From this painful reminiscence he sought to escape, by looking forward to all he would do for Gustavus, and had become much calmer, when the glimmer of a light not far ahead attracted him, and he soon was enabled to perceive it proceeded from some buildings that lay on his right, not far from the road. He turned up the rough path which formed the approach, and the light escaped through the chinks of a large door which indicated the place to be a coach-house, or some such office, belonging to the general pile which seemed in a ruinous condition.

As he approached, Edward heard rude sounds of merriment, amongst which the joining of many voices in a "ree-raw" chorus indicated that a carouse was going forward within.

On reaching the door he could perceive through a wide chink a group of men sitting round a turf fire piled at the far end of the building, which had no fire-place, and the smoke, curling upwards to the roof, wreathed the rafters in smoke; beneath this vapoury canopy the party sat drinking and singing, and Edward, ere he knocked for admittance, listened to the following strange refrain:—

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

Then the principal singer took up the song, which seemed to be one of robbery, blood, and murder, for it ran thus:—

"Then he cocked his pistol gaily, And stood before him bravely, Smoke and fire is my desire, So blaze away, my game-cock squire. For my name it is Jimmy Barlow, I was born &c."

Edward O'Connor knocked at the door loudly; the words he had just heard about "pistols," "blazing away," and, last of all, "squire" fell gratingly on his ear at that moment, and seemed strangely to connect themselves with the previous adventures of the night and his own sad thoughts, and he beat against the door with violence.

The chorus ceased; Edward repeated his knocking. Still there was no answer; but he heard low and hurried muttering inside. Determined, however, to gain admittance, Edward laid hold of an iron hasp outside the door, which enabled him to shake the gate with violence, that there might be no excuse on the part of the inmates that they did not hear; but in thus making the old door rattle in its frame, it suddenly yielded to his touch and creaked open on its rusty hinges; for when Larry Hogan had entered, it had been forgotten to be barred.

As Edward stood in the open doorway, the first object which met his eye was the coffin—and it is impossible to say how much at that moment the sight shocked him; he shuddered involuntarily, yet could not withdraw his eyes from the revolting object; and the pallor with which his previous mental anxiety had invested his cheek increased as he looked on this last tenement of mortality. "Am I to see nothing but the evidences of death's doing this night?" was the mental question which shot through Edward's over-wrought brain, and he grew livid at the thought. He looked more like one raised from the grave than a living being, and a wild glare in his eyes rendered his appearance still more unearthly. He felt that shame which men always experience in allowing their feelings to overcome them; and by a great effort he mastered his emotion and spoke, but the voice partook of the strong nervous excitement under which he laboured, and was hollow and broken, and seemed more like that which one might fancy to proceed from the jaws of a sepulchre than one of flesh and blood. Beaten by the storm, too, his hair hung in wet flakes over his face and added to his wild appearance, so that the men all started up at the first glimpse they caught of him, and huddled themselves together in the farthest corner of the building, from whence they eyed him with evident alarm.

Edward thought some whisky might check the feeling of faintness which overcame him; and though he deemed it probable he had broken in upon the nocturnal revel of desperate and lawless men, he nevertheless asked them to give him some; but instead of displaying that alacrity so universal in Ireland, of sharing the "creature" with a new-comer, the men only pointed to the bottle which stood beside the fire, and drew closer together.

Edward's desire for the stimulant was so great, that he scarcely noticed the singular want of courtesy on the part of the men; and seizing the bottle (for there was no glass), he put it to his lips, and quaffed a hearty dram of the spirit before he spoke.

"I must ask for shelter and assistance here," said Edward. "My horse, I fear, has slipped his shoulder—"

Before he could utter another word, a simultaneous roar of terror burst from the group; they fancied the ghost of Jimmy Barlow was before them, and made a simultaneous rush from the barn; and when they saw the horse at the door, another yell escaped them, as they fled with increased speed and terror. Edward stood in amazement as the men rushed from his presence; he followed to the gate to recall them; they were gone; he could only hear their yells in the distance. The circumstance seemed quite unaccountable; and as he stood lost in vain surmises as to the cause of the strange occurrence, a low neigh of recognition from the horse reminded him of the animal's wants, and he led him into the barn, where, from the plenty of straw which lay around, he shook down a litter where the maimed animal might rest.

He then paced up and down the barn, lost in wonder at the conduct of those whom he found there, and whom his presence had so suddenly expelled; and ever as he walked towards the fire, the coffin caught his eye. As a fitful blaze occasionally arose, it flashed upon the plate, which brightly reflected the flame, and Edward was irresistibly drawn, despite his original impression of horror at the object, to approach and read the inscription. The shield bore the name of "O'Grady," and Edward recoiled from the coffin with a shudder, and inwardly asked, was he in his waking senses? He had but an hour ago seen his adversary laid in his grave, yet here was his coffin again before him, as if to harrow up his soul anew. Was it real, or a mockery? Was he the sport of a dream, or was there some dreadful curse fallen upon him that he should be for ever haunted by the victim of his arm, and the call of vengeance for blood be ever upon his track? He breathed short and hard, and the smoky atmosphere in which he was enveloped rendered respiration still more difficult. As through this oppressive vapour, which seemed only fit for the nether world, he saw the coffin-plate flash back the flame, his imagination accumulated horror on horror; and when the blaze sank, and but the bright red of the fire was reflected, it seemed to him to burn, as it were, with a spot of blood, and he could support the scene no longer, but rushed from the barn in a state of mind bordering on frenzy.

It was about an hour afterwards, near midnight, that the old barn was in flames; most likely some of the straw near the fire, in the confusion of the breaking up of the party, had been scattered within range of ignition, and caused the accident. The flames were seen for miles round the country, and the shattered walls of the ruined mansion-house were illuminated brightly by the glare of the consuming barn, which in the morning added its own blackened and reeking ruin to the desolation, and crowds of persons congregated to the spot for many days after. The charred planks of the coffin were dragged from amongst the ruin; and as the roof in falling in had dragged a large portion of the wall along with it, the stones which had filled the coffin could not be distinguished from those of the fallen building, therefore much wonder arose that no vestige of the bones of the corpse it was supposed to contain should be discovered. Wonder increased to horror as the strange fact was promulgated, and in the ready credulity of a superstitious people, the terrible belief became general, that his sable majesty had made off with O'Grady and the party watching him; for as the Dublin bailiffs never stopped till they got back to town, and were never seen again in the country, it was most natural to suppose that the devil had made a haul of them at the same time. In a few days rumour added the spectral appearance of Jim Barlow to the tale, which only deepened its mysterious horror; and though, after some time, the true story was promulgated by those who knew the real state of the case, yet the truth never gained ground, and was considered but a clever sham, attempted by the family to prevent so dreadful a story from attaching to their house; and tradition perpetuates to this hour the belief that the devil flew away with O'Grady.

Lone and shunned as the hill was where the ruined house stood, it became more lone and shunned than ever, and the boldest heart in the whole country-side would quail to be in its vicinity, even in the day-time. To such a pitch the panic rose, that an extensive farm which encircled it, and belonged to the old usurer who made the seizure, fell into a profitless state from the impossibility of men being found to work upon it. It was useless even as pasture, for no one could be found to herd cattle upon it; altogether it was a serious loss to the money-grubber; and so far the incident of the burnt barn, and the tradition it gave rise to, acted beneficially in making the inhuman act of warring with the dead recoil upon the merciless old usurer.



CHAPTER XXXVIII

We left Andy in what may be called a delicate situation, and though Andy's perceptions of the refined were not very acute, he himself began to wonder how he should get out of the dilemma into which circumstances had thrown him; and even to his dull comprehension various terminations to his adventure suggested themselves, till he became quite confused in the chaos which his own thoughts created. One good idea, however, Andy contrived to lay hold of out of the bundle which perplexed him; he felt that to gain time would be an advantage, and if evil must come of his adventure, the longer he could keep it off the better; so he kept up his affectation of timidity, and put in his sobs and lamentations, like so many commas and colons, as it were, to prevent Bridget from arriving at her climax of going to bed.

Bridget insisted bed was the finest thing in the world for a young woman in distress of mind.

Andy protested he never could get a wink of sleep when his mind was uneasy. Bridget promised the most sisterly tenderness.

Andy answered by a lament for his mother.

"Come to bed, I tell you," said Bridget.

"Are the sheets aired?" sobbed Andy.

"What!" exclaimed Bridget, in amazement.

"If you are not sure of the sheets bein' aired," said Andy, "I'd be afeard of catchin' cowld."

"Sheets, indeed!" said Bridget; "'faith, it's a dainty lady you are, if you can't sleep without sheets."

"What!" returned Andy, "no sheets?"

"Divil a sheet."

"Oh, mother, mother!" exclaimed Andy, "what would you say to your innocent child being tuk away to a place where there was no sheets?"

"Well, I never heerd the like!" says Bridget.

"Oh, the villains! to bring me where I wouldn't have a bit o' clane linen to lie in!"

"Sure, there's blankets, I tell you."

"Oh, don't talk to me!" roared Andy; "sure, you know, sheets is only dacent."

"Bother, girl! Isn't a snug woolly blanket a fine thing?"

