j) 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNJA 
 LOS ANGELES
 
 TALES 
 
 BY 
 
 THE O'HARA FAMILY. 
 
 SECOND SERIES. 
 
 COMPRISING 
 
 THE NOWLANS, AND PETER OF THE CASTLE. 
 
 ." Farewell the plumed troop and the big wars." 
 
 Othello. 
 
 IN THREE VOLUMES. 
 VOL. II. 
 
 LONDON: 
 
 HENRY COLBURN, NEW BURLINGTON STREET. 
 
 1826,
 
 I ONUON 
 I'RIN'TKD BY S. ANO R. BEXTI.EY, DORSET-STREET.
 
 THE NOWLANS. 
 
 (continued.) 
 
 vol. II. A 2 
 
 500400 
 
 LIBRARY
 
 THE NOWLANS. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 John Nowlan did go home the next morn- 
 ing ; but, after the final chances of the night, 
 he might as well have staid where he was. 
 
 Riding very hard from the mean public- 
 house where he had left Horrogan, he soon 
 gained Long-hall. As he entered, the servants 
 were in confusion. He enquired the cause, and 
 learned that Mr. Long had retired to bed ra- 
 ther ill. Mr. Frank was also in his chamber, 
 yet unacquainted, at Miss Letty's instance, 
 with his uncle's accident ; and she remained up 
 in the drawing-room. Thither John hastened, 
 agitated with all the occurrences of the day, 
 and of the previous evening, excited with the 
 magistrate's bumpers, fired and unsettled in his 
 
 VOL. II. B
 
 2 THE NOWLANS. 
 
 feelings, though imagining himself fixed in a 
 o-reat resolution ; vehement, but without a plan. 
 As he sprang up the stairs, John vaguely ap- 
 prehended that he sought this interview for the 
 purpose of at once breaking his dangerous fet- 
 ters ; of at once telling Letty that he should 
 leave in the morning, and bidding her some- 
 thing like an eternal farewell. When he burst, 
 rather abruptly, into the drawing-room, he did 
 not know that his features, manner, and whole 
 appearance, betrayed an irregular energy, the 
 natural effect of his fluttering state of nerve. 
 But Letty, roused by his entrance from her 
 sad reverie at the fire, saw what he could not 
 see ; saw the strange sparkling of eye, and the 
 briskness of mien and motion which bespoke a 
 panting purpose ; and her catching of breath, 
 as he appeared, and her sudden rising from 
 her chair, showed how much she was startled. 
 " A thousand pardons. Miss Letty," John be- 
 gan, out of breath ; " but you know I must be 
 alarmed at your uncle's sudden illness, and 
 very anxious to hear your opinion of it." 
 
 " You are very good, Mr. Nowlan ;" her 
 head cast down, as she pulled round her a 
 lai'ge shawl to hide the half-disposition of her 
 dress for bed ; but, however the illness must
 
 THE NOW LANS. 3 
 
 afflict us, I have hopes, as it is, unhappily, 
 rather a constitutional one, that no serious dan- 
 ger now threatens my dear uncle." 
 
 " Thank God," said John ; and there was 
 a long pause ; he standing with one hand rested 
 on a table, she leaning against the mantel- 
 piece ; while the loud breathing of both audi- 
 bly echoed through the stilled room. Sud- 
 denly he spoke again — " And good night, then, 
 Miss Letty ; good-b'ye, indeed ; and remember 
 me, as you know I wish to be remembered, to 
 Mr. Long, in the morning." He advanced a 
 step, his hand extended ; she turned, fixed 
 her glance on his now pale face and streaming 
 eyes ; grew pale in her turn, again looked 
 away, and asked, " Why is this, Mr. Nowlan ? 
 do I rightly understand that you leave us in 
 the morning ? and if so, why in such speed .^" 
 
 " I must go home to-morrow morning," he 
 answered, speaking very slowly. 
 
 " Indeed ? that is sudden and strange too," 
 resuming her seat, to hide her faintness and 
 trembling — " have we given you cause .'^" 
 
 " I have given myself cause. Miss Letty ; I 
 have done wrong in ever leaving my humble 
 home ; and the sooner I now return to it, the 
 better for myself — so, good-b'ye." He stepped 
 
 B 2
 
 4 THE NOWLANS. 
 
 closer, took her proffered hand, and, while his 
 tears wetted it, added — " and believe me most 
 thankful — most grateful — most bound to pray 
 — and bless — ''"' his voice failed him. 
 
 " Good-bye, sir ; I am sorry — I wish you 
 very well ;" and poor Letty wept outright, and 
 snatching her hand, covered with both hands 
 her agitated face, while, as she sank back in 
 her cliair, her large shawl fell in folds around 
 her. 
 
