"A capital story, Randal," cried Dick; "but how much of it did you invent?"

"'Pon my life, it is as near the original as possible."

"Besides, that is not a fair way of using a story," said the doctor. "You should take a story as you get it, and not play the dissector upon it, mangling its poor body to discover the bit of embellishment; and as long as a raconteur maintains vraisemblance, I contend you are bound to receive the whole as true."

"A most author-like creed, doctor," said Dick; "you are a story-teller yourself, and enter upon the defence of your craft with great spirit."

"And justice, too," said the Squire; "the doctor is quite right."

"Don't suppose I can't see the little touches of the artist," said the doctor; "but so long as they are in keeping with the picture, I enjoy them; for instance, my friend Randal's touch of the Englishman 'fissling Got safe de King' is very happy—quite in character."

"Well, good or bad, the story in substance is true," said Randal, "and puts the Englishman in a fine point of view—a generous fellow, sharing his supper with his enemy whose sword may be through his body in the next morning's 'affair.'"

"But the Frenchman was generous to him first," remarked the Squire.

"Certainly—I admit it," said Randal. "In short, they were both fine fellows."

"Oh, sir," said Father Phil, "the French are not deficient in a chivalrous spirit. I heard once a very pretty little bit of anecdote about the way they behaved to one of our regiments on a retreat in Spain."

"Your regiments!" said Moriarty, who was rather fond of hitting hard at a priest when he could; "a regiment of friars is it?"

"No, captain, but of soldiers; and it's going through a river they were, and the French, taking advantage of their helpless condition, were peppering away at them hard and fast."

"Very generous indeed!" said Moriarty, laughing.

"Let me finish my story, captain, before you quiz it. I say they were peppering them sorely while they were crossing the river, until some women—the followers of the camp—ran down (poor creatures) to the shore, and the stream was so deep in the middle they could scarcely ford it; so some dragoons who were galloping as hard as they could out of the fire pulled up on seeing the condition of the women-kind, and each horseman took up a woman behind him, though it diminished his own power of speeding from the danger. The moment the French saw this act of manly courtesy, they ceased firing, gave the dragoons a cheer, and as long as the women were within gunshot, not a trigger was pulled in the French line, but volleys of cheers instead of ball-cartridge was sent after the brigade till all the women were over. Now wasn't that generous?"

"'T was a handsome thing!" was the universal remark.

"And 'faith I can tell you, Captain Moriarty, the army took advantage of it; for there was a great struggle to have the pleasure of the ladies' company over the river."

"I dare say, Father Phil," said the Squire, laughing.

"Throth, Squire," said the padre, "fond of the girls as the soldiers have the reputation of being, they never liked them better than that same day."

"Yes, yes," said Moriarty, a little piqued, for he rather affected the "dare-devil,"

"I see you mean to insinuate that we soldiers fear fire."

"I did not say 'fear,' captain—but they'd like to get out of it, for all that, and small blame to them—aren't they flesh and blood like ourselves?"

"Not a bit like you," said Moriarty. "You sleek and smooth gentlemen who live in luxurious peace know little of a soldier's danger or feelings."

"Captain, we all have our dangers to go through; and may be a priest has as many as a soldier; and we only show a difference of taste, after all, in the selection."

"Well, Father Blake, all I know is, that a true soldier fears nothing!" said Moriarty with energy.

"Maybe so," answered Father Phil, quietly. "It is quite clear, however," said Murphy, "that war, with all its horrors, can call out occasionally the finer feelings of our natures; but it is only such redeeming traits as those we have heard which can reconcile us to it. I remember having heard an incident of war, myself, which affected me much," said Murphy, who caught the infection of military anecdote which circled the table; and indeed there is no more catching theme can be started among men, for it may be remarked that whenever it is broached it flows on until it is rather more than time to go to the ladies.

"It was in the earlier portion of the memorable day of Waterloo," said Murphy, "that a young officer of the Guards received a wound which brought him to the ground. His companions rushed on to seize some point which their desperate valour was called on to carry, and he was left, utterly unable to rise, for the wound was in his foot. He lay for some hours with the thunder of that terrible day ringing around him, and many a rush of horse and foot had passed close beside him. Towards the close of the day he saw one of the Black Brunswick dragoons approaching, who drew rein as his eye caught the young Guardsman, pale and almost fainting, on the ground. He alighted, and finding he was not mortally wounded, assisted him to rise, lifted him into his saddle, and helped to support him there while he walked beside him to the English rear. The Brunswicker was an old man; his brow and moustache were grey; despair was in his sunken eye, and from time to time he looked up with an expression of the deepest yearning into the face of the young soldier, who saw big tears rolling down the veteran's cheek while he gazed upon him. 'You seem in bitter sorrow, my kind friend,' said the stripling. 'No wonder,' answered the old man, with a hollow groan. 'I and my three boys were in the same regiment—they were alive the morning of Ligny—I am childless to-day. But I have revenged them!' he said fiercely, and as he spoke he held out his sword, which was literally red with blood. 'But, oh! that will not bring me back my boys!' he exclaimed, relapsing into his sorrow. 'My three gallant boys!'—and again he wept bitterly, till clearing his eyes from the tears, and looking up in the young soldier's handsome face, he said tenderly, 'You are like my youngest one, and I could not let you lie on the field.'"

Even the rollicking Murphy's eyes were moist as he recited this anecdote; and as for Father Phil, he was quite melted, ejaculating in an under tone, "Oh, my poor fellow! my poor fellow!"

"So there," said Murphy, "is an example of a man, with revenge in his heart, and his right arm tired with slaughter, suddenly melted into gentleness by a resemblance to his child."

"'T is very touching, but very sad," said the Squire.

"My dear sir," said the doctor, with his peculiar dryness, "sadness is the principal fruit which warfare must ever produce. You may talk of glory as long as you like, but you cannot have your laurel without your cypress, and though you may select certain bits of sentiment out of a mass of horrors, if you allow me, I will give you one little story which shan't keep you long, and will serve as a commentary upon war and glory in general.

"At the peace of 1803, I happened to be travelling through a town in France where a certain count I knew resided. I waited upon him, and he received me most cordially, and invited me to dinner. I made the excuse that I was only en route, and supplied with but traveling costume, and therefore not fit to present myself amongst the guests of such a house as his. He assured me I should only meet his own family, and pledged himself for Madame la Comtesse being willing to waive the ceremony of a grande toilette. I went to the house at the appointed hour, and as I passed through the hall I cast a glance at the dining-room and saw a very long table laid. On arriving at the reception-room, I taxed the count with having broken faith with me, and was about making my excuses to the countess when she assured me the count had dealt honestly by me, for that I was the only guest to join the family party. Well, we sat down to dinner, three-and-twenty persons; myself, the count and countess, and their twenty children! and a more lovely family I never saw; he a man in the vigour of life, she a still attractive woman, and these their offspring lining the table, where the happy eyes of father and mother glanced with pride and affection from one side to the other on these future staffs of their old age. Well, the peace of Amiens was of short duration, and I saw no more of the count till Napoleon's abdication. Then I visited France again, and saw my old friend. But it was a sad sight, sir, in that same house, where, little more than ten years before, I had seen the bloom and beauty of twenty children, to sit down with three—all he had left him. His sons had fallen in battle—his daughters had died widowed, leaving but orphans. And thus it was all over France. While the public voice shouted 'Glory!' wailing was in her homes. Her temple of victory was filled with trophies, but her hearths were made desolate."

"Still, sir, a true soldier fears nothing," repeated Moriarty.

"Baithershin," said Father Phil. "'Faith I have been in places of danger you'd be glad to get out of, I can tell you, as bould as you are, captain."

"You'll pardon me for doubting you, Father Blake," said Moriarty, rather huffed.

"'Faith then you wouldn't like to be where I was before I came here; that is, in a mud cabin, where I was giving the last rites to six people dying in the typhus fever."

"Typhus!" exclaimed Moriarty, growing pale, and instinctively withdrawing his chair as far as he could from the padre beside whom he sat.

"Ay, typhus, sir; most inveterate typhus."

"Gracious Heaven!" said Moriarty, rising, "how can you do such a dreadful thing as run the risk of bearing infection into society?"

"I thought soldiers were not afraid of anything," said Father Phil, laughing at him; and the rest of the party joined in the merriment.

"Fairly hit, Moriarty," said Dick.

"Nonsense," said Moriarty; "when I spoke of danger, I meant such open danger as—in short, not such insidious lurking abomination as infection; for I contend that—"

"Say no more, Randal," said Growling, "you're done!—Father Phil has floored you."

"I deny it," said Moriarty, warmly; but the more he denied it, the more every one laughed at him.

"You're more frightened than hurt, Moriarty," said the Squire; "for the best of the joke is, Father Phil wasn't in contact with typhus at all, but was riding with me—and 'tis but a joke."

Here they all roared at Moriarty, who was excessively angry, but felt himself in such a ridiculous position that he could not quarrel with anybody.

"Pardon me, my dear captain," said the Father; "I only wanted to show you that a poor priest has to run the risk of his life just as much as the boldest soldier of them all. But don't you think, Squire, 't is time to join the ladies? I'm sure the tay will be tired waiting for us."



CHAPTER XXXIII

Mrs. Egan was engaged in some needlework, and Fanny turning over the leaves of a music-book, and occasionally humming some bars of her favourite songs, as the gentlemen came into the drawing-room. Fanny rose from the pianoforte as they entered.

"Oh, Miss Dawson," exclaimed Moriarty, "why tantalise us so much as to let us see you seated in that place where you can render so much delight, only to leave it as we enter?"

Fanny turned off the captain's flourishing speech with a few lively words and a smile, and took her seat at the tea-table to do the honours. "The captain," said Father Phil to the doctor, "is equally great in love or war."

"And knows about as little of one as the other," said the doctor. "His attacks are too open."