"Oh, don't brake my heart that-a-way!" sobbed Andy; "sure, there's wool on any dirty sheep's back, but linen is dacency! Oh, mother, mother, if you thought your poor girl was without a sheet this night!"

And so Andy went on, spinning his bit of "linen manufacture" as long as he could, and raising Bridget's wonder that, instead of the lament which abducted ladies generally raise about their "vartue," this young woman's principal complaint arose on the scarcity of flax. Bridget appealed to common sense if blankets were not good enough in these bad times; insisting, moreover, that, as "love was warmer than friendship, so wool was warmer than flax," the beauty of which parallel case nevertheless failed to reconcile the disconsolate abducted. Now Andy had pushed his plea of the want of linen as far as he thought it would go, and when Bridget returned to the charge, and reiterated the oft-repeated "Come to bed, I tell you!" Andy had recourse to twiddling about his toes, and chattering his teeth, and exclaimed in a tremulous voice, "Oh, I've a thrimblin' all over me!"

"Loosen the sthrings o' you, then," said Bridget, about to suit the action to the word. "Ow! ow!" cried Andy, "don't touch me—I'm ticklish."

"Then open the throat o' your gown yourself, dear," said Bridget.

"I've a cowld on my chest, and darn't," said Andy; "but I think a dhrop of hot punch would do me good if I had it."

"And plenty of it," said Bridget, "if that'll plaze you." She rose as she spoke, and set about getting "the materials" for making punch.

Andy hoped, by means of this last idea, to drink Bridget into a state of unconsciousness, and then make his escape; but he had no notion, until he tried, what a capacity the gentle Bridget had for carrying tumblers of punch steadily; he proceeded as cunningly as possible, and, on the score of "the thrimblin' over him," repeated the doses of punch, which, nevertheless, he protested he couldn't touch, unless Bridget kept him in countenance, glass for glass; and Bridget—genial soul—was no way both; for living in a still, and among smugglers, as she did, it was not a trifle of stingo could bring her to a halt. Andy, even with the advantage of the stronger organisation of a man, found this mountain lass nearly a match for him, and before the potations operated as he hoped upon her, his own senses began to feel the influence of the liquor, and his caution became considerably undermined.

Still, however, he resisted the repeated offers of the couch proposed to him, declaring he would sleep in his clothes, and leave to Bridget the full possession of her lair.

The fire began to burn low, and Andy thought he might facilitate his escape by counterfeiting sleep; so feigning slumber as well as he could, he seemed to sink into insensibility, and Bridget unrobed herself and retired behind a rough screen.

It was by a great effort that Andy kept himself awake, for his potations, added to his nocturnal excursion, tended towards somnolency; but the desire of escape, and fear of a discovery and its consequences, prevailed over the ordinary tendency of nature, and he remained awake, watching every sound. The silence at last became painful—so still was it, that he could hear the small crumbling sound of the dying embers as they decomposed and shifted their position on the hearth, and yet he could not be satisfied from the breathing of the woman that she slept. After the lapse of half an hour, however, he ventured to make some movement. He had well observed the quarter in which the outlet from the cave lay, and there was still a faint glimmer from the fire to assist him in crawling towards the trap. It was a relief when, after some minutes of cautious creeping, he felt the fresh air breathing from above, and a moment or two more brought him in contact with the ladder. With the stealth of a cat he began to climb the rungs—he could hear the men snoring on the outside of the cave: step by step as he arose he felt his heart beat faster at the thought of escape, and became more cautious. At length his head emerged from the cave, and he saw the men lying about its mouth; they lay close around it—he must step over them to escape—the chance is fearful, but he determines to attempt it—he ascends still higher—his foot is on the last rung of the ladder—the next step puts him on the heather—when he feels a hand lay hold of him from below!

His heart died within him at the touch, and he could not resist an exclamation.

"Who's that?" exclaimed one of the men outside. Andy crouched.

"Come down," said the voice softly from below; "if Jack sees you, it will be worse for you."

It was the voice of Bridget, and Andy felt it was better to be with her than exposed to the savagery of Shan More and his myrmidons; so he descended quietly, and gave himself up to the tight hold of Bridget, who, with many asseverations that "out of her arms she would not let the prisoner go till morning," led him back to the cave.



CHAPTER XXXIX

"Great wit to madness nearly is allied, And thin partitions do the bounds divide."

So sings the poet; but whether the wit be great or little, the "thin partition" separating madness from sanity is equally mysterious. It is true that the excitability attendant upon genius approximates so closely to madness, that it is sometimes difficult to distinguish between them; but, without the attendant "genius" to hold up the train of madness, and call for our special permission and respect in any of its fantastic excursions, the most ordinary crack-brain sometimes chooses to sport in the regions of sanity, and, without the license which genius is supposed to dispense to her children, poach over the preserves of common sense. This is a well-known fact, and would not be reiterated here, but that the circumstances about to be recorded hereafter might seem unworthy of belief; and as the veracity of our history we would not have for one moment questioned, we have ventured to jog the memory of our readers as to the close neighbourhood of madness and common sense, before we record a curious instance of intermitting madness in the old dowager O'Grady.

Her son's death had, by the violence of the shock, dragged her from the region of fiction in which she habitually existed; but after the funeral she relapsed into all her strange aberration, and her bird-clock and her chimney-pot head-dress were once more in requisition.

The old lady had her usual attendance from her granddaughter, and the customary offering of flowers was rendered, but they were not so cared for as before, and Charlotte was dismissed sooner than usual from her morning's attendance, and a new favourite received in her place. And "of all the birds in the air," who should this favourite be but Master Ratty. Yes!—Ratty—the caricaturist of his grandmamma, was, "for the nonce," her closeted companion. Many a guess was given as to "what in the world" grandmamma could want with Ratty; but the secret was kept between them, for this reason, that the old lady kept the reward she promised Ratty for preserving it in her own hands, until the duty she required on his part should be accomplished, and the shilling a day to which Ratty looked forward kept him faithful.

Now the duty Master Ratty had to perform was instructing his grandmamma how to handle a pistol; the bringing up quick to the mark, and levelling by "the sight," was explained; but a difficulty arose in the old lady's shutting her left eye, which Ratty declared to be indispensable, and for some time Ratty was obliged to stand on a chair and cover his grandmamma's eye with his hand while she took aim; this was found inconvenient, however, and the old lady substituted a black silk shade to obfuscate her sinister luminary in her exercises, which now advanced to snapping the lock, and knocking sparks from the flint, which made the old lady wink with her right eye. When this second habit was overcome, the "dry" practice, that is, without powder, was given up; and a "flash in the pan" was ventured upon, but this made her shut both eyes together, and it was some time before she could prevail on herself to hold her eye fixed on her mark, and pull the trigger. This, however, at last was accomplished, and when she had conquered the fear of seeing the flash, she adopted the plan of standing before a handsome old-fashioned looking-glass which reached from the ceiling to the floor, and levelling the pistol at her own reflection within it, as if she were engaged in mortal combat; and every time she snapped and burned priming she would exclaim, "I hit him that time!—I know I can kill him—tremble, villain!"

As long as this pistol practice had the charm of novelty for Ratty, it was all very well; but when, day by day, the strange mistakes and nervousness of his grandmamma became less piquant from repetition, it was not such good fun; and when the rantipole boy, after as much time as he wished to devote to the old woman's caprice, endeavoured to emancipate himself and was countermanded, an outburst of "Oh, bother!" would take place, till the grandmother called up the prospective shillings to his view, and Ratty bowed before the altar of Mammon. But even Mammon failed to keep Ratty loyal; for that heathen god, Momus, claimed a superior allegiance; Ratty worshipped the "cap and bells" as the true crown, and "the bauble" as the sovereign sceptre. Besides, the secret became troublesome to him, and he determined to let the whole house know what "gran" and he were about, in a way of his own.

The young imp, in the next day's practice, worked up the grandmamma to a state of great excitement, urging her to take a cool and determined aim at the looking-glass. "Cover him well, gran," said Ratty.

"I will," said the dowager, resolutely.

"You ought to be able to hit him at six paces."

"I stand at twelve paces."

"No—you are only six from the looking-glass."

"But the reflection, child, in the mirror, doubles the distance."

"Bother!" said Ratty. "Here, take the pistol—mind your eye and don't wink."

"Ratty, you are singularly obtuse to the charms of science."

"What's science?" said Ratty.

"Science, child, is knowledge of a lofty and abstruse nature, developing itself in wonderful inventions—gunpowder, for instance, is made by science."

"Indeed it is not," said Ratty; "I never saw his name on a canister. Pigou, Andrew, and Wilks, or Mister Dartford Mills, are the men for gunpowder. You know nothing about it, gran."

"Ratty, you are disrespectful, and will not listen to instruction. I knew Kirwan—the great Kirwan, the chemist, who always wore his hat—"

"Then he knew chemistry better than manners."

"Ratty, you are very troublesome. I desire you listen, sir. Kirwan, sir, told me all about science, and the Dublin Society have his picture, with a bottle in his hand—"

"Then he was fond of drink," said Ratty.

"Ratty, don't be pert. To come back to what I was originally saying—I repeat, sir, I am at twelve paces from my object, six from the mirror, which, doubled by reflection, makes twelve; such is the law of optics. I suppose you know what optics are?"