 John mutely gazed on her in a wild state of 
 feeling. It was, first, despair, then joyous dis- 
 traction. Yet one who could have watched his 
 face, would not, perhaps, have fathomed his 
 heart. A faint and inane smile only played 
 around his mouth as he thought " she loves 
 me — that fairest creature, that most elevated, 
 gifted, and noble creature, loves me ; and those 
 tears, those agonies — "" Letty's passion rose 
 higher; she sobbed aloud ; the calm purpose of 
 despair, held even while he spoke, gave way 
 at once ; every danger was forgotten ; or, if re- 
 membered, braved ; he darted to a chair by her 
 side, again seized her hand, and, "Yes, yes !" he 
 cried, " good-b'ye ! good-b''ye for ever ! I go 
 home indeed to-morrow morning, Letty, for both 
 our sakes : I go, because to stay were crime and
 
 THE NOWLANS. 5 
 
 madness — ruin and death, here and hereafter; 
 because I love, because I love !" pressing her 
 to him ; " and because you love me I Do not 
 turn and deny it ; do not make the sin of my 
 confession useless as well as heinous; do not 
 take away from me the only palliation that 
 Heaven will remember when I cry out and groan 
 and grovel for a pardon ; leave me but the 
 certainty I now feel, the certainty that before 
 I grew mad, I was honoured, blessed, cursed ! 
 blessed and cursed together with your love ; 
 leave me but that ! the consciousness that when 
 I fell the brightest angel out of Heaven tempt- 
 ed me ; let me have so much to plead, and I 
 will not be without hope in my remorse and 
 repentance. I will not be without the hope 
 that God, when he permitted the glorious 
 temptation, saw how impossible it was for me 
 to escape it ! Letty, Letty, speak ! say the 
 word ! I will have it from your lips ! my only 
 excuse, my only plea, my only hope ! the only 
 hope of my soul, though the eternal despair of 
 my heart] — you love me! you love me! con- 
 fess/' 
 
 "I love you," she answered, as her trembling 
 frame sank in his arms, " with my heart's full 
 and first love,''
 
 b THE NOWLANS. 
 
 Muttering raptures and ecstasies, and now 
 solely swayed by the tumultuous triumph of 
 youthful affection, John fell on his knees, his 
 arms still around her neck, her cheek resting on 
 his ; and while Letty alone wept happy tears, 
 he kissed her lips, her forehead, her closed eyes, 
 her crimsoned neck, which the fallen shawl left 
 more than usually shown. At this moment 
 both started, for both thought a stealthy step 
 came to the door. Letty suddenly caught up 
 her shawl, and wrapped it in successive folds 
 around her shoulders and waist : John drew 
 back his hands, and they dropped at his side ; but 
 he did not, or could not, rise from his knees : he 
 listened ; the noise was not repeated : he grew 
 assured with respect to that circumstaPiCe ; but 
 his checked ecstasy did not return ; arrested, 
 frozen, it allowed the sudden re-action of 
 thought ; his flushed face grew pallid, as he still 
 knelt. Letty saw his eyes distend and fix on the 
 fire ; saw him gape ; saw cold moisture teem 
 from his forehead; heard him breathe labori- 
 ously ; heard him gasp : and at last, as he uttered 
 a low groan, John slowly lifted up his arms, cast 
 them forward, and fell prostrate with them; his 
 head coming so violently in contact with the
 
 THE NOWLANS. 7 
 
 massive fender, that blood trickled on the 
 carpet. 
 
 This was a trying situation for a young crea- 
 ture like Letty. Love urged her to cry out for 
 help ; fear of observation, on his account and her 
 own, stifled her voice. Apprehension for his 
 safety, for hishfe, flung her on her knees by his 
 side ; yet a consciousness, if not a recollection, of 
 the scene that had just occurred — of the new, 
 embarrassing, even doubtful relation, they began 
 to hold towards each other, distracted her ef- 
 forts to serve him, and confused her speech. 
 And yet she raised his head from the hearth, 
 rested it on her knee, and began to staunch 
 the slight wound with her handkerchief, as she 
 cried — " For God's sake, Mr. Nowlan ! rise. Sir, 
 and retire, if you can ! — Speak, at least, and ex- 
 plain this sudden misery ! John ! dearest John 
 Nowlan, speak — was it illness — was it faintness? 
 — are you better ? — Gracious God! he will not, 
 or cannot answer ! — what is to become of me ! 
 no help near that I dare call upon ; — and yet I 
 must call up the house, John Nowlan, if you 
 do not speak : ah ! now you revive, and will be 
 better." 
 
 " What 's this ?" he whispered, starting to
 
 8 THE NOWLANS. 
 
 his knees — " I remember," — groaning as he met 
 her glance — " good night, Letty — farewell, in- 
 deed, for ever !" He arose, staggering. 
 