"And therefore easily foiled," said Father Phil; "How that pretty creature, with the turn of a word and a curl of her lip, upset him that time! Oh! what a powerful thing a woman's smile is, doctor? I often congratulate myself that my calling puts all such mundane follies and attractions out of my way, when I see and know what fools wise men are sometimes made by silly girls. Oh, it is fearful, doctor; though, of course, part of the mysterious dispensation of an all-wise Providence."

"That fools should have the mastery, is it?" inquired the doctor, drily, with a mischievous query in his eye as well. "Tut, tut, tut, doctor," replied Father Phil, impatiently; "you know well enough what I mean, and I won't allow you to engage me in one of your ingenious battles of words. I speak of that wonderful influence of the weaker sex over the stronger, and how the word of a rosy lip outweighs sometimes the resolves of a furrowed brow; and how the—pooh! pooh! I'm making a fool of myself talking to you—but to make a long story short, I would rather wrastle out a logical dispute any day, or a tough argument of one of the fathers, than refute some absurdity which fell from a pretty mouth with a smile on it."

"Oh, I quite agree with you," said the doctor, grinning, "that the fathers are not half such dangerous customers as the daughters."

"Ah, go along with you, doctor!" said Father Phil, with a good-humoured laugh. "I see you are in one of your mischievous moods, and so I'll have nothing more to say to you."

The Father turned away to join the Squire, while the doctor took a seat near Fanny Dawson and enjoyed a quiet little bit of conversation with her, while Moriarty was turning over the leaves of her album; but the brow of the captain, who affected a taste in poetry, became knit, and his lip assumed a contemptuous curl, as he perused some lines, and asked Fanny whose was the composition.

"I forget," was Fanny's answer.

"I don't wonder," said Moriarty; "the author is not worth remembering, for they are very rough."

Fanny did not seem pleased with the criticism, and said that, when sung to the measure of the air written down on the opposite page, they were very flowing.

"But the principal phrase, the 'refrain' I may say, is so vulgar," added Moriarty, returning to the charge. "The gentleman says, 'What would you do?' and the lady answers, 'That's what I'd do.' Do you call that poetry?"

"I don't call that poetry," said Fanny, with some emphasis on the word; "but if you connect those two phrases with what is intermediately written, and read all in the spirit of the entire of the verses, I think there is poetry in them—but if not poetry, certainly feeling."

"Can you tolerate 'That's what I'd do'?—the pert answer of a housemaid."

"A phrase in itself homely," answered Fanny, "may become elevated by the use to which it is applied."

"Quite true, Miss Dawson," said the doctor, joining in the discussion. "But what are these lines which excite Randal's ire?"

"Here they are," said Moriarty. "I will read them, if you allow me, and then judge between Miss Dawson and me.

'What will you do, love, when I am going, With white sail flowing, The seas beyond? What will you do, love, when—'"

"Stop thief!—stop thief!" cried the doctor. "Why, you are robbing the poet of his reputation as fast as you can. You don't attend to the rhythm of those lines—you don't give the ringing of the verse."

"That's just what I have said in other words," said Fanny. "When sung to the melody, they are smooth."

"But a good reader, Miss Dawson," said the doctor, "will read verse with the proper accent, just as a musician would divide it into bars; but my friend Randal there, although he can tell a good story and hit off prose very well, has no more notion of rhythm or poetry than new beer has of a holiday."

"And why, pray, has not new beer a notion of a holiday?"

"Because, sir, it works of a Sunday."

"Your beer may be new, doctor, but your joke is not—I have seen it before in some old form."

"Well, sir, if I found it in its old form, like a hare, and started it fresh, it may do for folks to run after as well as anything else. But you shan't escape your misdemeanour in mauling those verses as you have done, by finding fault with my joke redevivus. You read those lines, sir, like a bellman, without any attention to metre."

"To be sure," said Father Phil, who had been listening for some time; "they have a ring in them—"

"Like a pig's nose," said the doctor.

"Ah, be aisy," said Father Phil. "I say they have a ring in them like an owld Latin canticle—

'What will you do, love, when I am go-ing, With white sail flow-ing, The says beyond?'

That's it!"

"To be sure," said the doctor. "I vote for the Father's reading them out on the spot."

"Pray, do, Mister Blake," said Fanny.

"Ah, Miss Dawson, what have I to do with reading love verses?"

"Take the book, sir," said Growling, "and show me you have some faith in your own sayings, by obeying a lady directly."

"Pooh! pooh!" said the priest.

"You won't refuse me?" said Fanny, in a coaxing tone.

"My dear Miss Dawson," said the padre.

"Father Phil!" said Fanny, with one of her rosy smiles.

"Oh, wow! wow! wow!" ejaculated the priest, in an amusing embarrassment, "I see you will make me do whatever you like." So Father Phil gave the rare example of a man acting up to his own theory, and could not resist the demand that came from a pretty mouth. He took the book and read the lines with much feeling, but, with an observance of rhythm so grotesque, that it must be given in his own manner.

WHAT WILL YOU DO, LOVE?

I

"What will you do, love, when I am go-ing, With white sail flow-ing, The seas be-yond? What will you do, love, when waves di-vide us, And friends may chide us, For being fond?"

"Though waves di-vide us, and friends be chi-ding, In faith a-bi-ding, I'll still be true; And I'll pray for thee on the stormy o-cean, In deep de-vo-tion,— That's what I'll do!"

II

"What would you do, love, if distant ti-dings Thy fond con-fi-dings Should under-mine And I a-bi-ding 'neath sultry skies, Should think other eyes Were as bright as thine?"

"Oh, name it not; though guilt and shame Were on thy name, I'd still be true; But that heart of thine, should another share it, I could not bear it;— What would I do?"

III

"What would you do, when, home re-turn-ing, With hopes high burn-ing, With wealth for you,— If my bark, that bound-ed o'er foreign foam, Should be lost near home,— Ah, what would you do?"

"So them wert spar-d, I'd bless the mor-row, In want and sor-row, That left me you; And I'd welcome thee from the wasting bil-low, My heart thy pil-low!— THAT'S what I'd do!"

[Footnote: NOTE TO THE THIRD EDITION.—The foregoing dialogue and Moriarty's captious remarks were meant, when, they appeared in the first edition, as a hit at a certain small critic—a would-be song-writer—who does ill-natured articles for the Reviews, and expressed himself very contemptuously of my songs because of their simplicity; or, as he was pleased to phrase it, "I had a knack of putting common things together." The song was written to illustrate my belief that the most common-place expression, appropriately applied, may successfully serve the purposes of the lyric; and here experience has proved me right, for this very song of "What will you do?" (containing within it the other common- place, "That's what I'd do") has been received with special favour by the public, whose long-continued goodwill towards my compositions generally I gratefully acknowledge.]

"Well done, padre!" said the doctor; "with good emphasis and discretion."

"And now, my dear Miss Dawson," said Father Phil, "since I've read the lines at your high bidding, will you sing them for me at my humble asking?"

"Very antithetically put, indeed," said Fanny; "but you must excuse me."

"You said there was a tune to it?"

"Yes; but I promised Captain Moriarty to sing him this," said Fanny, going over to the pianoforte, and laying her hand on an open music-book.

"Thanks, Miss Dawson," said Moriarty, following fast.

Now, it was not that Fanny Dawson liked the captain that she was going to sing the song; but she thought he had been rather "mobbed" by the doctor and the padre about the reading of the verses, and it was her good breeding which made her pay this little attention to the worsted party. She poured forth her sweet voice in a simple melody to the following words:—

SAY NOT MY HEART IS COLD

I

"Say not my heart is cold, Because of a silent tongue! The lute of faultless mould In silence oft hath hung. The fountain soonest spent Doth babble down the steep; But the stream that ever went Is silent, strong, and deep.

II

"The charm of a secret life Is given to choicest things:— Of flowers, the fragrance rife Is wafted on viewless wings; We see not the charmed air Bearing some witching sound; And ocean deep is where The pearl of price is found.

III

"Where are the stars by day? They burn, though all unseen! And love of purest ray Is like the stars, I ween: Unmark'd is the gentle light When the sunshine of joy appears, But ever, in sorrow's night, 'T will glitter upon thy tears!"

"Well, Randal, does that poem satisfy your critical taste?—of the singing there can be but one opinion."

"Yes, I think it pretty," said Moriarty; "but there is one word in the last verse I object to."

"Which is that?" inquired Growling.

"Ween" said the other, "'the stars, I ween,' I object to."

"Don't you see the meaning of that?" inquired the doctor. "I think it is a very happy allusion."

"I don't see any allusion whatever," said the critic.

"Don't you see the poet alluded to the stars in the milky way, and says, therefore, 'The stars I wean'?"

"Bah! bah! doctor," exclaimed the critical captain; "you are in one of your quizzing moods to-night, and it is in vain to expect a serious answer from you." He turned on his heel as he spoke, and went away.

"Moriarty, you know, Miss Dawson, is a man who affects a horror of puns, and therefore I always punish him with as many as I can," said the doctor, who was left by Moriarty's sudden pique to the enjoyment of a pleasant chat with Fanny, and he was sorry when the hour arrived which disturbed it by the breaking up of the party and the departure of the guests.



CHAPTER XXXIV

When the Widow Rooney was forcibly ejected from the house of Mrs. James Casey, and found that Andy was not the possessor of that lady's charms, she posted off to Neck-or-Nothing Hall, to hear the full and true account of the transaction from Andy himself. On arriving at the old iron gate, and pulling the loud bell, she was spoken to through the bars by the savage old janitor and told to "go out o' that." Mrs. Rooney thought fate was using her hard in decreeing she was to receive denial at every door, and endeavoured to obtain a parley with the gate-keeper, to which he seemed no way inclined.

"My name's Rooney, sir?"

"There's plenty bad o' the name," was the civil rejoinder.

"And my son's in Squire O'Grady's sarvice, sir."

"Oh—you're the mother of the beauty we call Handy, eh?"

"Yis, sir."

"Well, he left the sarvice yistherday."