"To be sure I do."

"Tell me, then."

"Our eyes," said Ratty.

"Eyes!" exclaimed the old lady, in amaze.

"To be sure," answered Ratty, boldly. "Didn't I hear the old blind man at the fair asking charity 'for the loss of his blessed optics'?"

"Oh, what lamentable ignorance, my child!" exclaimed the old lady. "Your tutor ought to be ashamed of himself."

"So he is," said Ratty. "He hasn't had a pair of new breeches for the last seven years, and he hides himself whenever he sees mamma or the girls."

"Oh, you ignorant child! Indeed, Ratty, my love, you must study. I will give you the renowned Kirwan's book. Charlotte tore some of it for curl papers; but there's enough left to enlighten you with the sun's rays, and reflection and refraction—"

"I know what that is," said Ratty.

"What?"

"Refraction."

"And what is it, dear?"

"Bad behaviour," said Ratty.

"Oh, Heavens!" exclaimed his grandmother.

"Yes, it is," said Ratty, stoutly; "the tutor says I'm refractory when I behave ill; and he knows Latin better than you."

"Ratty, Ratty! you are hopeless!" exclaimed his grandmamma.

"No, I am not," said Ratty. "I'm always hoping. And I hope Uncle Robert will break his neck some day, and leave us his money."

The old woman turned up her eyes, and exclaimed, "You wicked boy!"

"Fudge!" said Ratty; "he's an old shaver, and we want it; and indeed, gran, you ought to give me ten shillings for ten days' teaching, now; and there's a fair next week, and I want to buy things."

"Ratty, I told you when you made me perfect in the use of my weapon I would pay you. My promise is sacred, and I will observe it with that scrupulous honour which has ever been the characteristic of the family; as soon as I hit something, and satisfy myself of my mastery over the weapon, the money shall be yours, but not till then."

"Oh, very well," said Ratty; "go on then. Ready—don't bring up your arm that way, like the handle of a pump, but raise it nice from the elbow —that's it. Ready—fire! Ah! there you blink your eye, and drop the point of your pistol—try another. Ready—fire! That's better. Now steady the next time."



The young villain then put a charge of powder and ball into the pistol he handed his grandmother, who took steady aim at her reflection in the mirror, and at the words, "Ready—fire!" bang went the pistol—the magnificent glass was smashed—the unexpected recoil of the weapon made it drop from the hand of the dowager, who screamed with astonishment at the report and the shock, and did not see for a moment the mischief she had done; but when the shattered mirror caught her eyes, she made a rush at Ratty, who was screeching with laughter in the far corner of the room where he ran to when he had achieved his trick, and he was so helpless from the excess of his cachinnation, that the old lady cuffed him without his being able to defend himself. At last he contrived to get out of her clutches and jammed her against the wall with a table so tightly, that she roared "Murder!" The report of the pistol ringing through the house brought all its inmates to the spot; and there the cries of murder from the old lady led them to suppose some awful tragedy, instead of a comedy, was enacting inside; the door was locked, too, which increased the alarm, and was forced in the moment of terror from the outside. When the crowd rushed in, Master Ratty rushed out, and left the astonished family to gather up the bits of the story, as well as they could, from the broken looking-glass and the cracked dowager.



CHAPTER XL

Though it is clear the serious events in the O'Grady family had not altered Master Ratty's propensities in the least, the case was far different with Gustavus. In that one night of suffering which he had passed, the gulf was leaped that divides the boy from the man; and the extra frivolity and carelessness which clung from boyhood up to the age of fifteen was at once, by the sudden disrupture produced by events, thrown off, and as singular a ripening into manhood commenced.

Gustavus was of a generous nature; and even his faults belonged less to his organisation than to the devil-may-care sort of education he received, if education it might be called. Upon his generosity the conduct of Edward O'Connor beside the grave of the boy's father had worked strongly; and though Gustavus could not give his hand beside the grave to the man with whom his father had engaged in deadly quarrel, yet he quite exonerated Edward from any blame; and when, after a night more sleepless than Gustavus had ever known, he rose early on the ensuing morning, he determined to ride over to Edward O'Connor's house to breakfast, and commence that friendship which Edward had so solemnly promised to him, and with which the boy was pleased; for Gustavus was quite aware in what estimation Edward was held; and though the relative circumstances in which he and the late Squire stood prevented the boy from "caring a fig" for him, as he often said himself, yet he was not beyond the influence of that thing called "reputation," which so powerfully attaches to and elevates the man who wins it; and the price at which Edward was held in the country influenced opinion even in Neck-or-Nothing Hall, albeit though "against the grain." Gustavus had sometimes heard, from the lips of the idle and ignorant, Edward sneered at for being "cruel wise," and "too much of a schoolmaster," and fit for nothing but books or a boudoir, and called a "piano man," with all the rest of the hackneyed dirt which jealous inferiority loves to fling at the heights it cannot occupy; for though —as it has been said—Edward, from his manly and sensible bearing, had escaped such sneers better than most men, still some few there were to whom his merit was offensive. Gustavus, however, though he sometimes heard such things, saw with his own eyes that Edward could back a horse with any man in the country—was always foremost in the chace—could bring down as many brace of birds as most men in a day—had saved one or two persons from drowning; and if he did all these things as well as other men, Gustavus (though hitherto too idle to learn much himself) did not see why a man should be sneered at for being an accomplished scholar as well. Therefore he had good foundation for being pleased at the proffered friendship of such a man, and remembering the poignancy of Edward's anguish on the foregoing eve, Gustavus generously resolved to see him at once and offer him the hand which a nice sense of feeling made him withhold the night before. Mounting his pony, an hour's smart riding brought him to Mount Eskar, for such was the name of Mr. O'Connor's residence.

It was breakfast-time when Gustavus arrived, but Edward had not yet left his room, and the servant went to call him. It need scarcely be said that Edward had passed a wretched night; reaching home, as he did, weary in mind and body, and with feelings and imagination both overwrought, it was long before he could sleep; and even then his slumber was disturbed by harassing visions and frightful images. Spectral shapes and things unimaginable to the waking senses danced and crawled and hissed about him. The torch flared above the grave, and that horrid coffin, with the name of the dead O'Grady upon it, "murdered sleep." It was dawn before anything like refreshing slumber touched his feverish eyelids, and he had not enjoyed more than a couple of hours of what might be called sleep, when the servant called him; and then, after the brief oblivion he had obtained, one may fancy how he started when the first words he heard on waking were, "Mister O'Grady is below, sir."

Edward started up from his bed and stared wildly on the man, as he exclaimed, with a look of alarm, "O'Grady! For God's sake, you don't say O'Grady?"

"'Tis Master Gustavus, sir," said the man, wondering at the wildness of Edward's manner.

"Oh, the boy!—ay, ay, the boy!" repeated Edward, drawing his hands across his eyes and recovering his self-possession. "Say I will be down presently."

The man retired, and Edward lay down again for some minutes to calm the heavy beating of his heart which the sudden mention of that name had produced; that name so linked with the mental agony of the past night; that name which had conjured up a waking horror of such might as to shake the sway of reason for a time, and which afterwards pursued its reign of terror through his sleep. After such a night, fancy poor Edward doomed to hear the name of O'Grady again the first thing in the morning, and we cannot wonder that he was startled.

A few minutes, however, served to restore his self-possession; and he arose, made his toilet in haste, and descended to the breakfast-parlour, where he was met by Gustavus with an open hand, which Edward clasped with fervour and held for some time as he looked on the handsome face of the boy, and saw in its frank expression all that his heart could desire. They spoke not a word, but they understood one another; and that moment commenced an attachment which increased with increasing intimacy, and became one of those steadfast friendships which are seldom met with.

After breakfast Edward brought Gustavus to his "den," as he called a room which was appropriated to his own particular use, occupied with books and a small collection of national relics. Some long ranges of that peculiar calf binding, with its red label, declared at once the contents to be law and by the dry formal cut of the exterior gave little invitation to reading. The very outside of a law library is repulsive; the continuity of that eternal buff leather gives one a surfeit by anticipation, and makes one mentally exclaim in despair, "Heavens! how can any one hope to get all that into his head?" The only plain honest thing about law is the outside of the books where it is laid down—there all is simple; inside all is complex. The interlacing lines of the binder's patterns find no place on the covers; but intricacies abound inside, where any line is easier found than a straight one. Nor gold leaf nor tool is employed without, but within how many fallacies are enveloped in glozing words; the gold leaf has its representative in "legal fiction;" and as for "tooling" there's plenty of that!

Other books, also, bore external evidence of the nature of their contents. Some old parchment covers indicated the lore of past ages; amidst these the brightest names of Greece and Rome were to be found, as well as those who have adorned our own literature, and implied a cultivated taste on the part of the owner. But one portion of the library was particularly well stored. The works bearing on Irish history were numerous, and this might well account for the ardour of Edward's feelings in the cause of his country; for it is as impossible that a river should run backwards to its source, as that any Irishman of a generous nature can become acquainted with the real history of his country, and not feel that she has been an ill-used and neglected land, and not struggle in the cause of her being righted. Much has been done in the cause since the days of which this story treats, and Edward was amongst those who helped to achieve it; but much has still to be done, and there is glorious work in store for present and future Edward O'Connors.