 " Sir ! — Mr, Nowlan 1" — in angry surprise — 
 " explain this— explain" — correcting herself — 
 " explain the cause of your embarrassment, your 
 accident, I mean ; — was it sudden illness ? — 
 giddiness ? — what do you mean ?" 
 
 " My vow ! my eternal vow," He hid his 
 lace, and leaned against the wall, 
 
 " You are not a priest !" she screamed ; 
 " you have not vowed a vow that makes your 
 declaration to me — your attentions — your man- 
 ner — the confession you have just extorted — 
 Oh ! — I could not comprehend your dark mean- 
 ing while you spoke ! I thought it doubt of 
 me or of my sentiments ; any thing but that ! 
 But you have not vowed a vow that makes all 
 this insult, presumption, outrage to me, as well 
 as to answer. Sir ! — you are not a priest !" 
 
 He walked to the middle of the room, bowed 
 his head, crossed his arms on his breast, and an- 
 swered : " Curse me, as I deserve ; I cannot 
 stand more accursed than I am, to God, to you, 
 to man, and to myself: the vow is vowed ; and, 
 as you say, I have as presumptuously, as bar-
 
 THE NOWLANS. 9 
 
 barously insulted you, as — as I have sunk my 
 own soul !" and he left the apartment. Letty 
 stood a moment gazing on the door through 
 which he had passed, and then fell. The fe- 
 male attendant, entering some minutes after, 
 found her insensible. 
 
 John slowly ascended to his chamber, locked 
 himself in, and sank in a chair. The next ac- 
 tion of which he was conscious was to start up, 
 extinguish the light, and resume his seat in 
 darkness. If time be truly defined as a succes- 
 sion of ideas, for him whose brain holds but one 
 abiding idea, there is no time. John Nowlan, at 
 least, was not mindful of the lapse of this night 
 into the morning. Objects began to be discern- 
 ible around, and through the window ; sharp 
 breezes siiook his window-frame, and Httle birds 
 twittered by, and the rooks cawed loudly in the 
 adjoining trees, ere he became aware of the long, 
 dull, sleepless, tearless trance in which he had 
 sat. Near the window was his toilet-glass ; his 
 eye, glancing over its surface, caught the reflec- 
 tion of his own face, dimly seen in the grey twi- 
 light, pallid, rigid, and stained with the blood 
 from his forehead. He started, as if, in his 
 shivering lonesomeness, he had detected the 
 
 b5
 
 10 THE JsOWLANS. 
 
 visage of some fearful stranger. He cast himsell 
 on his knees, and, with his knuckles clenched 
 at his forehead, began to pray. 
 
 In some time he arose and packed up, in his 
 little trunk, the few things of his which were 
 to be found in the room. Next, he bathed his 
 face in a basin of water, and arranged his dress ; 
 and in a few moments sat to a table, and wrote 
 two notes, one to Mr. Long, another to Letty : 
 the first, pleading an urgent case of necessity 
 for his sudden absence, and expressing anxious 
 hopes for the speedy re-establishment of Mr. 
 Loner's health, ended with warm and sincere 
 thanks for all that gentleman's kindness ; the 
 second must express itself in its own words : — 
 
 " All you accused me of is true. My avow- 
 al was sacrilege to God ; my extorted acknow- 
 ledgment, sacrilege to you : all the feelings I 
 dared hold to you, wicked, insulting, blasphe- 
 mous. Humbled in the dust, kneeling on the 
 knees of my heart to my God and my benefac- 
 tress, praying pardon and oblivion, I have but 
 one word to offer — not a word of extenua- 
 tion — that I despise — for with ten times as 
 much to plead, I am immeasurably guilty. Let 
 me say the word, however. I never concealed, 
 intentionally, that my vow had been made. I
 
 THE NOWLANS. - 11 
 
 thought you knew it perfectly. No more do I 
 presume to say. I go to my father's house. 
 Farewell. Be assured, the life I shall lead — 
 the expiations I shall offer — the discipline my 
 offended church must impose — the heart that 
 from this day must wither — that I spurn — that 
 I cast into the blight — all this will avenge you. 
 Farewell. When I may dare to pray in the 
 humblest hope of being heard, your name shall 
 ever ascend from my lips. Blessings, as many 
 as my curses, be with you for ever !" 
 
 Having written his notes, he remained gazing 
 through the window, until some slight noises 
 told him the servants began to stir in the house. 
 Then he stepped cautiously down stairs, met a 
 kitchen-wench, gave her the notes, left direc- 
 tions to have his trunk sent after him, half 
 walked, half ran to his humble home, and en- 
 tered under its roof with an unusual show of 
 vivacity. 
 