"Is it lost the place?"

"Yis."

"Oh dear! Ah, sir, let me up to the house and spake to his honour, and maybe he'll take back the boy."

"He doesn't want any more servants at all—for he's dead."

"Is it Squire O'Grady dead?"

"Aye—did you never hear of a dead squire before?"

"What did he die of, sir?"

"Find out," said the sulky brute, walking back into his den.

It was true—the renowned O'Grady was no more. The fever which had set in from his "broiled bones," which he would have in spite of anybody, was found difficult of abatement; and the impossibility of keeping him quiet, and his fits of passion, and consequent fresh supplies of "broiled bones," rendered the malady unmanageable; and the very day after Andy had left the house the fever took a bad turn, and in four-and-twenty hours the stormy O'Grady was at peace.

What a sudden change fell upon the house! All the wedding paraphernalia which had been brought down lay neglected in the rooms where it had been the object of the preceding day's admiration. The deep, absorbing, silent grief of the wife,—the more audible sorrow of the girls,—the subdued wildness of the reckless boys, as they trod silently past the chamber where they no longer might dread reproof for their noise,—all this was less touching than the effect the event had upon the old dowager mother. While the senses of others were stunned by the blow, hers became awakened by the shock; all her absurd aberration passed away, and she sat in intellectual self-possession by the side of her son's death-bed, which she never left until he was laid in his coffin. He was the first and last of her sons. She had now none but grandchildren to look upon—the intermediate generation had passed away, and the gap yawned fearfully before her. It restored her, for the time, perfectly to her senses; and she gave the necessary directions on the melancholy occasion, and superintended all the sad ceremonials befitting the time, with a calm and dignified resignation which impressed all around her with wonder and respect.

Superadded to the dismay which the death of the head of a family produces was the terrible fear which existed that O'Grady's body would be seized for debt—a barbarous practice, which, shame to say, is still permitted. This fear made great precaution necessary to prevent persons approaching the house, and accounts for the extra gruffness of the gate porter. The wild body-guard of the wild chief was on doubly active duty; and after four-and-twenty hours had passed over the reckless boys, the interest they took in sharing and directing this watch and ward seemed to outweigh all sorrowful consideration for the death of their father. As for Gustavus, the consciousness of being now the master of Neck-or-Nothing Hall was apparent in a boy not yet fifteen; and not only in himself, but in the grey-headed retainers about him, this might be seen: there was a shade more of deference—the boy was merged in "the young master." But we must leave the house of mourning for the present, and follow the Widow Rooney, who, as she tramped her way homeward, was increasing in hideousness of visage every hour. Her nose was twice its usual dimensions, and one eye was perfectly useless in showing her the road. At last, however, as evening was closing, she reached her cabin, and there was Andy, arrived before her, and telling Oonah, his cousin, all his misadventures of the preceding day.

The history was stopped for a while by their mutual explanations and condolences with Mrs. Rooney, on the "cruel way her poor face was used."

"And who done it all?" said Oonah.

"Who but that born divil, Matty Dwyer—and sure they towld me you were married to her," said she to Andy.

"So I was," said Andy, beginning the account of his misfortunes afresh to his mother, who from time to time would break in with indiscriminate maledictions on Andy, as well as his forsworn damsel; and when the account was ended, she poured out a torrent of abuse upon her unfortunate forsaken son, which riveted him to the floor in utter amazement.

"I thought I'd get pity here, at all events," said poor Andy; "but instead o' that it's the worst word and the hardest name in your jaw you have for me."

"And sarve you right, you dirty cur," said his mother. "I ran off like a fool when I heerd of your good fortune, and see the condition that baggage left me in—my teeth knocked in and my eye knocked out, and all for your foolery, because you couldn't keep what you got."

"Sure, mother, I tell you—"

"Howld your tongue, you omadhaun! And then I go to Squire O'Grady's to look for you, and there I hear you lost that place, too."

"Faix, it's little loss," said Andy.

"That's all you know about it, you goose; you lose the place just when the man's dead and you'd have had a shuit o' mournin'. Oh, you are the most misfortunate divil, Andy Rooney, this day in Ireland—why did I rear you at all?"

"Squire O'Grady dead!" said Andy, in surprise and also with regret for his late master.

"Yis—and you've lost the mournin'—augh!"

"Oh, the poor Squire!" said Andy.

"The iligant new clothes!" grumbled Mrs. Rooney. "And then luck tumbles into your way such as man never had; without a place, or a rap to bless yourself with, you get a rich man's daughter for your wife, and you let her slip through your fingers."

"How could I help it?" said Andy.

"Augh!—you bothered the job just the way you do everything," said his mother.

"Sure I was civil-spoken to her."

"Augh!" said his mother.

"And took no liberty."

"You goose!"

"And called her Miss."

"Oh, indeed you missed it altogether."

"And said I wasn't desarvin' of her."

"That was thrue—but you should not have towld her so. Make a woman think you're betther than her, and she'll like you."

"And sure, when I endayvoured to make myself agreeable to her——"

"Endayvoured!" repeated the old woman contemptuously. "Endayvoured, indeed! Why didn't you make yourself agreeable at once, you poor dirty goose?—no, but you went sneaking about it—I know as well as if I was looking at you—you went sneakin' and snivelin' until the girl took a disgust to you; for there's nothing a woman despises so much as shilly-shallying."

"Sure, you won't hear my defince," said Andy.

"Oh, indeed you're betther at defince than attack," said his mother.

"Sure, the first little civil'ty I wanted to pay to her, she took up the three-legged stool to me."

"The divil mend you! And what civil'ty did you offer her?"

"I made a grab at her cap, and I thought she'd have brained me."

Oonah set up such a shout of laughter at Andy's notion of civility to a girl, that the conversation was stopped for some time, and her aunt remonstrated with her at her want of common sense; or, as she said, hadn't she "more decency than to laugh at the poor fool's nonsense?"

"What could I do agen the three-legged stool?" said Andy.

"Where was your own legs, and your own arms, and your own eyes, and your own tongue?—eh?"

"And sure I tell you it was all ready conthrived, and James Casey was sent for, and came."

"Yis," said the mother, "but not for a long time, you towld me yourself; and what were you doing all that time? Sure, supposing you wor only a new acquaintance, any man worth a day's mate would have discoorsed her over in the time and made her sinsible he was the best of husbands."

"I tell you she wouldn't let me have her ear at all," said Andy. "Nor her cap either," said Oonah, laughing.

"And then Jim Casey kem."

"And why did you let him in?"

"It was she let him in, I tell you."

"And why did you let her? He was on the wrong side of the door—that's the outside; and you on the right—that's the inside; and it was your house, and she was your wife, and you were her masther, and you had the rights of the church, and the rights of the law, and all the rights on your side; barrin' right rayson—that you never had; and sure without that, what's the use of all the other rights in the world?"

"Sure, hadn't he his friends, sthrong, outside?"

"No matther, if the door wasn't opened to them, for then YOU would have had a stronger friend than any o' them present among them."

"Who?" inquired Andy.

"The hangman" answered his mother; "for breaking doors is hanging matther; and I say the presence of the hangman's always before people when they have such a job to do, and makes them think twice sometimes before they smash once; and so you had only to keep one woman's hands quiet."

"Faix, some of them would smash a door as soon as not," said Andy.

"Well, then, you'd have the satisfaction of hanging them," said the mother, "and that would be some consolation. But even as it is, I'll have law for it—I will—for the property is yours, any how, though the girl is gone—and indeed a brazen baggage she is, and is mighty heavy in the hand. Oh, my poor eye!—it's like a coal of fire—but sure it was worth the risk living with her for the sake of the purty property. And sure I was thinkin' what a pleasure it would be living with you, and tachin' your wife housekeepin', and bringing up the young turkeys and the childhre—but, och hone, you'll never do a bit o' good, you that got sitch careful bringin' up, Andy Rooney! Didn't I tache you manners, you dirty hanginbone blackguard? Didn't I tache you your blessed religion?—may the divil sweep you! Did I ever prevent you from sharing the lavings of the pratees with the pig?—and didn't you often clane out the pot with him? and you're no good afther all. I've turned my honest penny by the pig, but I'll never make my money of you, Andy Rooney!"

There was some minutes' silence after this eloquent outbreak of Andy's mother, which was broken at last by Andy uttering a long sigh and an ejaculation.

"Och? it's a fine thing to be a gintleman," said Andy.

"Cock you up!" said his mother. "Maybe it's a gintleman you want to be; what puts that in your head, you omadhaun?"

"Why, because a gintleman has no hardships, compared with one of uz. Sure, if a gintleman was married, his wife wouldn't be tuk off from him the way mine was."

"Not so soon, maybe," said the mother, drily.

"And if a gintleman brakes a horse's heart, he's only a 'bowld rider,' while a poor sarvant is a 'careless blackguard' for only taking a sweat out of him. If a gintleman dhrinks till he can't see a hole in a laddher, he's only 'feesh—but 'dhrunk' is the word for a poor man. And if a gintleman kicks up a row, he's a 'fine sperited fellow,' while a poor man is a 'disordherly vagabone' for the same; and the Justice axes the one to dinner and sends th' other to jail. Oh, faix, the law is a dainty lady; she takes people by the hand who can afford to wear gloves, but people with brown fists must keep their distance."

"I often remark," said his mother, "that fools spake mighty sinsible betimes; but their wisdom all goes with their gab. Why didn't you take a betther grip of your luck when you had it? You're wishing you wor a gintleman, and yet when you had the best part of a gintleman (the property, I mane) put into your way, you let it slip through your fingers; and afther lettin' a fellow take a rich wife from you and turn you out of your own house, you sit down on a stool there, and begin to wish indeed!—you sneakin' fool—wish, indeed! Och! if you wish with one hand, and wash with th' other, which will be clane first—eh?"

"What could I do agen eight?" asked Andy.

"Why did you let them in, I say again?" said the mother, quickly.