Along with the books which spoke the cause of Ireland, the mute evidences, also, of her former glory and civilisation were scattered through the room. Various ornaments of elegant form, and wrought in the purest gold, were tastefully arranged over the mantel-piece; some, from their form, indicating their use, and others only affording matter of ingenious speculation to the antiquary, but all bearing evidence of early civilisation. The frontlet of gold indicated noble estate, and the long and tapering bodkin of the same metal, with its richly enchased knob or pendent crescent, implied the robe it once fastened could have been of no mean texture, and the wearer of no mean rank. Weapons were there, too, of elegant form and exquisite workmanship, wrought in that ancient bronze, of such wondrous temper that it carries effective edge and point. The sword was of exact Phoenician mould; the double-eyed spear-head, formed at once for strength and lightness, might have served as the model for a sculptor in arming the hand of Minerva. Could these be the work of an uncultivated people? Impossible! The harp, too, was there, that unfailing mark of polish and social elegance. The bard and barbarism could never be coeval. But a relic was there, exciting still deeper interest—an ancient crosier, of curious workmanship, wrought in the precious metals and partly studded with jewels; but few of the latter remained, though the empty collets showed it had once been costly in such ornaments. Could this be seen without remembering that the light of Christianity first dawned over the western isles in Ireland? that there the Gospel was first preached, there the work of salvation begun?

There be cold hearts to which these touching recollections do not pertain, and they heed them not; and some there are, who, with a callousness which shocks sensibility, have the ignorant effrontery to ask, "Of what use are such recollections?" With such frigid utilitarians it would be vain to argue; but this question, at least, may be put in return:—Why should the ancient glories of Greece and Rome form a large portion of the academic studies of our youth?—why should the evidences of their arts and their arms be held precious in museums, and similar evidences of ancient cultivation be despised because they pertain to another nation? Is it because they are Irish they are held in contempt? Alas! in many cases it is so—ay, and even (shame to say) within her own shores. But never may that day arrive when Ireland shall be without enough of true and fond hearts to cherish the memory of her ancient glories, to give to her future sons the evidences of her earliest western civilisation, proving that their forefathers were not (as those say who wronged and therefore would malign them) a rabble of rude barbarians, but that brave kings, and proud princes, and wise lawgivers, and just judges, and gallant chiefs, and chaste and lovely women were among them, and that inspired bards were there to perpetuate such memories!

Gustavus had never before seen a crosier, and asked what it was. On being informed of its name, he then said, "But what is a crosier?"

"A bishop's pastoral staff," said Edward.

"And why have you a bishop's staff, and swords, and spears, hung up together?"

"That is not inappropriate," said Edward. "Unfortunately, the sword and the crosier have been frequently but too intimate companions. Preaching the word of peace has been too often the pretext for war. The Spaniards, for instance, in the name of the gospel, committed the most fearful atrocities."

"Oh, I know," said Gustavus, "that was in the time of bloody Mary and the Armada."

Edward wondered at the boy's ignorance, and saw in an instant the source of his false application of his allusion to the Spaniards. Gustavus had been taught to vaguely couple the name of "bloody Mary" with everything bad, and that of "good Queen Bess" with all that was glorious; and the word "Spanish," in poor Gusty's head, had been hitherto connected with two ideas, namely, "liquorice" and the "Armada."

Edward, without wounding the sensitive shame of ignorant youth, gently set him right, and made him aware he had alluded to the conduct of the Spaniards in America under Cortes and Pizarro.

For the first time in his life Gustavus was aware that Pizarro was a real character. He had heard his grandmamma speak of a play of that name, and how great Mr. Kemble was in Rollo, and how he saved a child; but as to its belonging to history, it was a new light—the utmost Gusty knew about America being that it was discovered by Columbus.

"But the crosier," said Edward, "is amongst the most interesting of Irish antiquities, and especially belongs to an Irish collection, when you remember the earliest preaching of Christianity in the western isles was in Ireland."

"I did only know that," said the boy.

"Then you don't know why the shamrock is our national emblem?"

"No," said Gustavus, "though I take care to mount one in my hat every Patrick's day."

"Well," said Edward, anxious to give Gustavus credit for any knowledge he possessed, "you know at least it is connected with the memory of St. Patrick, though you don't know why. I will tell you. When St. Patrick first preached the Christian faith in Ireland, before a powerful chief and his people, when he spoke of one God, and of the Trinity, the chief asked how one could be in three. St. Patrick, instead of attempting a theological definition of the faith, thought a simple image would best serve to enlighten a simple people, and stooping to the earth he plucked from the green sod a shamrock, and holding up the trefoil before them he bade them there behold one in three. The chief, struck by the illustration, asked at once to be baptised, and all his sept followed his example."

"I never heard that before," said Gusty. "'T is very beautiful."

"I will tell you something else connected with it," said Edward.

"After baptising the chief, St. Patrick made an eloquent exhortation to the assembled multitude, and in the course of his address, while enforcing his urgent appeal with appropriate gesture, as the hand which held his crosier, after being raised towards heaven, descended again towards the earth, the point of his staff, armed with metal, was driven through the foot of the chief, who, fancying it was part of the ceremony, and but a necessary testing of the firmness of his faith, never winced."

"He was a fine fellow," said Gusty. "And is that the crosier?" he added, alluding to the one in Edward's collection, and manifestly excited by what he had heard.

"No," said Edward, "but one of early date, and belonging to some of the first preachers of the gospel amongst us."

"And have you other things here with such beautiful stories belonging to them?" inquired Gusty, eager for more of that romantic lore which youth loves so passionately.

"Not that I know of," answered Edward "but if these objects here had only tongues, if every sword, and belt, and spear-head, and golden bodkin, and other trinket could speak, no doubt we should hear stirring stories of gallant warriors and their ladye-loves."

"Aye, that would be something to hear!" exclaimed Gusty.

"Well," said Edward, "you may have many such stories by reading the history of your country; which if you have not read, I can lend you books enough."

"Oh, thank you," said Gusty; "I should like it so much."

Edward approached the book-shelf and selected a volume he thought the most likely to interest so little practised a reader; and when he turned round he saw Gusty poising in his hand an antique Irish sword of bronze.

"Do you know what that is?" inquired Edward.

"I can't tell you the name of it," answered Gusty, "but I suppose it was something to stick a fellow."

Edward smiled at the characteristic reply, and told him it was an antique Irish sword.

"A sword?" he exclaimed. "Isn't it short for a sword?"

"All the swords of that day were short."

"When was that?" inquired the boy.

"Somewhere about two thousand years ago."

"Two thousand years," exclaimed Gusty, in surprise. "How is it possible you can tell this is two thousand years old?"

"Because it is made of the same metal and of the same shape as the swords found at Cannae, where the Carthaginians fought the Romans."

"I know the Roman history," said Gusty, eager to display his little bit of knowledge; "I know the Roman history. Romulus and Remus were educated by a wolf." Edward could not resist a smile, which he soon suppressed, and continued:—"Such works as you now hold in your hand are found in quantities in Ireland, and seldom anywhere else in Europe, except in Italy, particularly at Cannae, where some thousands of Carthaginians fell; and when we find the sword of the same make and metal in places so remote, it establishes a strong connecting link between the people of Carthage and of Ireland, and at once shows their date."

"How curious that is!" exclaimed Gusty; "and how odd I never heard it before! Are there many such curious things you know?"

"Many," said Edward.

"I wonder how people can find out such odd things," said the boy.

"My dear boy," said Edward, "after getting a certain amount of knowledge, other knowledge comes very fast; it gathers like a snowball—or perhaps it would be better to illustrate the fact by a milldam. You know, when the water is low in the milldam, the miller cannot drive his wheel; but the moment the water comes up to a certain level it has force to work the mill. And so it is with knowledge; when once you get it up to a certain level, you can 'work your mill,' with this great advantage over the milldam, that the stream of knowledge, once reaching the working level, never runs dry."

"Oh, I wish I knew as much as you do," exclaimed Gusty.

"And so you can if you wish it," said Edward.

Gusty sighed heavily, and admitted he had been very idle. Edward told him he had plenty of time before him to repair the damage.