 Immediately after breakfast he set out for 
 the house of his old reverend friend, Mr. Ken- 
 nedy, often mentioned before in this story. 
 His brow fell when the people there informed 
 him that the clergyman had accompanied his 
 bishop to Dublin, on business of moment, and 
 was not expected home for many weeks. This
 
 12 , THE XOWLANS, 
 
 disappointment John thought grievous; and he 
 was right in thinking it so ; much of his fate 
 was involved in it. He looked round for some 
 other spiritual adviser ; his recollections or 
 likings proposed none to whom he could will- 
 ingly unbosom himself ; and he determined to 
 spend in solitary self-examination and discipline 
 the time that must elapse before the arrival of 
 his best friend. 
 
 He shut himself up in his little study, and 
 prepared to lay his breast bare to Heaven. But 
 it was a place of distracting recollections ; and 
 pleading to Peggy and his mother a preference 
 for his father''s room, a busy removal of books, 
 shelves, and other furniture, ensued, and his 
 wish was soon accomplished. He at last sat 
 down to his task, most tremblingly anxious to 
 speed it ; but his powers of self-abstraction 
 were not equal to his will ; it was too near his 
 time of passion ; nature refused to be so sum- 
 marily trampled down ; the very feverish impa- 
 tience of his purpose unfitted him for success ; 
 and his first day and night produced nothing 
 but sullen reveries, traitorous recurrences, ar- 
 dent aspirations, and bitter, bitter tears. 
 
 In the middle of the next day, he reflected 
 that he was bound to make enquiries after the
 
 THE NOWLANS. 13 
 
 health of Mr. Lono;: circumstances, to which 
 that gentleman was a stranger, could not war- 
 rant a neglect that must seem so strange and 
 ungrateful. He therefore despatched one of his 
 father's men to Long Hall, instructing him to 
 add an enquiry concerning the health of all the 
 family. The messenger staid away much long- 
 er than was needful ; John grew impatient for 
 his return ; he could do nothing, in the mean 
 time, but watch him out of tlie window that 
 commanded his path : he expected, hoped, in 
 fact, something more than an answer to the 
 questions he had sent ; yet he dared not tell 
 himself he did. 
 
 Towards evening, the man at last appeared, 
 and John's anticipations were not proved vain. 
 Miss I^etty sent assurances that her uncle was 
 better ; and with these assurances, a note to 
 Peggy, accompanying and explaining various 
 rare patterns of gowns, frills, and caps ; and 
 another to John, enclosed in it, that, the young 
 lady informed her fair friend, would tell Mr. 
 Nowlan how to sow and cultivate certain flower 
 roots, and slips, for which he had seemed anxi- 
 ous, and which were forwarded by his mes- 
 senger. Peggy ran to John with the note ; he 
 retired to his room, and read as follows : —
 
 14 THE NOWLANS 
 
 " Rev, Dear Mr. Nowlan 
 
 J 
 
 " The man will convey to you the pleasing 
 news that my dearest uncle is not seriously ill ; 
 and you can imagine what joy this must be to 
 one who loves him better than her own father 
 and mother — than any second being on earth. 
 Many thanks for your kind enquiries. 
 
 " I send the Dutch tulip roots I promised you ; 
 also, some specimens of the yellow picote which 
 I can warrant ; and the rare geranium slips you 
 seemed to admire. As the two first will demand 
 all your care, you must study, out of the book 
 of the London florist that accompanies them, 
 the best mode of culture recommended. Pray, 
 accept, at the same time, a little portfolio con- 
 taining a few drawings you used to flatter me 
 about, particularly a carefully finished drawing 
 of the first sketch you saw me make on the 
 morning of our walk from your house to Long 
 Hall. The music of the wild and beautiful 
 ballad of " Lord Ronald," and of other songs, 
 which I believed you half asked from me, are 
 also in the portfolio. 
 
 " I got your note : but, indeed, I do not un- 
 derstand it. Of what could I " accuse" you ? 
 Nothing that my calm recollections suggest; 
 nothing that you ever deserved ; nothing that
 
 THE NOWLANS. 15 
 
 it must not have been as cruel as it was indeli- 
 cate for me to glance at. I say from my heart, 
 Re\\ dear Sir, I have not, I never had, the 
 slightest reason to reproach you. Let the eve- 
 ning before last be eternally forgotten. I know 
 not what happened ; I do not wish to know. 
 But whatever I said or did, must have been 
 caused by the weak and wandering state of 
 heart and mind into which I was thrown by the 
 sudden illness of him who merits and possesses 
 my undivided affection. So, instead of your 
 asking pardon from me, I ask it of you. In- 
 deed I do, Mr. Nowlan, most sincerely. For 
 the slightest undeserved word that could have 
 caused you pain, I am — believe me I am — sorry 
 and afBicted. Therefore, in the name of good 
 feeling, and good sense, abandon every thought 
 of visiting upon yourself, in any such shocking 
 way as you hint at, or as the severity of your 
 religion may (if you wrongfully accuse your 
 heart) enjoin, — an imaginary error. Promise me 
 this, or else a knowledge of your continued in- 
 tention will make me, as I ought to be, the true 
 sufferer, and humble and degrade me beyond 
 expression. 
 