"Sure the blame wasn't with me," said Andy, "but with—"

"Whisht, whisht, you goose!" said his mother. "Av course you'll blame every one and everything but yourself—'The losing horse blames the saddle.'"

"Well, maybe it's all for the best," said Andy, "afther all."

"Augh, howld your tongue!"

"And if it wasn't to be, how could it be?"

"Listen to him!"

"And Providence is over us all."

"Oh! yis!" said the mother. "When fools make mistakes they lay the blame on Providence. How have you the impidence to talk o' Providence in that manner? I'll tell you where the Providence was. Providence sent you to Jack Dwyer's, and kep Jim Casey away, and put the anger into owld Jack's heart—that's what the Providence did!—and made the opening for you to spake up, and gave you a wife—a wife with property! Ah, there's where the Providence was!—and you were the masther of a snug house—that was Providence! And wouldn't myself have been the one to be helping you in the farm—rearing the powlts, milkin' the cow, makin' the iligant butther, with lavings of butthermilk for the pigs—the sow thriving, and the cocks and hens cheering your heart with their cacklin'—the hank o' yarn on the wheel, and a hank of ingins up the chimbley—oh! there's where the Providence would have been—that would have been Providence indeed!—but never tell me that Providence turned you out of the house; that was your own goostherumfoodle."

"Can't he take the law o' them, aunt?" inquired Oonah.

"To be sure he can—and shall, too," said the mother. "I'll be off to 'torney Murphy to-morrow; I'll pursue her for my eye, and Andy for the property, and I'll put them all in Chancery, the villains!"

"It's Newgate they ought to be put in," said Andy.

"Tut, you fool, Chancery is worse than Newgate: for people sometimes get out of Newgate, but they never get out of Chancery, I hear."

As Mrs. Rooney spoke, the latch of the door was raised, and a miserably clad woman entered, closed the door immediately after her, and placed the bar against it. The action attracted the attention of all the inmates of the house, for the doors of the peasantry are universally "left on the latch," and never secured against intrusion until the family go to bed.

"God save all here!" said the woman, as she approached the fire.

"Oh, is that you, ragged Nance?" said Mrs. Rooney; for that was the unenviable but descriptive title the new-comer was known by: and though she knew it for her soubriquet, yet she also knew Mrs. Rooney would not call her by it if she were not in an ill temper, so she began humbly to explain the cause of her visit, when Mrs. Rooney broke in gruffly—

"Oh, you always make out a good rayson for coming; but we have nothing for you to-night."

"Throth, you do me wrong," said the beggar, "if you think I came shooling. [Footnote: Going on chance here and there, to pick up what one can.] It's only to keep harm from the innocent girl here."

"Arrah, what harm would happen her, woman?" returned the widow, savagely, rendered more morose by the humble bearing of her against whom she directed her severity; as if she got more angry the less the poor creature would give her cause to justify her harshness. "Isn't she undher my roof here?"

"But how long may she be left there?" asked the woman, significantly.

"What do you mane, woman?"

"I mane there's a plan to carry her off from you to-night."

Oonah grew pale with true terror, and the widow screeched, after the more approved manner of elderly ladies making believe they are very much shocked, till Nance reminded her that crying would do no good, and that it was requisite to make some preparation against the approaching danger. Various plans were hastily suggested, and as hastily relinquished, till Nance advised a measure which was deemed the best. It was to dress Andy in female attire and let him be carried off in place of the girl. Andy roared with laughter at the notion of being made a girl of, and said the trick would instantly be seen through.

"Not if you act your part well; just keep down the giggle, jewel, and put on a moderate phillelew, and do the thing nice and steady, and you'll be the saving of your cousin here."

"You may deceive them with the dhress; and I may do a bit of a small shilloo, like a colleen in disthress, and that's all very well," said Andy, "as far as seeing and hearing goes; but when they come to grip me, sure they'll find out in a minute."

"We'll stuff you out well with rags and sthraw, and they'll never know the differ—besides, remember, the fellow that wants a girl never comes for her himself, [Footnote: This is mostly the case.] but sends his friends for her, and they won't know the differ—besides, they're all dhrunk."

"How do you know?"

"Because they're always dhrunk—that same crew; and if they're not dhrunk to-night, it's the first time in their lives they ever were sober. So make haste, now, and put off your coat, till we make a purty young colleen out o' you."

It occurred now to the widow that it was a service of great danger Andy was called on to perform; and with all her abuse of "omadhaun" she did not like the notion of putting him in the way of losing his life, perhaps.

"They'll murdher the boy, maybe, when they find out the chate," said the widow.

"Not a bit," said Nance.

"And suppose they did," said Andy, "I'd rather die, sure, than the disgrace should fall upon Oonah, there."

"God bless you, Andy dear!" said Oonah. "Sure, you have the kind heart, anyhow; but I wouldn't for the world hurt or harm should come to you on my account."

"Oh, don't be afeard!" said Andy, cheerily; "divil a hair I value all they can do; so dhress me up at once."

After some more objections on the part of his mother, which Andy overruled, the women all joined in making up Andy into as tempting an imitation of feminality as they could contrive; but to bestow the roundness of outline on the angular form of Andy was no easy matter, and required more rags than the house afforded, so some straw was indispensable, which the pig's bed only could supply. In the midst of their fears, the women could not help laughing as they effected some likeness to their own forms, with their stuffing and padding; but to carry off the width of Andy's shoulders required a very ample and voluptuous outline indeed, and Andy could not help wishing the straw was a little sweeter which they were packing under his nose. At last, however, after soaping down his straggling hair on his forehead, and tying a bonnet upon his head to shade his face as much as possible, the disguise was completed, and the next move was to put Oonah in a place of safety.

"Get upon the hurdle in the corner, under the thatch," said Nance.

"Oh, I'd be afeard o' my life to stay in the house at all."

"You'd be safe enough, I tell you," said Nance; "for once they see that fine young woman there," pointing to Andy, and laughing, "they'll be satisfied with the lob we've made for them."

Oonah still expressed her fear of remaining in the cabin.

"Then hide in the pratee-trench, behind the house."

"That's better," said Oonah.

"And now I must be going," said Nance; "for they must not see me when they come."

"Oh, don't leave me, Nance dear," cried Oonah, "for I'm sure I'll faint with the fright when I hear them coming, if some one is not with me."

Nance yielded to Oonah's fears and entreaties, and with many a blessing and boundless thanks for the beggar-woman's kindness, Oonah led the way to the little potato garden at the back of the house, and there the women squatted themselves in one of the trenches and awaited the impending event.



It was not long in arriving. The tramp of approaching horses at a sharp pace rang through the stillness of the night, and the women, crouching flat beneath the overspreading branches of the potato tops, lay breathless in the bottom of the trench, as the riders came up to the widow's cottage and entered. There they found the widow and her pseudo niece sitting at the fire; and three drunken vagabonds, for the fourth was holding the horses outside, cut some fantastic capers round the cabin, and making a mock obeisance to the widow, the spokesman addressed her with—

"Your sarvant, ma'am!"

"Who are yiz at all, gintleman, that comes to my place at this time o' night, and what's your business?"

"We want the loan o' that young woman there, ma'am," said the ruffian.

Andy and his mother both uttered small squalls.

"And as for who we are, ma'am, we're the blessed society of Saint Joseph, ma'am—our coat of arms is two heads upon one pillow, and our motty, 'Who's afraid?—Hurroo!'" shouted the savage, and he twirled his stick and cut another caper. Then coming up to Andy, he addressed him as "young woman," and said there was a fine strapping fellow whose heart was breaking till he "rowled her in his arms."

Andy and the mother both acted their parts very well. He rushed to the arms of the old woman for protection, and screeched small, while the widow shouted "millia murther!" at the top of her voice, and did not give up her hold of the make-believe young woman until her cap was torn half off, and her hair streamed about her face. She called on all the saints in the calendar, as she knelt in the middle of the floor and rocked to and fro, with her clasped hands raised to heaven, calling down curses on the "villains and robbers" that were tearing her child from her, while they threatened to stop her breath altogether if she did not make less noise, and in the midst of the uproar dragged off Andy, whose struggles and despair might have excited the suspicion of soberer men. They lifted him up on a stout horse, in front of the most powerful man of the party, who gripped Andy hard round the middle and pushed his horse to a hand gallop, followed by the rest of the party. The proximity of Andy to his cavaliero made the latter sensible to the bad odour of the pig's bed, which formed Andy's luxurious bust and bustle; but he attributed the unsavoury scent to a bad breath on the lady's part, and would sometimes address his charge thus:—

"Young woman, if you plaze, would you turn your face th' other way;" then in a side soliloquy, "By Jaker, I wondher at Jack's taste—she's a fine lump of a girl, but her breath is murther intirely—phew—young woman, turn away your face, or by this and that I'll fall off the horse. I've heerd of a bad breath that might knock a man down, but I never met it till now. Oh, murther! it's worse it's growin'—I suppose 't is the bumpin' she's gettin' that shakes the breath out of her sthrong—oh, there it is again—phew!"

It was as well, perhaps, for the prosecution of the deceit, that the distaste the fellow conceived for his charge prevented any closer approaches to Andy's visage, which might have dispelled the illusion under which he still pushed forward to the hills and bumped poor Andy towards the termination of his ride. Keeping a sharp look-out as he went along, Andy soon was able to perceive they were making for that wild part of the hills where he had discovered the private still on the night of his temporary fright and imaginary rencontre with the giants, and the conversation he partly overheard all recurred to him, and he saw at once that Oonah was the person alluded to, whose name he could not catch, a circumstance that cost him many a conjecture in the interim. This gave him a clue to the persons into whose power he was about to fall, after having so far defeated their scheme, and he saw he should have to deal with very desperate and lawless parties. Remembering, moreover, the herculean frame of the inamorato, he calculated on an awful thrashing as the smallest penalty he should have to pay for deceiving him, but was, nevertheless, determined to go through the adventure with a good heart, to make deceit serve his turn as long as he might, and at the last, if necessary, to make the best fight he could.