A conversation then ensued, perfectly frank on the part of the boy, and kind on Edward's side to all his deficiencies, which he found to be lamentable, as far as learning went. He had some small smattering of Latin; but Gustavus vowed steady attention to his tutor and his studies for the future. Edward, knowing what a miserable scholar the tutor himself was, offered to put Gustavus through his Latin and Greek himself. Gustavus accepted the offer with gratitude, and rode over every day to Mount Eskar for his lesson; and, under the intelligent explanations of Edward, the difficulties which had hitherto discouraged him disappeared, and it was surprising what progress he made. At the same time he devoured Irish history, and became rapidly tinctured with that enthusiastic love of all that belonged to his country which he found in his teacher; and Edward soon hailed, in the ardent neophyte, a noble and intelligent spirit redeemed from ignorance and rendered capable of higher enjoyments than those to be derived merely from field sports. Edward, however, did not confine his instructions to book-learning only; there is much to be learned by living with the educated, whose current conversation alone is instructive; and Edward had Gustavus with him as constantly as he could; and after some time, when the frequency of Gusty's visits to Mount Eskar ceased to excite any wonder at home, he sometimes spent several days together with Edward, to whom he became continually more and more attached. Edward showed great judgment in making his training attractive to his pupil: he did not attend merely to his head; he thought of other things as well; joined him in the sports and exercises he knew, and taught him those in which he was uninstructed. Fencing, for instance, was one of these; Edward was a tolerable master of his foil, and in a few months Gustavus, under his tuition, could parry a thrust and make no bad attempt at a hit himself. His improvement in every way was so remarkable, that it was noticed by all, and its cause did not long remain secret; and when it was known, Edward O'Connor's character stood higher than ever, and the whole country said it was a lucky day for Gusty O'Grady that he found such a friend. As the limits of our story would not permit the intercourse between Edward and Gustavus to be treated in detail, this general sketch of it has been given; and in stating its consequences so far, a peep into the future has been granted by the author, with a benevolence seldom belonging to his ill-natured and crafty tribe, who endeavour to hoodwink their docile followers as much as possible, and keep them in a state of ignorance as to coming events. But now, having been so indulgent, we must beg to lay hold of the skirts of our readers and pull them back again down the ladder into the private still, where Bridget pulled back Andy very much after the same fashion, and the results of which we must treat of in our next chapter.



CHAPTER XLI

When Bridget dragged Andy back and insisted on his going to bed—

No—I will not be too good natured and tell my story in that way; besides, it would be a very difficult matter to tell it; and why should an author, merely to oblige people, get himself involved in a labyrinth of difficulties, and rack his unfortunate brain to pick and choose words properly to tell his story, yet at the same time to lead his readers through the mazes of this very ticklish adventure, without a single thorn scratching their delicate feelings, or as much as making the smallest rent in the white muslin robe of propriety? So, not to run unnecessary risks, the story must go on another way.

When Shan More and the rest of the "big blackguards" began to wake, the morning after the abduction, and gave a turn or two under their heather coverlid, and rubbed their eyes as the sun peeped through the "curtains of the east"—for these were the only bed-curtains Shan More and his companions ever had—they stretched themselves and yawned, and felt very thirsty, for they had all been blind drunk the night before, be it remembered; and Shan More, to use his own expressive and poetic imagery, swore that his tongue was "as rough as a rat's back," while his companions went no further than saying theirs were as "dry as a lime-burner's wig." We should not be so particular in those minute details but for that desire of truth which has guided us all through this veracious history and as in this scene, in particular, we feel ourselves sure to be held seriously responsible for every word, we are determined to be accurate to a nicety, and set down every syllable with stenographic strictness.

"Where's the girl?" cried Shan, not yet sober.

"She's asleep with your sisther," was the answer.

"Down-stairs?" inquired Shan.

"Yes," said the other, who now knew that Big Jack was more drunk than he at first thought him, by his using the words stairs; for Jack when he was drunk was very grand, and called down the ladder "down-stairs."

"Get me a drink o' wather," said Jack, "for I'm thundherin' thirsty, and can't deludher that girl with soft words till I wet my mouth."

His attendant vagabond obeyed the order, and a large pitcher full of water was handed to the master, who heaved it upwards to his head and drank as audibly and nearly as much as a horse. Then holding his hands to receive the remaining contents of the pitcher, which his followers poured into his monstrous palms, he soused his face, which he afterwards wiped in a wisp of grass—the only towel of Jack's which was not then at the wash.

Having thus made his toilet, Big Jack went downstairs, and as soon as his great bull-head had disappeared beneath the trap, one of the men above said, "We'll have a shilloe soon, boys."

And sure enough they did before long hear an extraordinary row. Jack first roared for Bridget, and no answer was returned; the call was repeated with as little effect, and at last a most tremendous roar was heard above, but not from a female voice. Jack was heard below, swearing like a trooper, and, in a minute or two, back he rushed "up-stairs" and began cursing his myrmidons most awfully, and foaming at the mouth with rage.

"What's the matther?" cried the men.

"Matther!" roared Jack; "oh, you 'tarnal villains! You're a purty set to carry off a girl for a man—a purty job you've made of it!"

"Arrah, didn't we bring her to you?"

"Her, indeed—bring her—much good what you brought is to me!"

"Tare an' ouns! what's the matther at all? We dunna what you mane!" shouted the men, returning rage for rage.

"Come down, and you'll see what's the matther," said Jack, descending the ladder; and the men hastened after him.

He led the way to the further end of the cabin, where a small glimmering of light was permitted to enter from the top, and lifting a tattered piece of canvas, which served as a screen to the bed, he exclaimed, with a curse, "Look there, you blackguards!"

The men gave a shout of surprise, for—what do you think they saw?—An empty bed!



CHAPTER XLII

It may be remembered that, on Father Phil's recommendation, Andy was to be removed out of the country to place him beyond the reach of Larry Hogan's machinations, and that the proposed journey to London afforded a good opportunity of taking him out of the way. Andy had been desired by Squire Egan to repair to Merryvale; but as some days had elapsed and Andy had not made his appearance, the alarms of the Squire that Andy might be tampered with began to revive, and Dick Dawson was therefore requested to call at the Widow Rooney's cabin as he was returning from the town, where some business with Murphy, about the petition against Scatterbrain's return, demanded his presence.

Dick, as it happened, had no need to call at the widow's, for on his way to the town who should he see approaching but the renowned Andy himself. On coming up to him, Dick pulled up his horse, and Andy pulled off his hat.

"God save your honour," said Andy.

"Why didn't you come to Merryvale, as you were bid?" said Dick.

"I couldn't, sir, becase—"

"Hold your tongue, you thief; you know you never can do what you're bid— you are always wrong one way or other."

"You're hard on me, Misther Dick."

"Did you ever do anything right?—I ask yourself?"

"Indeed, sir, this time it was a rale bit o' business I had to do."

"And well you did it, no doubt. Did you marry any one lately?" said Dick, with a waggish grin and a wink.

"Faix, then, maybe I did," said Andy, with a knowing nod.

"And I hope Matty is well?" said Dick.

"Ah, Misther Dick, you're always goin' on with your jokin', so you are. So, you heerd o' that job, did you? Faix, a purty lady she is—oh, it's not her at all I am married to, but another woman."

"Another woman!" exclaimed Dick, in surprise.

"Yis, sir, another woman—a kind craythur."

"Another woman!" reiterated Dick, laughing; "married to two women in two days! Why you're worse than a Turk!"

"Ah, Misther Dick!"

"You Tarquin!"

"Sure, sir, what harm's in it?"'

"You Heliogabalus!!"

"Sure, it's no fault o' mine, sir."

"Bigamy, by this and that, flat bigamy! You'll only be hanged, as sure as your name's Andy."

"Sure, let me tell you how it was, sir, and you'll see I am quit of all harm, good or bad. 'T was a pack o' blackguards, you see, come to take off Oonah, sir."

"Oh, a case of abduction!"

"Yis, sir; so the women dhressed me up as a girl, and the blackguards, instead of the seduction of Oonah, only seduced me."

"Capital!" cried Dick; "well done, Andy! And who seduced you?"

"Shan More, 'faith—no less."

"Ho, ho! a dangerous customer to play tricks on, Andy."

"Sure enough, 'faith, and that's partly the rayson of what happened; but, by good luck, Big Jack was blind dhrunk when I got there, and I shammed screechin' so well that his sisther took pity on me, and said she'd keep me safe from harm in her own bed that night."

Dick gave a "view hallo" when he heard this, and shouted with laughter, delighted at the thought of Shan More, instead of carrying off a girl for himself, introducing a gallant to his own sister.

"Oh, now I see how you are married," said Dick; "that was the biter bit indeed."

"Oh, the divil a bit I'd ha' bit her only for the cross luck with me, for I wanted to schame off out o' the place, and escape; but she wouldn't let me, and cotch me and brought me back."

"I should think she would, indeed," said Dick, laughing. "What next?"

"Why I drank a power o' punch, sir, and was off my guard, you see, and couldn't keep the saycret so well afther that, and by dad she found it out."

"Just what I would expect of her," said Dick.

"Well, do you know, sir, though the thrick was agen her own brother, she laughed at it a power, and said I was a great divil, but that she couldn't blame me. So then I'd sthruv to coax her to let me make my escape, but she told me to wait a bit till the men above was faster asleep; but while I was waitin' for them to go to sleep, faix, I went to asleep myself, I was so tired; and when Bridget, the crathur, 'woke me in the morning, she was cryin' like a spout afther a thunder-storm, and said her characther would be ruined when the story got abroad over the counthry, and sure she darn't face the world if I wouldn't make her an honest woman."

"The brazen baggage!" said Dick; "and what did you say?"

"Why what could any man say, sir, afther that? Sure her karacther would be gone if—"

"Gone," said Dick, "'faith it might have gone further before it fared worse."

"Arrah! what do you mane, Misther Dick?"

"Pooh, pooh! Andy—you don't mean to say you married that one?"

"Faix, I did," said Andy.