 " In fact, we should both forget that evening ; 
 I repeat it again. I have had an undisturbed
 
 16 THE NOWLANS. 
 
 day and night to reflect — perhaps more than 
 reflect — thanks to your prudent generosity — 
 and such is my opinion. We have both been 
 led astray by erroneous impressions ; no farther 
 does our fault extend ; let us show that the mo- 
 ment we are set rio;ht, we can act as becomes us. 
 It was all exceeding folly : and any vehement 
 words or resolutions about it would only be a 
 greater absurdity. Let us meet again as if it 
 had never occurred. That is the better way. I 
 will never believe that, in your breast or mine, 
 prepossession is stronger than reason. Come to 
 enquire after my dear uncle's health, whenever 
 you will, — as soon as you will — and one of us, at 
 least, shall prove it is not. 
 
 " Adieu, dear Rev. Sir. I enjoin the utmost 
 care to be paid to my scarce and beautiful tu- 
 lips : and pray burn this note : that is my last 
 and strongest request. 
 
 " I am, dear Rev. Sii", 
 
 " With respect and esteem, 
 " Your faithful friend, 
 
 *' I.. A.^' 
 
 John knew nothing of women ; he had never 
 associated with them ; this note astonished hhii 
 to excess ; ay, more, it mortified him, and 
 put him in a passion. What ! after all that
 
 THE NOWLANS. 17 
 
 had occurred, — after all his high opinions of 
 her — (and of himself he ought to have added) 
 — was she but a coquette — did she say words 
 she had never felt ? " Undivided affection !" 
 and " above any second being on earth !" of 
 whom were those things so deliberately spoken ? 
 Then the tone of utter contempt in which she 
 alluded to the past — to him : and her challenges 
 to meet him again with such indifference ! He 
 would meet her half-way, at least. He would 
 prove, as fully as she could, that in his breast 
 " prepossession was not stronger than reason." 
 
 Only two phrases of her letter at first divi- 
 ded his sentiments. One was, " thanks to 
 your prudent generosity ;" prudent ! Did this 
 mean more than met the eye ? Did it contain, 
 or hide, a reproach for his silence of one day ? 
 and was she piqued with him .'' The next pas- 
 sage was — "a day and night to reflect — perhaps 
 more than rejied ;" what " more ?"" — His con- 
 jectures subdued him ; he saw her, for a mo- 
 ment, weeping away the night, alone in her 
 diamber, and his own tears started at the 
 picture. 
 
 Then he read her letter again ; and all that 
 portion of it which sought to save him from 
 future suffering, took full hold of his heart.
 
 18 THE NOWLANS. 
 
 An idea of her self-devotedness, self-sacrifice, 
 surprized him into admiration, gratitude, and 
 a return of the deepest, tenderest love; he 
 flung himself on his bed ; detected the treache- 
 rous wandering; started up, and again and 
 again, the groans of his young heart went up 
 for relief. 
 
 We shall pass a few days, and accompany 
 John to pay a formal visit at Long Hall, not 
 in anger, nor yet in guilty impulse, but from a 
 sedate conviction of the propriet}^, in every 
 way, of such a step. 
 
 He found Mr. Long in his library, looking 
 pale and shaken ; but after some conversation, 
 he found Letty in the drawing-room, looking 
 more pale and shaken. Prepared for his appear- 
 ance, she received him with a calm smile ; and 
 though blushes and tremors came in spite of 
 her, she was able to conceal them from him. 
 Frank sat by, his arm not yet well. The in- 
 terview aimed at quiet vivacity, but was dull 
 and overstrained. Frank rose to leave the 
 room ; John started, like a culprit, at his mo- 
 tion, and withdrew before him. 
 
 Letty 's appearance shocked him to the soul ; 
 and though not a word had been spoken about 
 it, John thought of nothing else on his way
 
 THE NOWLANS. 19 
 
 home. Conclusions that he shrunk from draw- 
 ing, but that he could not resist, seized upon 
 his mind. She was, indeed, the sufferer more 
 than he. * Gracious , God ! her suppressed feel- 
 ings — her choked passion — her despairing love 
 — her love of him ! it was striking at her life. 
 She was dying ! 
 