As it happened, luck favoured Andy in his adventure, for the hero of the blunderbuss (and he, it will be remembered, was the love-sick gentleman) drank profusely on the night in question, quaffing deep potations to the health of his Oonah, wishing luck to his friends and speed to their horses, and every now and then ascending the ladder from the cave, and looking out for the approach of the party. On one of these occasions, from the unsteadiness of the ladder, or himself, or perhaps both, his foot slipped, and he came to the ground with a heavy fall, in which his head received so severe a blow that he became insensible, and it was some time before his sister, who was an inhabitant of this den, could restore him to consciousness. This she did, however, and the savage recovered all the senses the whisky had left him; but still the stunning effect of the fall cooled his courage considerably, and, as it were, "bothered" him so, that he felt much less of the "gallant gay Lothario" than he had done before the accident.

The tramp of horses was heard overhead ere long, and Shan More, or Big John, as the Hercules was called, told Bridget to go up to "the darlin'," and help her down.

"For that's a blackguard laddher," said he; "it turned undher me like an eel, bad luck to it!—tell her I'd go up myself, only the ground is slipping from undher me—and the laddher—"

Bridget went off, leaving Jack growling forth anathemas against the ground and the ladder, and returned speedily with the mock-lady and her attendant squires.

"Oh, my jewel!" roared Jack, as he caught sight of his prize. He scrambled up on his legs, and made a rush at Andy, who imitated a woman's scream and fright at the expected embrace; but it was with much greater difficulty he suppressed his laughter at the headlong fall with which Big Jack plunged his head into a heap of turf, [Footnote: Peat] and hugged a sack of malt which lay beside it.

Andy endeavoured to overcome the provocation to merriment by screeching; and as Bridget caught the sound of this tendency towards laughter between the screams, she thought it was the commencement of a fit of hysterics, and it accounted all the better for Andy's extravagant antics.

"Oh, the craythur is frightened out of her life!" said Bridget. "Leave her to me," said she to the men. "There, jewel machree!" she continued to Andy, soothingly, "don't take on you that way—don't be afeerd, you're among friends—Jack is only dhrunk dhrinking your health, darlin', but he adores you." Andy screeched.

"But don't be afeerd, you'll be thrated tender, and he'll marry you, darlin', like an honest woman!"

Andy squalled.

"But not to-night, jewel—don't be frightened."

Andy gave a heavy sob at the respite.

"Boys, will you lift Jack out o' the turf, and carry him up into the air? 't will be good for him, and this dacent girl will sleep with me to-night."

Andy couldn't resist a laugh at this, and Bridget feared the girl was going off into hysterics again.

"Aisy, dear—aisy—sure you'll be safe with me."

"Ow! ow! ow!" shouted Andy.

"Oh, murther!" cried Bridget, "the sterricks will be the death of her! You blackguards, you frightened her coming up here, I'm sure."

The men swore they behaved in the genteelest manner. "Well, take away Jack, and the girl shall have share of my bed for this night."

Andy shook internally with laughter.

"Dear, dear, how she thrimbles!" cried Bridget, "Don't be so frightful, lanna machree—there, now—they're taking Jack away, and you're alone with myself and will have a nice sleep."

The men all the time were removing Shan More to upper air; and the last sounds they heard as they left the cave were the coaxing tones of Bridget's voice, inviting Andy, in the softest words, to go to bed.



CHAPTER XXXV

The workshops of Neck-or-Nothing Hall rang with the sounds of occupation for two days after the demise of its former master. The hoarse grating sound of the saw, the whistling of the plane, and the stroke of the mallet denoted the presence of the carpenter; and the sharper clink of a hammer told of old Fogy, the family "milliner," being at work; but it was not on millinery Fogy was now employed, though neither was it legitimate tinker's work. He was scrolling out with his shears, and beating into form, a plate of tin, to serve for the shield on O'Grady's coffin, which was to record his name, age, and day of departure; and this was the second plate on which the old man worked, for one was already finished in the corner. Why are there two coffin-plates? Enter the carpenter's shop, and you will see the answer in two coffins the carpenter has nearly completed. But why two coffins for one death? Listen, reader, to a bit of Irish strategy.

It has been stated that an apprehension was entertained of a seizure of the inanimate body of O'Grady for the debts it had contracted in life, and the harpy nature of the money-lender from whom this movement was dreaded warranted the fear. Had O'Grady been popular, such a measure on the part of a cruel creditor might have been defied, as the surrounding peasantry would have risen en masse to prevent it; but the hostile position in which he had placed himself towards the people alienated the natural affection they are born with for their chiefs, and any partial defence the few fierce retainers whom individual interest had attached to him could have made might have been insufficient; therefore, to save his father's remains from the pollution (as the son considered) of a bailiff's touch, Gustavus determined to achieve by stratagem what he could not accomplish by force, and had two coffins constructed, the one to be filled with stones and straw, and sent out by the front entrance with all the demonstration of a real funeral, and be given up to the attack it was feared would be made upon it while the other, put to its legitimate use, should be placed on a raft, and floated down the river to an ancient burial-ground which lay some miles below on the opposite bank. A facility for this was afforded by a branch of the river running up into the domain, as it will be remembered; and the scene of the bearish freaks played upon Furlong was to witness a trick of a more serious nature.

While all these preparations were going forward, the "waking" was kept up in all the barbarous style of old times; eating and drinking in profusion went on in the house, and the kitchen of the hall rang with joviality. The feats of sports and arms of the man who had passed away were lauded, and his comparative achievements with those of his progenitors gave rise to many a stirring anecdote; and bursts of barbarous exultation, or more barbarous merriment, rang in the house of death. There was no lack of whisky to fire the brains of these revellers, for the standard of the measurement of family grandeur was, too often, a liquid one in Ireland, even so recently as the time we speak of; and the dozens of wine wasted during the life it helped to shorten, and the posthumous gallons consumed in toasting to the memory of the departed, were among the cherished remembrances of hereditary honour. "There were two hogsheads of whisky drank at my father's wake!" was but a moderate boast of a true Irish squire, fifty years ago.

And now the last night of the wake approached, and the retainers thronged to honour the obsequies of their departed chief with an increased enthusiasm, which rose in proportion as the whisky got low; and songs in praise of their present occupation—that is, getting drunk—rang merrily round, and the sports of the field and the sorrows and joys of love resounded; in short, the ruling passions of life figured in rhyme and music in honour of this occasion of death—and as death is the maker of widows, a very animated discussion on the subject of widowhood arose, which afforded great scope for the rustic wits, and was crowned by the song of "Widow Machree" being universally called for by the company; and a fine-looking fellow with a merry eye and large white teeth, which he amply displayed by a wide mouth, poured forth in cheery tones a pretty lively air which suited well the humorous spirit of the words:—

WIDOW MACHREE

"Widow machree, it's no wonder you frown, Och hone! widow machree: 'Faith, it ruins your looks, that same dirty black gown, Och hone! widow machree. How altered your hair, With that close cap you wear— 'Tis destroying your hair Which should be flowing free: Be no longer a churl Of its black silken curl, Och hone! widow machree.

"Widow machree, now the summer is come, Och hone! widow machree; When everything smiles, should a beauty look glum! Och hone! widow machree. See the birds go in pairs, And the rabbits and hares— Why even the bears Now in couples agree; And the mute little fish, Though they can't spake, they wish, Och hone! widow machree.

"Widow machree, and when winter comes in, Och hone! widow machree, To be poking the fire all alone is a sin, Och hone! widow machree, Sure the shovel and tongs To each other belongs, And the kittle sings songs Full of family glee, While alone with your cup, Like a hermit you sup— Och hone! widow machree.

"And how do you know, with the comforts I've towld, Och hone! widow machree, But you're keeping some poor fellow out in the cowld, Och hone! widow machree. With such sins on your head, Sure your peace would be fled, Could you sleep in your bed, Without thinking to see Some ghost or some sprite, That would wake you each night, Crying, 'Och hone! widow machree.'

"Then take my advice, darling widow machree, Och hone! widow machree, And with my advice, 'faith I wish you'd take me, Och hone! widow machree. You'd have me to desire Then to sit by the fire; And sure hope is no liar In whispering to me That the ghosts would depart, When you'd me near your heart, Och hone! widow machree."

The singer was honoured with a round of applause, and his challenge for another lay was readily answered, and mirth and music filled the night and ushered in the dawn of the day which was to witness the melancholy sight of the master of an ample mansion being made the tenant of the "narrow house."

In the evening of that day, however, the wail rose loud and long; the mirth which "the waking" permits had passed away, and the ulican, or funeral cry, told that the lifeless chief was being borne from his hall. That wild cry was heard even by the party who were waiting to make their horrid seizure, and for that party the stone-laden coffin was sent with a retinue of mourners through the old iron gate of the principal entrance, while the mortal remains were borne by a smaller party to the river inlet and placed on the raft. Half an hour had witnessed a sham fight on the part of O'Grady's people with the bailiffs and their followers, who made the seizure they intended, and locked up their prize in an old barn to which it had been conveyed, until some engagement on the part of the heir should liberate it; while the aforesaid heir, as soon as the shadows of evening had shrouded the river in obscurity, conveyed the remains, which the myrmidons of the law fancied they possessed, to its quiet and lonely resting-place. The raft was taken in tow by a boat carrying two of the boys, and pulled by four lusty retainers of the departed chief, while Gustavus himself stood on the raft, astride over the coffin, and with an eel-spear, which had afforded him many a day's sport, performed the melancholy task of guiding it. It was a strangely painful yet beautiful sight to behold the graceful figure of the fine boy engaged in this last sad duty; with dexterous energy he plied his spear, now on this side and now on that, directing the course of the raft, or clearing it from the flaggers which interrupted its passage through the narrow inlet. This duty he had to attend to for some time, even after leaving the little inlet; for the river was much overgrown with flaggers at this point, and the increasing darkness made the task more difficult.