"Well, Andy," said Dick, grinning, "by the powers, you have done it this time! Good morning to you!" and Dick put spurs to his horse.



CHAPTER XLIII

Andy, "knocked all of a heap," stood in the middle of the road, looking after Dick as he cantered down the slope. It was seldom poor Andy was angry—but he felt a strong sense of indignation choking him as Dick's parting words still rung in his ears. "What does he mane?" said Andy, talking aloud; "what does he mane?" he repeated, anxious to doubt and therefore question the obvious construction which Dick's words bore. "Misther Dick is fond of a joke, and maybe this is one of his making; but if it is, 't is not a fair one, 'pon my sowl: a poor man has his feelin's as well as a rich man. How would you like your own wife to be spoke of that way, Misther Dick, as proud as you ride your horse there—humph?"

Andy, in great indignation, pursued his way towards his mother's cabin to ask her blessing upon his marriage. On his presenting himself there, both the old woman and Oonah were in great delight at witnessing his safe return; Oonah particularly, for she, feeling that it was for her sake Andy placed himself in danger, had been in a state of great anxiety for the result of the adventure, and, on seeing him, absolutely threw herself into his arms, and embraced him tenderly, impressing many a hearty kiss upon his lips, between whiles that she vowed she would never forget his generosity and courage, and ending with saying there was nothing she would not do for him.

Now Andy was flesh and blood like other people, and as the showers of kisses from Oonah's ripe lips fell fast upon him he was not insensible to the embrace of so very pretty a girl—a girl, moreover, he had always had a "sneaking kindness" for, which Oonah's distance of manner alone had hitherto made him keep to himself; but now, when he saw her eyes beam gratitude, and her cheek flush, after her strong demonstration of regard, and heard her last words, so very like a hint to a shy man, it must be owned a sudden pang shot through poor Andy's heart, and he sickened at the thought of being married, which placed the tempting prize before him hopelessly beyond his reach.

He looked so blank, and seemed so unable to return Oonah's fond greeting, that she felt the pique which every pretty woman experiences who fancies her favours disregarded, and thought Andy the stupidest lout she ever came across. Turning up her hair, which had fallen down in the excess of her friendship, she walked out of the cottage, and, biting her disdainful lip, fairly cried for spite.

In the meantime, Andy popped down on his knees before the widow, and said, "Give me your blessing, mother!"

"For what, you omadhawn?" said his mother, fiercely; for her woman's nature took part with Oonah's feelings, which she quite comprehended, and she was vexed with what she thought Andy's disgusting insensibility. "For what should I give you my blessing?"

"Bekase I'm marri'd, ma'am."

"What!" exclaimed the mother. "It's not marri'd again you are? You're jokin' sure."

"Faix, it's no joke," said Andy, sadly, "I'm marri'd sure enough; so give us your blessin', anyhow," cried he, still kneeling.

"And who did you dar' for to marry, sir, if I make so bowld to ax, without my lave or license?"

"There was no time for axin', mother—'t was done in a hurry, and I can't help it, so give us your blessing at once."

"Tell me who is she, before I give you my blessin'?"

"Shan More's sister, ma'am."

"What!" exclaimed the widow, staggering back some paces—"Shan More's sisther, did you say—Bridget rhua [Footnote: Red-haired Bridget.] is it?"

"Yis, ma'am."

"Oh, wirrasthru!—plillelew!—millia murther!" shouted the mother, tearing her cap off her head,—"Oh blessed Vargin, holy St. Dominick, Pether an' Paul the 'possel, what'll I do?—Oh, patther an' ave—you dirty bosthoon—blessed angels and holy marthyrs!—kneelin' there in the middle o' the flure as if nothing happened—look down on me this day, a poor vartuous dissolute woman!—Oh, you disgrace to me and all belonging to you,—and is it the impidence to ask my blessin' you have, when it's a whippin' at the cart's tail you ought to get, you shameless scapegrace?"

She then went wringing her hands, and throwing them upwards in appeals to Heaven, while Andy still kept kneeling in the middle of the cabin, lost in wonder.

The widow ran to the door and called Oonah in.

"Who do you think that blackguard is marri'd to?" said the widow.

"Married!" exclaimed Oonah, growing pale.

"Ay, marri'd, and who to, do you think?—Why to Bridget rhua."

Oonah screamed and clasped her hands.

Andy got up at last, and asked what they were making such a rout about; he wasn't the first man who married without asking his mother's leave; and wanted to know what they had to "say agen it."

"Oh, you barefaced scandal o' the world!" cried the widow, "to ax sitch a question—to marry a thrampin' sthreel like that—a great red-headed jack—"

"She can't help her hair," said Andy.

"I wish I could cut it off, and her head along with it, the sthrap! Oh, blessed Vargin! to have my daughter-in-law—"

"What?" said Andy, getting rather alarmed.

"That all the country knows is—"

"What?" cried Andy.

"Not a fair nor a market-town doesn't know her as well as—Oh, wirra! wirra!"

"Why you don't mane to say anything agen her charackther, do you?" said Andy.

"Charakther, indeed!" said his mother, with a sneer.

"By this an' that," said Andy, "if she was the child unborn she couldn't make a greater hullabaloo about her charakther than she did the mornin' afther."

"Afther what?" said his mother.

"Afther I was tuk away up to the hill beyant, and found her there, and— but I b'lieve I didn't tell you how it happened."

"No," said Oonah, coming forward, deadly pale, and listening anxiously, with a look of deep pity in her soft eyes.

Andy then related his adventure as the reader already knows it; and when it was ended, Oonah burst into tears and in passionate exclamations blamed herself for all that had happened, saying it was in the endeavour to save her that Andy had lost himself.

"Oh, Oonah! Oonah!" said Andy, with more meaning in his voice than the girl had ever heard before, "it isn't the loss of myself I mind, but I've lost you too. Oh, if you had ever given me a tendher word or look before this day, 't would never have happened, and that desaiver in the hills never could have deludhered me. And tell me, lanna machree, is my suspicions right in what I hear—tell me the worst at oncet—is she non compos?"

"Oh, I never heerd her called by that name before," sobbed Oonah, "but she has a great many others just as bad."

"Ow! ow! ow!" exclaimed Andy. "Now I know what Misther Dick laughed at; well, death before dishonour—I'll go 'list for a sojer, and never live with her!"



CHAPTER XLIV

It has been necessary in an earlier chapter to notice the strange freaks madness will sometimes play. It was then the object to show how strong affections of the mind will recall an erring judgment to its true balance; but, the action of the counterpoise growing weaker by time, the disease returns, and reason again kicks the beam. Such was the old dowager's case: the death of her son recalled her to herself; but a few days produced relapse, and she was as foolish as ever. Nevertheless, as Polonius remarks of Hamlet,

"There is method in his madness;"

so in the dowager's case there was method—not of a sane intention, as the old courtier implies of the Danish Prince, but of insane birth—begot of a chivalrous feeling on an enfeebled mind.

To make this clearly understood it is necessary to call attention to one other peculiarity of madness,—that, while it makes those under its influence liable to say and enact all sorts of nonsense on some subjects, it never impairs their powers of observation on those which chance to come within the reach of the un-diseased portion of the mind; and moreover, they are quite as capable of arriving at just conclusions upon what they so see and hear, as the most reasonable person, and, perhaps, in proportion as the reasoning power is limited within a smaller compass, so the capability of observation becomes stronger by being concentrated.

Such was the case with the old dowager, who, while Furlong was "doing devotion" to Augusta, and appeared the pink of faithful swains, saw very clearly that Furlong did not like it a bit, and would gladly be off his bargain. Yea, while the people in their sober senses on the same plane with the parties were taken in, the old lunatic, even from the toppling height of her own mad chimney-pot, could look down and see that Furlong would not marry Augusta if he could help it.

It was even so. Furlong had acted under the influence of terror when poor Augusta, shoved into his bedroom through the devilment of that rascally imp, Ratty, and found there, through the evil destiny of Andy, was flung into his arms by her enraged father, and accepted as his wife. The immediate hurry of the election had delayed the marriage—the duel and its consequences further interrupted "the happy event"—and O'Grady's death caused a further postponement. It was delicately hinted to Furlong, that when matters had gone so far as to the wedding-dresses being ready, that the sooner the contracting parties under such circumstances were married, the better. But Furlong, with that affectation of propriety which belongs to his time-serving tribe, pleaded the "regard to appearances"— "so soon after the ever-to-be-deplored event,"—and other such specious excuses, which were but covers to his own rascality, and used but to postpone the "wedding-day." The truth was, the moment Furlong had no longer the terrors of O'Grady's pistol before his eyes, he had resolved never to take so bad a match as that with Augusta appeared to be—indeed was, as far as regarded money; though Furlong should only have been too glad to be permitted to mix his plebeian blood with the daughter of a man of high family, whose crippled circumstances and consequent truckling conduct had reduced him to the wretched necessity of making such a cur as Furlong the inmate of his house. But so it was.

The family began at last to suspect the real state of the case, and all were surprised except the old dowager; she had expected what was coming, and had prepared herself for it. All her pistol practice was with a view to call Furlong to the "last arbitrament" for this slight to her house. Gusty was too young, she considered, for the duty; therefore she, in her fantastic way of looking at the matter, looked upon herself as the head of the family, and, as such, determined to resent the affront put upon it.

