some weeks. I must be civil to him—both of us must."
"Surely, dear brother—after all I have said—you will not ask me to associate with him during his stay, since stay he must," urged Mary.
"We ought not to consult our whims at the expense of civility," retorted the baronet, drily.
"But surely my presence is not required," urged she.
"You cannot tell how that may be," replied Ashwoode, abruptly, and then added, abstractedly, as he walked slowly towards the door: "We often speak, we know not what; we often stand, we know not where—necessity, fate, destiny—whatever is, must be. Let this be our philosophy, Mary."
Wholly at a loss to comprehend this incoherent speech, his sister remained silent for some minutes.
"Well, child, how say you?" exclaimed Ashwoode, turning suddenly round.
"Dear brother," said she, "I would fain not meet that man any more while he remains here. You will not ask me to come down."
"A truce to this folly," exclaimed Ashwoode, with loud and sudden emphasis. "You must—you must, I say, appear at breakfast, at dinner, and at supper. You must see Blarden, and talk with him—he's my friend—you must know him." Then checking himself, he added, in a less vehement tone—"Mary, don't act like a fool—you are none: these silly fancies must not be indulged—remember, he's my friend. There, there, be a good girl—no more folly."
He came over, patted her cheek, and then turned abruptly from her, and left the room. His parting caress, however, was not sufficient to obliterate the painful impression which his momentary violence had left, for in that brief space of angry excitement his countenance had worn the self-same sinister expression which had appalled her in her last night's dream.
Chapter XLI.
Of O'Connor and a Certain Travelling Ecclesiastic—And How the Darkness Overtook Them
It has become necessary, in order to a clear and chronologically arranged exposition of events to return for a little while to our melancholy young friend, Edmond O'Connor, who, with his faithful squire, Larry Toole, following in close attendance upon his progress, was now returning from a last visit to the poor fragment of his patrimony, the wreck of his father's fortunes, and which consisted of a few hundred acres of wild woodland, surrounding a small square tower half gone to decay, and bidding fair to become in a few years a mere roofless ruin. He had seen the few retainers of his family who still remained, and bidden them a last farewell, and was now far in his second day's leisurely journey toward the city of Dublin.
The sun was fast declining among the rich and glowing clouds of an autumnal evening, and pouring its melancholy lustre upon the woods and the old towers of Leixlip, as the young man rode into that ancient town. How different were his present feelings from those with which he had last traversed the quiet little village—then his bright hopes and cheery fancies had tinged every object he looked on with their own warm and happy colouring; but now, alas! how mournful the reverse. With the sweet illusions he had so fondly cherished had vanished all the charm of all he saw; the scene was disenchanted now, and all seemed coloured in the sombre and chastened hues of his own deep melancholy; the river, with all its brawling falls and windings, filled his ear with plaintive harmonies, and all its dancing foam-bells, that chased one another down its broad eddies, glancing in the dim, discoloured light of the evening sun, seemed but so many images of the wayward courses and light illusions of human hope; even the old ivy-mantled towers, as he looked upon their time-worn front, seemed to have suffered a century's decay since last he beheld them; every scene that met his eye, and every sound that floated to his ear on the still air of evening, was alike charged with sadness.
At a slow pace, and with a heart oppressed, he passed the little town, and soon its trees, and humble roofs, and blue curling smoke were left far behind him. He had proceeded more than a mile when the sun descended, and the dusky twilight began to deepen. He spurred his horse, and at a rate more suited to the limited duration of the little light which remained, he rode at a sharp trot along the uneven way toward Dublin. He had not proceeded far at this rate when he overtook a gentleman on horseback, who was listlessly walking his steed in the same direction, and who, on seeing a cavalier thus wending his way on the same route, either with a view to secure good company upon the road, or for some other less obvious purpose, spurred on also, and took his place by the side of our young friend. O'Connor looked upon his uninvited companion with a jealous eye, for his night adventure of a few months since was forcibly recalled to his memory by the circumstances of his present situation. The person who rode by his side was, as well as he could descry, a tall, lank man, with a hooked nose, heavy brows, and sallow complexion, having something grim and ascetic in the character of his face. After turning slightly twice or thrice towards O'Connor, as if doubtful whether to address him, the stranger at length accosted the young man.
"A fair evening this, sir," said he, "and just cool enough to make a brisk ride pleasant."
O'Connor assented drily, and without waiting for a renewal of the conversation, spurred his horse into a canter, with the intention of leaving his new companion behind. That personage was not, however, so easily to be shaken off; he, in turn, put his horse to precisely the same pace, and remarked composedly,—
"I see, sir, you wish to make the most of the light we've left us; dark riding, they say, is dangerous riding hereabout. I suppose you ride for the city?"
O'Connor made no answer.
"I presume you make Dublin your halting-place?" repeated the man.
"You are at liberty, sir," replied O'Connor, somewhat sharply, "to presume what you please; I have good reasons, however, for not caring to bandy words with strangers. Where I rest for the night cannot concern anybody but myself."
"No offence, sir—no offence meant," replied the man, in the same even tone, "and I hope none taken."
A silence of some minutes ensued, during which O'Connor suddenly slackened his horse's pace to a walk. The stranger made a corresponding alteration in that of his.
"Your pace, sir, is mine," observed the stranger. "We may as well breathe our beasts a little."
Another pause followed, which was at length broken by the stranger's observing,—
"A lucky chance, in truth. A comrade is an important acquisition in such a ride as ours promises to be."
"I already have one of my own choosing," replied O'Connor drily; "I ride attended."
"And so do I," continued the other, "and doubtless our trusty squires are just as happy in the rencounter as are their masters."
A considerable silence ensued, which at length was broken by the stranger.
"Your reserve, sir," said he, "as well as the hour at which you travel, leads me to conjecture that we are both bound on the same errand. Am I understood?"
"You must speak more plainly if you would be so," replied O'Connor.
"Well, then," resumed he, "I half believe that we shall meet to-night—where it is no sin to speak loyalty."
"Still, sir, you leave me in the dark as to your meaning," replied O'Connor.
"At a certain well of sweet water," said the man with deliberate significance—"is it not so—eh—am I right?"
"No, sir," replied O'Connor, "your sagacity is at fault; or else, it may be, your wit is too subtle, or mine too dull; for, if your conjectures be correct, I cannot comprehend your meaning—nor indeed is it very important that I should."
"Well,