In the midst of all this action not one word was spoken, even the sturdy boatmen were mute, and the fall of the oar in the rowlock, the plash of the water, and the crushing sound of the yielding rushes as the "watery bier" made its way through them were the only sounds which broke the silence. Still Gustavus betrayed no emotion; but by the time they reached the open stream, and that his personal exertion was no longer required, a change came over him. It was night,—the measured beat of the oars sounded like a knell to him—there was darkness above him and death below, and he sank down upon the coffin, and plunging his face passionately between his hands, he wept bitterly. Sad were the thoughts that oppressed the brain and wrung the heart of the high-spirited boy. He felt that his dead father was escaping, as it were, to the grave,—that even death did not terminate the consequences of an ill-spent life. He felt like a thief in the night, even in the execution of his own stratagem, and the bitter thoughts of that sad and solemn time wrought a potent spell over after- years; that one hour of misery and disgrace influenced the entire of a future life.

On a small hill overhanging the river was the ruin of an ancient early temple of Christianity, and to its surrounding burial-ground a few of the retainers had been despatched to prepare a grave. They were engaged in this task by the light of a torch made of bog-pine, when the flicker of the flame attracted the eye of a horseman who was riding slowly along the neighbouring road. Wondering what could be the cause of light in such a place, he leaped the adjoining fence and rode up to the grave-yard.

"What are you doing here?" he said to the labourers. They paused and looked up, and the flash of the torch fell upon the features of Edward O'Connor. "We're finishing your work," said one of the men with malicious earnestness.

"My work?" repeated Edward.

"Yes," returned the man, more sternly than before—"this is the grave of O'Grady."

The words went like an ice-bolt through Edward's heart, and even by the torchlight the tormentor could see his victim grew livid.

The fellow who wounded so deeply one so generally beloved as Edward O'Connor was a thorough ruffian. His answer to Edward's query sprang not from love of O'Grady, nor abhorrence of taking human life, but from the opportunity of retort which the occasion offered upon one who had once checked him in an act of brutality.

Yet Edward O'Connor could not reply—it was a home thrust. The death of O'Grady had weighed heavily upon him; for though O'Grady's wound had been given in honourable combat, provoked by his own fury, and not producing immediate death; though that death had supervened upon the subsequent intractability of the patient; yet the fact that O'Grady had never been "up and doing" since the duel tended to give the impression that his wound was the remote if not the immediate cause of his death, and this circumstance weighed heavily on Edward's spirits. His friends told him he felt over keenly upon the subject, and that no one but himself could entertain a question of his total innocence of O'Grady's death; but when from the lips of a common peasant he got the answer he did, and that beside the grave of his adversary, it will not be wondered at that he reeled in his saddle. A cold shivering sickness came over him, and to avoid falling he alighted and leaned for support against his horse, which stooped, when freed from the restraint of the rein, to browse on the rank verdure; and for a moment Edward envied the unconsciousness of the animal against which he leaned. He pressed his forehead against the saddle, and from the depth of a bleeding heart came up an agonised exclamation.

A gentle hand was laid on his shoulder as he spoke, and, turning round, he beheld Mr. Bermingham.

"What brings you here?" said the clergyman.

"Accident," answered Edward. "But why should I say accident?—it is by a higher authority and a better—it is the will of Heaven. It is meant as a bitter lesson to human pride: we make for ourselves laws of honour, and forget the laws of God!"

"Be calm, my young friend," said the worthy pastor; "I cannot wonder you feel deeply—but command yourself." He pressed Edward's hand as he spoke and left him, for he knew that an agony so keen is not benefited by companionship.

Mr. Bermingham was there by appointment to perform the burial service, and he had not left Edward's side many minutes when a long wild whistle from the waters announced the arrival of the boat and raft, and the retainers ran down to the river, leaving the pine-torch stuck in the upturned earth, waving its warm blaze over the cold grave. During the interval which ensued between the departure of the men and their reappearance, bearing the body to its last resting-place, Mr. Bermingham spoke with Edward O'Connor, and soothed him into a more tranquil bearing. When the coffin came within view he advanced to meet it, and began the sublime burial- service, which he repeated most impressively. When it was over, the men commenced filling up the grave. As the clods fell upon the coffin, they smote the hearts of the dead man's children; yet the boys stood upon the verge of the grave as long as a vestige of the tenement of their lost father could be seen; but as soon as the coffin was hidden, they withdrew from the brink, and the younger boys, each taking hold of the hand of the eldest, seemed to imply the need of mutual dependence:—as if death had drawn closer the bond of brotherhood.

There was no sincerer mourner at that place than Edward O'Connor, who stood aloof, in respect for the feelings of the children of the departed man, till the grave was quite filled up, and all were about to leave the spot; but then his feelings overmastered him, and, impelled by a torrent of contending emotions, he rushed forward, and throwing himself on his knees before Gustavus, he held up his hands imploringly, and sobbed forth, "Forgive me!"

The astonished boy drew back.

"Oh, forgive me!" repeated Edward—"I could not help it—it was forced on me—it was—"

As he struggled for utterance, even the rough retainers were touched, and one of them exclaimed, "Oh, Mr. O'Connor, it was a fair fight!"

"There!" exclaimed Edward—"you hear it! Oh, give me your hand in forgiveness!"

"I forgive you," said the boy, "but do not ask me to give you my hand to-night."

"You are right" said Edward, springing to his feet—"you are right—you are a noble fellow; and now, remember my parting words, Gustavus:—Here, by the side of your father's grave, I pledge you my soul that through life and till death, in all extremity, Edward O'Connor is your sworn and trusty friend."



CHAPTER XXXVI

While the foregoing scene of sadness took place in the lone churchyard, unholy watch was kept over the second coffin by the myrmidons of the law. The usurer who made the seizure had brought down from Dublin three of the most determined bailiffs from amongst the tribe, and to their care was committed the keeping of the supposed body in the old barn. Associated with these worthies were a couple of ill-conditioned country blackguards, who, for the sake of a bottle of whisky, would keep company with Old Nick himself, and who expected, moreover, to hear "a power o' news" from the "gentlemen" from Dublin, who, in their turn did not object to have their guard strengthened, as their notions of a rescue in the country parts of Ireland were anything but agreeable. The night was cold, so, clearing away from one end of the barn the sheaves of corn with which it was stored, they made a turf fire, stretched themselves on a good shake-down of straw before the cheering blaze, and circulated among them the whisky, of which they had a good store. A tap at the door announced a new-comer; but the Dublin bailiffs, fearing a surprise, hesitated to open to the knock until their country allies assured them it was a friend whose voice they recognised. The door was opened, and in walked Larry Hogan, to pick up his share of what was going, whatever it might be, saying—

"I thought you wor for keeping me out altogether."

"The gintlemin from Dublin was afeard of what they call a riskya" (rescue), said the peasant, "till I told them 't was a friend."

"Divil a riskya will come near you to-night," said Larry, "you may make your minds aisy about that, for the people doesn't care enough about his bones to get their own broke in savin' him, and no wondher. It's a lantherumswash bully he always was, quiet as he is now. And there you are, my bold squire," said he, apostrophising the coffin which had been thrown on a heap of sheaves. "Faix, it's a good kitchen you kep', anyhow, whenever you had it to spind; and indeed when you hadn't you spint it all the same, for the divil a much you cared how you got it; but death has made you pay the reckoning at last—that thing that filly- officers call the debt o' nature must be paid, whatever else you may owe."

"Why, it's as good as a sarmon to hear you," said one of the bailiffs. "O Larry, sir, discourses iligant," said a peasant.

"Tut, tut, tut," said Larry, with affected modesty: "it's not what I say, but I can tell you a thing that Docthor Growlin' put out on him more nor a year ago, which was mighty 'cute. Scholars calls it an 'epithet of dissipation,' which means getting a man's tombstone ready for him before he dies; and divil a more cutting thing was ever cut on a tombstone than the doctor's rhyme; this is it—

'Here lies O'Grady, that cantankerous creature, Who paid, as all must pay, the debt of nature; But, keeping to his general maxim still, Paid it—like other debts—against his will.'"

[Footnote: These bitter lines on a "bad pay" were written by a Dublin medical wit of high repute, of whom Dr. Growling is a prototype.]

"What do you think o' that, Goggins?" inquired one bailiff from the other; "you're a judge o' po'thry."

"It's sevare," answered Goggins, authoritatively, "but coorse, I wish you'd brile the rashers; I begin to feel the calls o' nature, as the poet says."

This Mister Goggins was a character in his way. He had the greatest longing to be thought a poet, put execrable couplets together sometimes, and always talked as fine as he could; and his mixture of sentimentality, with a large stock of blackguardism, produced a strange jumble.

"The people here thought it nate, sir," said Larry.

"Oh, very well for the country!" said Goggins; "but 't wouldn't do for town."

"Misther Coggings knows best," said the bailiff who first spoke, "for he's a pote himself, and writes in the newspapers."

"Oh, indeed!" said Larry.

"Yes," said Goggins, "sometimes I throw off little things for the newspapers. There's a friend of mine you see, a gentleman connected with the press, who is often in defficulties, and I give him a hint to keep out o' the way when he's in trouble, and he swears I've a genus for the muses, and encourages me—"

"Humph!" says Larry.

"And puts my things in the paper, when he gets the editor's back turned, for the editor is a consaited chap that likes no one's po'thry but his own; but never mind—if I ever get a writ against that chap, won't I sarve it!"

"And I dar say some day you will have it agen him, sir," said Larry.

"Sure of it, a'most," said Goggins; "them litherary men is always in defficulties."

"I wondher you'd be like them, then, and write at all," said Larry.

"Oh, as for me, it's only by way of amusement; attached as I am to the legal profession, my time wouldn't permit; but I have been infected by the company I kept. The living images that creeps over a man sometimes is irresistible, and you have no pace till you get them out o' your head."