But of her real design the family at Neck-or-Nothing Hall had not the remotest notion. Of course, an old lady going about with a pistol, powder- flask, and bullets, and practising on the trunks of the trees in the park, could not pass without observation, and surmises there were on the subject; then her occasional exclamation of "Tremble, villain!" would escape her; and sometimes in the family circle, after sitting for a while in a state of abstraction, she would lift her attenuated hand armed with a knitting-needle or a ball of worsted, and assuming the action of poising a pistol, execute a smart click with her tongue, and say, "I hit him that time."

These exclamations, indicative of vengeance, were supposed at length by the family to apply to Edward O'Connor, but excited pity rather than alarm. When, however, one morning, the dowager was nowhere to be found, and Ratty and the pistols had also disappeared, an inquiry was instituted as to the old lady's whereabouts, and Mount Eskar was one of the first places where she was sought, but without success; and all other inquiries were equally unavailing.

The old lady had contrived, with that cunning peculiar to insane people, to get away from the house at an early hour in the morning, unknown to all except Ratty, to whom she confided her intention, and he managed to get her out of the domain unobserved, and thence together they proceeded to Dublin in a post-chaise. It was the day after this secret expedition was undertaken that Mr. Furlong was sitting in his private apartment at the Castle, doing "the state some service" by reading the morning papers, which heavy official duty he relieved occasionally by turning to some scented notes which lay near a morocco writing-case, whence they had been drawn by the lisping dandy to flatter his vanity. He had been carrying on a correspondence with an anonymous fair one, in whose heart, if her words might be believed, Furlong had made desperate havoc.

It happened, however, that these notes were all fictitious, being the work of Tom Loftus, who enjoyed playing on a puppy as much as playing on the organ; and he had the satisfaction of seeing Furlong going through his paces in certain squares he had appointed, wearing a flower of Tom's choice and going through other antics which Tom had demanded under the signature of "Phillis," written in a delicate hand on pink satin note- paper with a lace border; one of the last notes suggested the possibility of a visit from the lady, and, after assurances of "secrecy and honour" had been returned by Furlong, he was anxiously expecting "what would become of it;" and filled with pleasing reflections of what "a devil of a fellow" he was among the ladies, he occasionally paced the room before a handsome dressing-glass (with which his apartment was always furnished), and ran his fingers through his curls with a complacent smile. While thus occupied, and in such a frame of mind, the hall messenger entered the apartment, and said a lady wished to see him.

"A lady!" exclaimed Furlong, in delighted surprise.

"She won't give her name, sir, but—"

"Show her up! show her up!" exclaimed the Lothario, eagerly.

All anxiety, he awaited the appearance of his donna; and quite a donna she seemed, as a commanding figure, dressed in black, and enveloped in a rich veil of the same, glided into the room.

"How vewy Spanish!" exclaimed Furlong, as he advanced to meet his incognita, who, as soon as she entered, locked the door, and withdrew the key.

"Quite pwactised in such secwet affairs," said Furlong slily. "Fai' lady, allow me to touch you' fai' hand, and lead you to a seat."

The mysterious stranger made no answer; but lifting her long veil, turned round on the lisping dandy, who staggered back, when the dowager O'Grady appeared before him, drawn up to her full height, and anything but an agreeable expression in her eye. She stalked up towards him, something in the style of a spectre in a romance, which she was not very unlike; and as she advanced, he retreated, until he got the table between him and this most unwelcome apparition.

"I am come," said the dowager, with an ominous tone of voice.

"Vewy happy of the hono', I am sure, Mistwess O'Gwady," faltered Furlong.

"The avenger has come." Furlong opened his eyes. "I have come to wash the stain!" said she, tapping her fingers in a theatrical manner on the table, and, as it happened, she pointed to a large blotch of ink on the table- cover. Furlong opened his eyes wider than ever, and thought this the queerest bit of madness he ever heard of; however, thinking it best to humour her, he answered, "Yes, it was a little awkwa'dness of mine—I upset the inkstand the othe' day."

"Do you mock me, sir?" said she, with increasing bitterness.

"La, no! Mistwess O'Gwady."

"I have come, I say, to wash out in your blood the stain you have dared to put on the name of O'Grady."

Furlong gasped with mingled amazement and fear.

"Tremble, villain!" she said; and she pointed toward him her long attenuated finger with portentous solemnity.



"I weally am quite at a loss, Mistwess O'Gwady, to compwehend—"

Before he could finish his sentence, the dowager had drawn from the depths of her side-pockets a brace of pistols, and presenting them to Furlong, said, "Be at a loss no longer, except the loss of life which may ensue: take your choice of weapons, sir."

"Gwacious Heaven!" exclaimed Furlong, trembling from head to foot.

"You won't choose, then?" said the dowager. "Well, there's one for you;" and she laid a pistol before him with as courteous a manner as if she were making him a birthday present.

Furlong stared down upon it with a look of horror.

"Now we must toss for choice of ground," said the dowager. "I have no money about me, for I paid my last half-crown to the post-boy, but this will do as well for a toss as anything else;" and she laid her hands on the dressing-glass as she spoke. "Now the call shall be 'safe,' or 'smash;' whoever calls 'safe,' if the glass comes down unbroken, has the choice, and vice versa. I call first—'Smash,'" said the dowager, as she flung up the dressing-glass, which fell in shivers on the floor. "I have won," said she; "oblige me, sir, by standing in that far corner. I have the light in my back—and you will have something else in yours before long; take your ground, sir."

Furlong, finding himself thus cooped up with a mad woman, in an agony of terror suddenly bethought himself of instances he had heard of escape, under similar circumstances, by coinciding to a certain extent with the views of the insane people, and suggested to the dowager that he hoped she would not insist on a duel without their having a "friend" present.

"I beg your pardon, sir," said the old lady: "I quite forgot that form, in the excitement of the moment, though I have not overlooked the necessity altogether, and have come provided with one."

"Allow me to wing for him," said Furlong, rushing to the bell.

"Stop!" exclaimed the dowager, levelling her pistol at the bell-pull; "touch it, and you are a dead man!"

Furlong stood riveted to the spot where his rush had been arrested.

"No interruption, sir, till this little affair is settled. Here is my friend," she added, putting her hand into her pocket and pulling out the wooden cuckoo of her clock. "My little bird, sir, will see fair between us;" and she perched the painted wooden thing, with a bit of feather grotesquely sticking up out of its nether end, on the morocco letter-case.

"Oh, Lord!" said Furlong.

"He's a gentleman of the nicest honour, sir!" said the dowager, pacing back to the window.

Furlong took advantage of the opportunity of her back being turned, and rushed at the bell, which he pulled with great fury.

The dowager wheeled round with haste. "So you have rung," said she, "but it shall not avail you—the door is locked; take your weapon, sir,— quick!—what!—a coward!"

"Weally, Mistwess O'Gwady, I cannot think of deadly arbitrament with a lady."

"Less would you like it with a man, poltroon!" said she, with an exaggerated expression of contempt in her manner. "However," she added, "if you are a coward, you shall have a coward's punishment." She went to a corner where stood a great variety of handsome canes, and laying hold of one, began soundly to thrash Furlong, who feared to make any resistance or attempt to disarm her of the cane, for the pistol was yet in her other hand.

The bell was answered by the servant, who, on finding the door locked, and hearing the row inside, began to knock and inquire loudly what was the matter. The question was more loudly answered by Furlong, who roared out, "Bweak the door! bweak the door!" interlarding his directions with cries of "mu'der!"

The door at length was forced, Furlong rescued, and the old lady separated from him. She became perfectly calm the moment other persons appeared, and was replacing the pistols in her pocket, when Furlong requested the "dweadful weapons" might be seized. The old lady gave up the pistols very quietly, but laid hold of her bird and put it back into her pocket.

"This is a dweadful violation!" said Furlong, "and my life is not safe unless she is bound ove' to keep the peace."

"Pooh! pooh!" said one of the gentlemen from the adjacent office, who came to the scene on hearing the uproar, "binding over an old lady to keep the peace—nonsense!"

"I insist upon it," said Furlong, with that stubbornness for which fools are so remarkable.

"Oh—very well!" said the sensible gentleman, who left the room.

A party, pursuant to Furlong's determination, proceeded to the head police-office close by the Castle, and a large mob gathered as they went down Cork-hill and followed them to Exchange-court, where they crowded before them in front of the office, so that it was with difficulty the principals could make their way through the dense mass.

At length, however, they entered the office; and when Major Sir heard any gentleman attached to the Government wanted his assistance, of course he put any other case aside, and had the accuser and accused called up before him.

Furlong made his charge of assault and battery, with intent to murder, &c., &c. "Some mad old rebel, I suppose," said Major Sir. "Do you remember '98, ma'am?" said the major.

"Indeed I do, sir—and I remember you too: Major Sir I have the honour to address, if I don't mistake."

"Yes, ma'am. What then?"