 He might assist her to triumph over her 
 malady : and his presence, father than his ab- 
 sence, would be the best assistance. Constant 
 interviews, that would end in nothing, yet that 
 would accustom both to regard each other as 
 simple friends ; cheering conversation on topics 
 she delighted in ; exercise, picturesque walks 
 that she was now giving up; — all this might 
 effect a cure, and he determined to be the phy- 
 sician. The notion of her weakness made him 
 strong ; made him confident ; forgetful of his 
 own weakness ; presumptuous. 
 
 Though he Avould not dream of again taking 
 up his abode at Long Hall, they met, therefore, 
 very often, and read or sang in the drawing- 
 room, or lectured on flowers in the garden, or 
 walked out, accompanied by Mr. Long or his 
 nephew, to sketch ; and John's hopes seemed 
 crowned with success. Blushes and embar- 
 rassment when they met, or sighs or reveries
 
 20 THE NOWLANS. 
 
 when they were together, oi* faltering adieus, 
 or pressures of the hand, when they parted, gave 
 him, indeed, some imeasiness on his own ac- 
 count, as well as Letty's ; but still he was braced 
 and bold in virtue, and his constant prayers 
 seemed ever to be answered with a promise. 
 
 They had strayed, one evening, into a fine 
 solitary scene, Mr. Long with them, and Letty 
 made some pleasing sketches. Her uncle sug- 
 gested that she and John should turn aside, 
 over an embankment, to look about for a 
 changed grouping of objects, which he believed 
 might form a still better sketch. ]>oth hesi- 
 tated : it was the first time, since the scene in 
 the drawing-room, they expected to be alone ; 
 at last, Letty suddenly gave her arm, and in a 
 few seconds they lost sight of Mr. Long, and 
 sauntered by the edge of a mountain stream. 
 Letty set the example of talking fast and much, 
 he tried to follow her : but they soon grew mu- 
 tually silent. They stept over a very narrow 
 part of the stream, and continued their walk on 
 the other side, now doubling towards the point 
 from which they had started. The view did 
 not answer Mr. Long's promises, and Letty 
 urged a speedy return to her uncle. It was 
 again necessary to cross the stream ; but as, at
 
 THE NOWLANS. 21 
 
 the place they now paused, it could not be stept 
 over by Letty, John proposed to carry her over : 
 she refused, with a consciousness of manner that 
 communicated itself to him ; but catching her- 
 self in error, at once assumed much indifference, 
 withdrew her dissent, and was lifted up in hi>s 
 arms. 
 
 The rash boy trembled under his feathery 
 weight. As mere matter of course, her arm 
 twned round his neck ; and, burning in blushes, 
 that for a moment overmastered her paleness, 
 he had never seen her look so enchanting. With 
 tottering limbs he walked to the edge of the 
 stream ; she called out to him to let her down, 
 observing that he was not able to bear her 
 across ; and as she spoke, her eyes met his. 
 
 " Ay," he answered, " able to bear you 
 across an ocean of fire ! — Letty, Letty, the 
 heart, not the limbs are weak," — and, as he 
 stept into the water, murmuring these words, 
 his arms, in irresistible impulse, pressed her to 
 his heart. 
 
 " Set me down, Sir !" she exclaimed, " what- 
 ever may be the consequence, set me down !" 
 — ^lie staggered among the sharp stones and 
 rocks — " No, no," in another tone, " take care, 
 take care of yourself, for mercy's sake."
 
 22 THE NOWLAKS. 
 
 When they gained the opposite bank, her 
 head rested on his shoulder ; tears streamed from 
 her eyes ; she sobbed, and made no effort to leave 
 his arms. Maddened, distracted, he embraced 
 her again; she started up, and with a sudden 
 effort, walked towards the place where her uncle 
 was. At the thought of her returning, alone, 
 and unassisted, he ran after her, and kept by her 
 side till she had come up to Mr. Long. The now 
 gathering t^vilight hid the agitation of both ; 
 and John, making a confused apology, hastened 
 home. 
 
 The next morning Letty sent, in a book care- 
 fully sealed up, the following note : — 
 
 " We are unmasked to each other. All our 
 false pretences are torn away : all our false phi- 
 losophy shown to be imposition. Now there can 
 be but one course. Let us never meet affain. 
 Let seas, countries, oceans, worlds divide us. 
 I can die away from you, as well as at your 
 
 feet — and at your feet I should die if No, no ! 
 
 let us never meet in this world again. With 
 our common sufferings, let us retain the virtue 
 that will give us hopes of meeting in another. 
 That is all we have to look to. I am dying, 
 and (though I have never noticed to you) your 
 brow and cheek tell me the state of your heart.
 