"Oh, indeed, they are very throublesome," says Larry, "and are the litherary gintlemen, sir, as you call them, mostly that way?"

"To be sure; it is that which makes a litherary man: his head is full—teems with creation, sir."

"Dear, dear!" said Larry.

"And when once the itch of litherature comes over a man, nothing can cure it but the scratching of a pen."

"But if you have not a pen, I suppose you must scratch any other way you can."

"To be sure," said Goggins, "I have seen a litherary gentleman in a sponging-house do crack things on the wall with a bit of burnt stick, rather than be idle—they must execute."

"Ha!" says Larry.

"Sometimes, in all their poverty and difficulty, I envy the 'fatal fatality,' as the poet says, of such men in catching ideas."

"That's the genteel name for it," says Larry.

"Oh!" exclaimed Goggins, enthusiastically, "I know the satisfaction of catching a man, but it's nothing at all compared to catching an idea. For the man, you see, can give hail and get off, but the idea is your own for ever. And then a rhyme—when it has puzzled you all day, the pleasure you have in nabbing it at last!"

"Oh, it's po'thry you're spakin' about," said Larry.

"To be sure," said Goggins; "do you think I'd throw away my time on prose? You're burning that bacon, Tim," said he to his sub.

"Poethry, agen the world!" continued he to Larry, "the Castilian sthraime for me!—Hand us that whisky"—he put the bottle to his mouth and took a swig—"That's good—you do a bit of private here, I suspect," said he, with a wink, pointing to the bottle.

Larry returned a significant grin, but said nothing. Oh, don't be afraid o' me—I would n't'peach—"

"Sure it's agen the law, and you're a gintleman o' the law," said Larry.

"That's no rule," said Goggins: "the Lord Chief Justice always goes to bed, they say, with six tumblers o' potteen under his belt; and dhrink it myself."

"Arrah, how do you get it?" said Larry.

"From a gentleman, a friend o' mine, in the Custom-house."

"A-dad, that's quare," said Larry, laughing.

"Oh, we see queer things, I tell you," said Goggins, "we gentlemen of the law."

"To be sure you must," returned Larry; "and mighty improvin' it must be. Did you ever catch a thief, sir?"

"My good man, you mistake my profession," said Goggins, proudly; "we never have anything to do in the criminal line, that's much beneath us."

"I ax your pardon, sir."

"No offence—no offence."

"But it must be mighty improvin', I think, ketching of thieves, and finding out their thricks and hidin'-places, and the like?"

"Yes, yes," said Goggins, "good fun; though I don't do it, I know all about it, and could tell queer things too."

"Arrah, maybe you would, sir?" said Larry.

"Maybe I will, after we nibble some rashers—will you take share?"

"Musha, long life to you," said Larry, always willing to get whatever he could. A repast was now made, more resembling a feast of savages round their war-fire than any civilised meal; slices of bacon broiled in the fire, and eggs roasted in the turf-ashes. The viands were not objectionable; but the cooking! Oh!—there was neither gridiron nor frying-pan, fork nor spoon; a couple of clasp-knives served the whole party. Nevertheless, they satisfied their hunger and then sent the bottle on its exhilarating round. Soon after that, many a story of burglary, robbery, swindling, petty larceny, and every conceivable crime, was related for the amusement of the circle; and the plots and counterplots of thieves and thief-takers raised the wonder of the peasants. Larry Hogan was especially delighted; more particularly when some trick of either villany or cunning came out.

"Now women are troublesome cattle to deal with mostly," said Goggins. "They are remarkably 'cute first, and then they are spiteful after; and for circumventin' either way are sharp hands. You see they do it quieter than men; a man will make a noise about it, but a woman does it all on the sly. There was Bill Morgan—and a sharp fellow he was, too—and he had set his heart on some silver spoons he used to see down in a kitchen windy, but the servant-maid, somehow or other, suspected there was designs about the place, and was on the watch. Well, one night, when she was all alone, she heard a noise outside the windy, so she kept as quiet as a mouse. By-and-by the sash was attempted to be riz from the outside, so she laid hold of a kittle of boiling wather and stood hid behind the shutter. The windy was now riz a little, and a hand and arm thrust in to throw up the sash altogether, when the girl poured the boiling wather down the sleeve of Bill's coat. Bill roared with the pain, when the girl said to him, laughing, through the windy, 'I thought you came for something.'"

"That was a 'cute girl," said Larry, chuckling.

"Well, now, that's an instance of a woman's cleverness in preventing. I'll teach you one of her determination to discover and prosecute to conviction; and in this case, what makes it curious is, that Jack Tate had done the bowldest thing, and run the greatest risks, 'the eminent deadly,' as the poet says, when he was done up at last by a feather-bed."

"A feather-bed," repeated Larry, wondering how a feather-bed could influence the fate of a bold burglar, while Goggins mistook his exclamation of surprise to signify the paltriness of the prize, and therefore chimed in with him.

"Quite true—no wonder you wonder—quite below a man of his pluck; but the fact was, a sweetheart of his was longing for a feather-bed, and Jack determined to get it. Well, he marched into a house, the door of which he found open, and went up-stairs, and took the best feather-bed in the house, tied it up in the best quilt, crammed some caps and ribbons he saw lying about into the bundle, and marched down-stairs again; but you see, in carrying off even the small thing of a feather-bed, Jack showed the skill of a high practitioner, for he descendhered the stairs backwards."

"Backwards!" said Larry, "what was that for?"

"You'll see by-and-by," said Goggins; "he descendhered backwards when suddenly he heard a door opening, and a faymale voice exclaim, 'Where are you going with that bed?'

"'I am going up-stairs with it, ma'am,' says Jack, whose backward position favoured his lie, and he began to walk up again.

"'Come down here,' said the lady, 'we want no beds here, man.'

"'Mr. Sullivan, ma'am, sent me home with it himself,' said Jack, still mounting the stairs.

"'Come down, I tell you,' said the lady, in a great rage. 'There's no Mr. Sullivan lives here—go out of this with your bed, you stupid fellow.'

"'I beg your pardon, ma'am,' says Jack, turning round, and marching off with the bed fair and aisy. Well, there was a regular shilloo in the house when the thing was found out, and cart-ropes wouldn't howld the lady for the rage she was in at being diddled; so she offered rewards, and the dickens knows all; and what do you think at last discovered our poor Jack?"

"The sweetheart, maybe," said Larry, grinning in ecstasy at the thought of human perfidy.

"No," said Goggins, "honour even among sweethearts, though they do the trick sometimes, I confess; but no woman of any honour would betray a great man like Jack. No—'t was one of the paltry ribbons that brought conviction home to him; the woman never lost sight of hunting up evidence about her feather-bed, and, in the end, a ribbon out of one of her caps settled the hash of Jack Tate."

From robbings they went on to tell of murders, and at last that uncomfortable sensation which people experience after a feast of horrors began to pervade the party; and whenever they looked round, there was the coffin in the background.

"Throw some turf on the fire," said Goggins, "'t is burning low; and change the subject; the tragic muse has reigned sufficiently long—enough of the dagger and the bowl—sink the socks and put on the buckskins. Leather away, Jim—sing us a song."

"What is it to be?" asked Jim.

"Oh—that last song of the Solicitor-General's," said Goggins, with an air as if the Solicitor-General were his particular friend.

"About the robbery?" inquired Jim.

"To be sure," returned Goggins.

"Dear me," said Larry, "and would so grate a man as the Solicithor-General demane himself by writin' about robbers?"

"Oh!" said Goggins, "those in the heavy profession of the law must have their little private moments of rollickzation; and then high men, you see, like to do a bit of low by way of variety. 'The Night before Larry was stretched' was done by a bishop, they say; and 'Lord Altamont's Bull' by the Lord Chief Justice; and the Solicitor-General is as up to fun as any bishop of them all. Come, Jim, tip us the stave!"

Jim cleared his throat and obeyed his chief.

THE QUAKER'S MEETING

I

"A traveller wended the wilds among, With a purse of gold and a silver tongue; His hat it was broad, and all drab were his clothes, For he hated high colours—except on his nose, And he met with a lady, the story goes. Heigho! yea thee and nay thee.

II

"The damsel she cast him a merry blink, And the traveller nothing was loth, I think; Her merry black eye beamed her bonnet beneath, And the quaker, he grinned, for he'd very good teeth, And he asked, 'Art thee [1] going to ride on the heath?' Heigho! yea thee and nay thee.

[1][Footnote: The inferior class of quakers make THEE serve not only its own grammatical use, but also do the duty of THY and THINE.]

III

"'I hope you'll protect me, kind sir,' said the maid, 'As to ride this heath over I'm sadly afraid; For robbers, they say, here in numbers abound, And I wouldn't "for anything" I should be found, For, between you and me, I have five hundred pound.' Heigho! yea thee and nay thee.

IV

"'If that is thee own, dear,' the quaker he said, 'I ne'er saw a maiden I sooner would wed; And I have another five hundred just now, In the padding that's under my saddle-bow, And I'll settle it all upon thee, I vow!' Heigho! yea thee and nay thee.

V

"The maiden she smiled, and her rein she drew, 'Your offer I'll take, though I'll not take you;' A pistol she held at the quaker's head— 'Now give me your gold, or I'll give you my lead, 'Tis under the saddle I think you said.' Heigho! yea thee and nay thee.

VI

"The damsel she ripp'd up the saddle-bow, And the quaker was never a quaker till now; And he saw by the fair one he wish'd for a bride His purse borne away with a swaggering stride, And the eye that looked tender now only defied. Heigho! yea thee and nay thee.

VII

"'The spirit doth move me, friend Broadbrim,' quoth she, 'To take all this filthy temptation from thee; For Mammon deceiveth, and beauty is fleeting: Accept from thy maai-d'n a right loving greeting, For much doth she profit by this quaker's meeting. Heigho! yea thee and nay thee.