"I remember well in '98 when you were searching for rebels, you thought a man was concealed in a dairy-yard in the neighbourhood of my mother's house, major, in Stephen's Green; and you thought he was hid in a hay- rick, and ordered your sergeant to ask for the loan of a spit from my mother's kitchen to probe the haystack."

"Oh! then, madam, your mother was loyal, I suppose."

"Most loyal, sir."

"Give the lady a chair," said the major.

"Thank you, I don't want it—but, major, when you asked for the spit, my mother thought you were going to practise one of your delightfully ingenious bits of punishment, and asked the sergeant who it was you were going to roast?"

The major grew livid on the bench where he sat, at this awkward reminiscence of one of his friends, and a dead silence reigned through the crowded office. He recovered himself, however, and addressed Mrs. O'Grady in a mumbling manner, telling her she must give security to keep the peace, herself—and find friends as sureties. On asking her had she any friends to appear for her, she declared she had.

"A gentleman of the nicest honour, sir," said the dowager, pulling her cuckoo from her pocket, and holding it up in view of the whole office.

A shout of laughter, of course, followed. The affair became at once understood in its true light; a mad old lady—a paltry coward—&c., &c. Those who know the excitability and fun of an Irish mob will not wonder that, when the story got circulated from the office to the crowd without, which it did with lightning rapidity, the old lady, on being placed in a hackney-coach which was sent for, was hailed with a chorus of "Cuckoo!" by the multitude, one half of which ran after the coach as long as they could keep pace with it, shouting forth the spring-time call, and the other half followed Furlong to the Castle, with hisses and other more articulate demonstrations of their contempt.



CHAPTER XLV

The fat and fair Widow Flanagan had, at length, given up shilly- shallying, and yielding to the fervent entreaties of Tom Durfy, had consented to name the happy day. She would have some little ways of her own about it, however, and instead of being married in the country, insisted on the nuptial knot being tied in Dublin. Thither the widow repaired with her swain to complete the stipulated time of residence within some metropolitan parish before the wedding could take place. In the meanwhile they enjoyed all the gaiety the capital presented, the time glided swiftly by, and Tom was within a day of being made a happy man, when, as he was hastening to the lodgings of the fair widow, who was waiting with her bonnet and shawl on to be escorted to the botanical gardens at Glasnevin, he was accosted by an odd-looking person of somewhat sinister aspect.

"I believe I have the honour of addressing Mister Durfy, sir?" Tom answered in the affirmative. "Thomas Durfy, Esquire, I think, sir?"

"Yes."

"This is for you, sir," he said, handing Tom a piece of dirty printed paper, and at the same time laying his hand on Tom's shoulder and executing a smirking sort of grin, which he meant to be the pattern of politeness, added, "You'll excuse me, sir, but I arrest you under a warrant from the High Sheriff of the city of Dublin; always sorry, sir, for a gintleman in defficulties, but it's my duty."

"You're a bailiff, then?" said Tom.

"Sir," said the bum,

"'Honour and shame from no condition rise; Act well your part—there all the honour lies.'"

"I meant no offence," said Tom. "I only meant—"

"I understand, sir—I understand. These little defficulties startles gintlemen at first—you've not been used to arrest, I see, sir?"

"Never in my life did such a thing happen before," said Tom. "I live generally, thank God, where a bailiff daren't show his face."

"Ah, sir," said the bailiff with a grin, "them rustic habits betrays the children o' nature often when they come to town; but we are so fisticated here in the metropolis, that we lay our hands on strangers aisy. But you'd better not stand in the street, sir, or people will understand it's an arrest, sir; and I suppose you wouldn't like the exposure. I can simperise in a gintle-man's feelings, sir. If you walk aisy on, sir, and don't attempt to escape or rescue, I'll keep a gentlemanlike distance."

Tom walked on in great perplexity for a few steps, not knowing what to do. The hour of his rendezvous had struck; he knew how impatient of neglect the widow always was; he at one moment thought of asking the bailiff to allow him to proceed to her lodgings at once, there boldly to avow what had taken place and ask her to discharge the debt; but this his pride would not allow him to do. As he came to the corner of a street, he got a tap on the elbow from the bailiff, who, with a jerking motion of his thumb and a wink, said in a confidential tone to Tom, "Down this street, sir— that's the way to the pres'n (prison)."

"Prison!" exclaimed Tom, halting involuntarily at the word.

"Shove on, sir—shove on!" hastily repeated the sheriff's officer, urging his orders by a nudge or two on Tom's elbow.

"Don't shove me, sir!" said Tom, rather angrily, "or by G—"

"Aisy, sir—aisy!" said the bailiff; "though I feel for the defficulties of a gintleman, the caption must be made, sir. If you don't like the pris'n, I have a nice little room o' my own, sir, where you can wait, for a small consideration, until you get bail."

"I'll go there, then," said Tom. "Go through as private streets as you can."

"Give me half-a-guinea for my trouble, sir, and I'll ambulate you through lanes every fut o' the way."

"Very well," said Tom.

They now struck into a shabby street, and thence wended through stable lanes, filthy alleys, up greasy broken steps, through one close, and down steps in another—threaded dark passages whose debouchures were blocked up with posts to prevent vehicular conveyance, the accumulated dirt of years sensible to the tread from its lumpy unevenness, and the stagnant air rife with pestilence. Tom felt increasing disgust at every step he proceeded, but anything to him appeared better than being seen in the public streets in such company; for, until they got into these labyrinths of nastiness, Tom thought he saw in the looks of every passer-by, as plainly told as if the words were spoken, "There goes a fellow under the care of the bailiff." In these by-ways, he had not any objection to speak to his companion, and for the first time asked him what he was arrested for.

"At the suit of Mr. M'Kail, sir."

"Oh! the tailor?" said Tom.

"Yes, sir," said the bailiff. "And if you would not consider it trifling with the feelings of a gintleman in defficulties, I would make the playful observation, sir, that it's quite in character to be arrested at the suit of a tailor. He! he! he!"

"You're a wag, I see," said Tom.

"Oh no, sir, only a poetic turn: a small affection I have certainly for Judy Mot, but my rale passion is the muses. We are not far now, sir, from my little bower of repose—which is the name I give my humble abode— small, but snug, sir. You'll see another gintleman there, sir, before you. He is waitin' for bail these three or four days, sir—can't pay as he ought for the 'commodation, but he's a friend o' mine, I may almost say, sir—a litherary gintleman—them litherary gintlemen is always in defficulties mostly. I suppose you're a litherary gintleman, sir—though you're rather ginteely dhressed for one?"

"No," said Tom, "I am not."

"I thought you wor, sir, by being acquainted with this other gintleman."

"An acquaintance of mine!" said Tom, with surprise.

"Yes, sir. In short it was through him I found out where you wor, sir. I have had the wret agen you for some time, but couldn't make you off, till my friend says I must carry a note from him to you."

"Where is the note?" inquired Tom.

"Not ready yet, sir. It's po'thry he's writin'—something 'pithy' he said, and 'lame' too. I dunna how a thing could be pithy and lame together, but them potes has hard words at command."

"Then you came away without the note?"

"Yis, sir. As soon as I found out where you wor stopping I ran off directly on Mr. M'Kail's little business. You'll excuse the liberty, sir; but we must all mind our professions; though, indeed, sir, if you b'lieve me, I'd rather nab a rhyme than a gintleman any day; and if I could get on the press I'd quit the shoulder-tapping profession."

Tom cast an eye of wonder on the bailiff, which the latter comprehended at once; for with habitual nimbleness he could nab a man's thoughts as fast as his person. "I know what you're thinkin', sir—could one of my profession pursue the muses? Don't think, sir, I mane I could write the 'laders' or the pollitik'l articles, but the criminal cases, sir—the robberies and offinces—with the watchhouse cases—together with a little po'thry now and then. I think I could be useful, sir, and do better than some of the chaps that pick up their ha'pence that way. But here's my place, sir—my little bower of repose."

He knocked at the door of a small tumble-down house in a filthy lane, the one window it presented in front being barred with iron. Some bolts were drawn inside, and though the man who opened the door was forbidding in his aspect, he did not refuse to let Tom in. The portal was hastily closed and bolted after they had entered. The smell of the house was pestilential— the entry dead dark.

"Give me your hand, sir," said the bailiff, leading Tom forward. They ascended some creaking stairs, and the bailiff, fumbling for some time with a key at a door, unlocked it and shoved it open, and then led in his captive. Tom saw a shabby-genteel sort of person, whose back was towards him, directing a letter.

"Ah, Goggins!" said the writer, "you're come back in the nick of time. I have finished now, and you may take the letter to Mister Durfy."

"You may give it to him yourself, sir," replied Goggins, "for here he is."

"Indeed!" said the writer, turning round.

"What!" exclaimed Tom Durfy, in surprise; "James Reddy!"

"Even so," said James, with a sentimental air:

"'The paths of glory lead but to the grave.'

Literature is a bad trade, my dear Tom!—'tis an ungrateful world—men of the highest aspirations may lie in gaol for all the world cares; not that you come within the pale of the worthless ones; this is good-natured of you to come and see a friend in trouble. You deserve, my dear Tom, that you should have been uppermost in my thoughts; for here is a note I have just written to you, enclosing a copy of verses to you on your marriage —in short, it is an epithalamium."