 THE NOWLANS. 23 
 
 Farewell. I loved, and I love you above the 
 earth's promise, without you; above myself; 
 but also above the thought of sacrificing you 
 to the terrible vengeance of the stern religion 
 you proffer to rae ; pardon the Avord, that you 
 conscientiously and honourably believe in. This 
 you already know — fully know — and, therefore, 
 I may say it. — Farewell. We must fly to the 
 world's extremities asunder. I will prevail on 
 my dear, injured uncle to go immediately to — 
 no matter where ; you need not know that. — 
 Attempt not to see me — dare not. — Save us ! 
 it is in your power to do so. Farewell till eter- 
 nity." 
 
 After a day's imaginary calmness, John an- 
 swered thus. 
 
 " The resolution you have taken was mine 
 also. We shall, indeed, part unto eternity. 
 But stir not you. Stay by your uncle's 
 side; he needs your care, and is not in 
 a state for travelling. To fly, and fly far, is 
 alone my duty. And already I have taken 
 measures to leave Ireland for Spain. The 
 clerical relative you have heard me speak of 
 will readily assist me ; and I have written to 
 him on the subject. Indeed he spoke of it be- 
 fore. I return the first present you ever gave
 
 24 THE XOWLAXS. 
 
 me, the little ring I found in my room ; also 
 your books and drawings. The flowers I had 
 planted I have torn up by the roots, as I tear 
 up your memory : and I would not have them 
 bloom behind me, in my native country, in my 
 father''s little garden, while no flower can ever 
 more spring up in my heart. 
 
 " You say you are dying. I believe, indeed, 
 neither of us shall long outlive this struggle ; 
 but that will not be a crime ; and if God so 
 wills it, and since you love me as you say, I do 
 not regret the prospect. We shall brave death 
 in the performance of our duty ; and while our 
 memories remain pure after us on earth, death, 
 and the hope beyond the grave, will be our 
 reward. No more can be expected from human 
 hearts. 
 
 *• Love me to the last, when I am away : I 
 shall so love you. Surely this can be no sin ; 
 for, in proportion as I love you, will the sacrifice 
 of my love to my duties be great and acce])table. 
 
 " Ay, let us part, indeed ; but not, as you 
 urge it, without a parting. Do not start nor 
 tremble. I have long reflected on this point ; 
 and a glorious opportunity of beginning the sa- 
 crifice, a holy one for practising, together, the 
 self-triumph we are called on to make, presents
 
 TIIK NOWLANS. 25 
 
 itself. I shall go, this evening, in a post-chaise 
 with my sister Peggy, to Nenagh, so far on our 
 way to Dublin : it will await me on the road, at 
 the middle stile, a little after six o'clock. All 
 my preparations are made. Meet me, accom- 
 panied by your brother Frank, at tlie stile, and 
 let us walk and converse one half-hour together, 
 your brother, my sister, you and I ; and then 
 let me take your unimpassioned hand for the 
 last time. You shall see me worthy of this in- 
 dulgence, and I shall see you worthy of grant- 
 ing it. Farewell till six." 
 
 Having despatched this letter, John proceed- 
 ed, amid the tears of his family, to complete his 
 very last arrangements for the road. Towards 
 evening, he called Peggy into his room, and 
 asked her if Mr. Frank had yet proposed for 
 her to her father ; Peggy, in an affliction he 
 could not explain, and which alarmed him, re- 
 plied in the negative. He was about to proceed 
 in the brotherly strain he felt as his duty — for 
 John was now full of duties, — when he recollected 
 that Mr. Frank's arm had been ill since the very 
 night they spoke on the subject; and with but 
 a few delicate cautions, which Peggy still took 
 very strangely, he put an end to the subject. 
 
 The hour of separation from his father and 
 
 VOL. II. c
 
 26 THE NOWLAXS. 
 
 mother arrived ; it will be imagined for us. 
 Two men preceded him with his luggage to the 
 road-side. Peggy took his arm as he walked 
 from the threshold of his home. About half 
 way to the stile, she professed, in a hesitatmg 
 manner, to have forgotten something ; said she 
 would return for it ; and he walked on alone. 
 
 Inside the stile, he met Letty and her bro- 
 ther. The young gentleman carried a fowling- 
 piece, to have a shot, as he expressed it, at 
 whatever might conte in the way. He also took 
 from a side-pocket a pair of travelling pistols, of 
 which he begged John's acceptance. The young 
 priest refused them, with a smile at their use- 
 lessness to him ; but his friend was politely 
 pressing, saying, as his journey was a long one, 
 he did not know when they might be useful, 
 and John accepted them ; laying them on a 
 bank where all were now sitting, in expectation 
 of Peggy's arrival. 
 
 The lovers began their interview in the very 
 way, indeed, they had sternly promised to each 
 other's breasts ; and neither trembled until the 
 post-chaise was heard arriving, on the road near 
 them. John then expressed his surprise at Peg- 
 gy's delay ; and Frank clambered up an emi- 
 nence to look out for her. But " she did not yet
 
 THE NOWLANS. 27 
 
 come in view,'' he said, " although the twihght 
 might hide her figure." Then looking in ano- 
 ther direction, he cried out — " A fox ! I must 
 have a shot at him !" — and disappeared before 
 John or Letty could urge him to remain. 
 