VIII

"'And hark! jolly quaker, so rosy and sly, Have righteousness more than a wench in thine eye, Don't go again peeping girls' bonnets beneath, Remember the one that you met on the heath, Her name's Jimmy Barlow—I tell to your teeth!' Heigho! yea thee and nay thee.

IX

"'Friend James,' quoth the quaker, 'pray listen to me, For thou canst confer a great favour, d' ye see; The gold thou hast taken is not mine, my friend, But my master's—and on thee I depend To make it appear I my trust did defend. Heigho! yea thee and nay thee.

X

"'So fire a few shots through my clothes, here and there, To make it appear 't was a desp'rate affair.' So Jim he popped first through the skirt of his coat, And then through his collar quite close to his throat. 'Now once through my broad-brim,' quoth Ephraim, 'I vote. Heigho! yea thee and nay thee.

XI

"'I have but a brace,' said bold Jim, 'and they 're spent, And I won't load again for a make-believe rent.' 'Then,' said Ephraim—producing his pistols—'just give My five hundred pounds back—or, as sure as you live, I'll make of your body a riddle or sieve.' Heigho! yea thee and nay thee.

XII

"Jim Barlow was diddled, and though he was game, He saw Ephraim's pistol so deadly in aim, That he gave up the gold, and he took to his scrapers; And when the whole story got into the papers, They said that 'the thieves were no match for the quakers.' Heigho! yea thee and nay thee."

"Well, it's a quare thing you should be singin' a song here," said Larry Hogan, "about Jim Barlow, and it's not over half a mile out of this very place he was hanged."

"Indeed!" exclaimed all the men at once, looking with great interest at Larry.

"It's truth I'm telling you. He made a very bowld robbery up by the long hill there, on two gintlemen, for he was mighty stout."

"Pluck to the back-bone," said Goggins.

"Well, he tuk the purses aff both o' them; and just as he was goin' on afther doin' the same, what should appear on the road before him, but two other travellers coming up forninst him. With that the men that was robbed cried out, 'Stop thief!' and so Jim, seein' himself hemmed in betune the four o' them, faced his horse to the ditch and took across the counthry; but the thravellers was well mounted as well as himself, and powdhered afther him like mad. Well, it was equal to a steeple chase a'most; and Jim, seein' he could not shake them off, thought the best thing he could do was to cut out some troublesome work for them; so he led off where he knew there was the divil's own leap to take, and he intended to 'pound [Footnote: Impound] them there, and be off in the mane time; but as ill luck would have it, his own horse, that was as bowld as himself, and would jump at the moon if he was faced to it, missed his foot in takin' off, and fell short o' the leap and slipped his shouldher, and Jim himself had a bad fall of it too, and, av coorse, it was all over wid him—and up came the four gintlemen. Well, Jim had his pistols yet, and he pulled them out, and swore he'd shoot the first man that attempted to take him; but the gintlemen had pistols as well as he, and were so hot on the chase they determined to have him, and closed on him. Jim fired and killed one o' them; but he got a ball in the shouldher himself, from another, and he was taken. Jim sthruv to shoot himself with his second pistol, but it missed fire. 'The curse o' the road is on me,' said Jim; 'my pistol missed fire, and my horse slipped his shouldher, and now I'll be scragged,' says he, 'but it's not for nothing—I've killed one o' ye,' says he."

"He was all pluck," said Goggins.

"Desperate bowld," said Larry. "Well, he was thried and condimned av coorse, and was hanged, as I tell you, half a mile out o' this very place, where we are sittin', and his appearance walks, they say, ever since."

"You don't say so!" said Goggins.

"'Faith, it's thrue!" answered Larry.

"You never saw it," said Goggins.

"The Lord forbid!" returned Larry; "but it's thrue, for all that. For you see the big house near this barn, that is all in ruin, was desarted because Jim's ghost used to walk."

"That was foolish," said Goggins; "stir up the fire, Jim, and hand me the whisky."

"Oh, if it was only walkin', they might have got over that; but at last one night, as the story goes, when there was a thremendious storm o' wind and rain—"

"Whisht!" said one of the peasants, "what's that?"

As they listened, they heard the beating of heavy rain against the door, and the wind howled through its chinks.

"Well," said Goggins, "what are you stopping for?"

"Oh, I'm not stoppin'," said Larry; "I was sayin' that it was a bad wild night, and Jimmy Barlow's appearance came into the house and asked them for a glass o' sper'ts, and that he'd be obleeged to them if they'd help him with his horse that slipped his shouldher; and, 'faith, afther that, they'd stay in the place no longer; and signs on it, the house is gone to rack and ruin, and it's only this barn that is kept up at all, because it's convaynient for owld Skinflint on the farm."

"That's all nonsense," said Goggins, who wished, nevertheless, that he had not heard the "nonsense."

"Come, sing another song, Jim."

Jim said he did not remember one.

"Then you sing, Ralph."

Ralph said every one knew he never did more than join a chorus.

"Then join me in a chorus," said Goggins, "for I'll sing, if Jim's afraid."

"I'm not afraid," said Jim.

"Then why won't you sing?"

"Because I don't like."

"Ah!" exclaimed Goggins.

"Well, maybe you're afraid yourself," said Jim, "if you towld thruth." "Just to show you how little I'm afeard," said Goggins, with a swaggering air, "I'll sing another song about Jimmy Barlow."

"You'd better not," said Larry Hogan. "Let him rest in pace!"

"Fudge!" said Goggins. "Will you join chorus, Jim?"

"I will," said Jim, fiercely.

"We'll all join," said the men (except Larry), who felt it would be a sort of relief to bully away the supernatural terror which hung round their hearts after the ghost story by the sound of their own voices.

"Then here goes!" said Goggins, who started another long ballad about Jimmy Barlow, in the opening of which all joined. It ran as follows:—

"My name it is Jimmy Barlow, I was born in the town of Carlow, And here I lie in the Maryborough jail, All for the robbing of the Wicklow mail. Fol de rol de rol de riddle-ido!"

As it would be tiresome to follow this ballad through all its length, breadth, and thickness, we shall leave the singers engaged in their chorus, while we call the reader's attention to a more interesting person than Mister Goggins or Jimmy Barlow.



CHAPTER XXXVII

When Edward O'Connor had hurried from the burial-place, he threw himself into his saddle, and urged his horse to speed, anxious to fly the spot where his feelings had been so harrowed; and as he swept along through the cold night wind which began to rise in gusty fits, and howled past him, there was in the violence of his rapid motion something congenial to the fierce career of painful thoughts which chased each other through his heated brain. He continued to travel at this rapid pace, so absorbed in bitter reflection as to be quite insensible to external impressions, and he knew not how far nor how fast he was going, though the heavy breathing of his horse at any other time would have been signal sufficient to draw the rein; but still he pressed onward, and still the storm increased, and each acclivity was topped but to sweep down the succeeding slope at the same desperate pace. Hitherto the road over which he pursued his fleet career lay through an open country, and though the shades of a stormy night hung above it, the horse could make his way in safety through the gloom; but now they approached an old road which skirted an ancient domain, whose venerable trees threw their arms across the old causeway, and added their shadows to the darkness of the night.

Many and many a time had Edward ridden in the soft summer under the green shade of these very trees, in company with Fanny Dawson, his guiltless heart full of hope and love; perhaps it was this very thought crossing his mind at the moment which made his present circumstances the more oppressive. He was guiltless no longer—he rode not in happiness with the woman he adored under the soft shade of summer trees, but heard the wintry wind howl through their leafless boughs as he hurried in maddened speed beneath them, and heard in the dismal sound but an echo of the voice of remorse which was ringing through his heart. The darkness was intense from the canopy of old oaks which overhung the road, but still the horse was urged through the dark ravine at speed, though one might not see an arm's length before. Fearlessly it was performed, though ever and anon, as the trees swung about their heavy branches in the storm, smaller portions of the boughs were snapped off and flung in the faces of the horse and the rider, who still spurred and plashed his headlong way through the heavy road beneath. Emerging at length from the deep and overshadowed valley, a steep hill raised its crest in advance, but still up the stony acclivity the feet of the mettled steed rattled rapidly, and flashed fire from the flinty path. As they approached the top of the hill, the force of the storm became more apparent; and on reaching its crest, the fierce pelting of the mingled rain and hail made the horse impatient of the storm of which his rider was heedless—almost unconscious. The spent animal with short snortings betokened his labour, and shook his head passionately as the fierce hail-shower struck him in the eyes and nostrils. Still, however, was he urged downward, but he was no longer safe. Quite blown, and pressed over a rough descent, the generous creature, that would die rather than refuse, made a false step, and came heavily to the ground. Edward was stunned by the fall, though not seriously hurt; and, after the lapse of a few seconds, recovered his feet, but found the horse still prostrate. Taking the animal by the head, he assisted him to rise, which he was not enabled to do till after several efforts; and when he regained his legs, it was manifest he was seriously lamed; and as he limped along with difficulty beside his master, who led him gently, it became evident that it was beyond the animal's power to reach his own stable that night. Edward for the first time was now aware of how much he had punished his horse; he felt ashamed of using the noble brute with such severity, and became conscious that he had been acting under something little short of frenzy. The consciousness at once tended to restore him somewhat to himself, and he began to look around on every side in search of some house where he could find rest and shelter for his disabled horse. As he proceeded thus, the care necessarily bestowed on his dumb companion partially called off his thoughts from the painful theme with which they had been exclusively occupied, and the effect was most beneficial. The first violent burst of feeling was past, and a calmer train of thought succeeded; he for the first time remembered the boy had forgiven him, and that was a great consolation to him; he recalled, too, his own words, pledging to Gustavus his friendship, and in this pleasing hope of the future he saw much to redeem what he regretted of the past. Still, however, the wild flare of the pine-torch over the lone grave of his adversary, and the horrid answer of the grave-digger, that he was but "finishing his work," would recur to his memory and awake an internal pang.