 Upon thus finding themselves alone^ they 
 shook like condemned criminals. They were 
 silent. They arose, and stept apart, affecting 
 to be engaged in looking out for Frank or 
 Peggy. The sudden report of Frank's fowling- 
 piece was heard. Letty bounded as if its con- 
 tents had been levelled at her heart — then tot- 
 tered, and was falling. John caught her in his 
 arms. Absolutely overpowered, she clung to 
 him. Again he returned her embrace ! 
 
 In but a few moments more he was rush- 
 ing, haggard and wild, out of the little retreat. 
 He had started from his blaspheming knees, 
 tearing his hair, foaming, — a maniac. The pistols 
 given him by Frank lay in his way. He snatch- 
 ed them up, with a cry of mad joy, and ran for- 
 ward, in the impulse of but removing himself 
 from her sight, and then putting an end to his 
 own life. A stifled laugh sounded close to his 
 ear — he turned, expecting to see standing pal- 
 pable before him, the triumphant enemy of 
 man. Maggy Nowlan, now showing no symp- 
 
 c 2
 
 28 THE NOWLAKS. 
 
 torn of laughter, confronted him at the turn 
 from the dell. 
 
 " Stop, priest John !" she cried, " I was 
 lookin'' for you to tell you a sacret ; last night, 
 your sister Peggy lost herself to a friend of 
 yours, and they are now hard by together, an"" 
 she on her knees, beggin* him to make her an 
 honest woman.'" 
 
 His random suspicions of the day burst in his 
 already raging breast. 
 
 " Bring me to them !" he gasped. 
 
 " This way, then ;" and Maggy walked on. 
 
 " Salve et benedicite, brother," interrupted 
 the steady tones of Friar Shanaghan, stopping 
 his " poor grey,"" at the road-side, in view of 
 John. The madman uttered another shout, 
 sprang back to the road, stuffing the pistols 
 into his breast, clasped the astonished old man 
 by the hand, then seized his arm, and cried 
 out — " Down from your saddle, Sir ! — down, 
 quickly !" 
 
 " Why, and whither, man .?" 
 
 *' To do a good deed ! to save souls ! — Hea- 
 ven sends you ! down, down ! — life and death 
 are in it ! down V 
 
 He forced him down, and the old friar, thus 
 exhorted, allowed himself to be hurried along.
 
 THE NOWLANS. 29 
 
 Again John met Maggy ; again called on her 
 to lead the way. 
 
 " Only on one promise do I lade eitlier of 
 you,"" she answered ; " promise — swear ! — that 
 you will not tell him I warned you-." 
 
 " We swear by ten thousand heavens and 
 hells — go on !" 
 
 " There they are, then," resumed Maggy, 
 pointing to a gap in a field, as she retreated far 
 from the coming scene. 
 
 John dragged in the friar, and saw, indeed, 
 Peggy kneeling to Mr. Frank, and with the 
 wildest energy, urging him to something, while 
 he stood over her in an impassioned but stern 
 attitude. 
 
 " Villain !" screamed John Nowlan, bursting 
 between them ; " right her this moment ! here 
 is your own gift to make you," presenting the 
 pistols ; " and here is the priest God has sent 
 to help you." 
 
 Peggy started, screaming, from her knees, 
 calling on liim to hold his hand and his pur- 
 pose ; Frank, shrinking back, utterly confound- 
 ed, asked what he meant. The friar laid his 
 hand on his arm. John sprang aside : " Touch 
 me not, sir !" he roared ; " let no man venture 
 that ! but proceed, in your duty, to make this
 
 30 THE NOWLANS. 
 
 guilty pair man and wife ; or, by the Heaven 
 we have all outraged, you shall be my victim, 
 before I shoot him and her, and then destroy 
 myself ! Take her hand, seducer, villain ! she 
 already wears a ring — that will do ! take her 
 hand I say, or — " 
 
 " John Nowlan ! brother !" interrupted Peg- 
 gy, again dropping on her knees to him ; " why 
 do you ask this ? what terrible madness has 
 come over you ?"" 
 
 " The madness that is necessary for this ! 
 Up, woman, and stand by his side ! one of our 
 father's children, at least, shall have a good 
 name after this night, a patched-up good name, 
 may be, but no matter ; up ! or as sure as the 
 same mother bore us, I will kill you at my 
 feet !" He held the pistol to her head; it pres- 
 sed her forehead ; she sprang up ; still pointing 
 the pistols at her and Frank, he continued to 
 roar for the office of the friar. 
 
 " Let the madman have his way,*" said 
 Frank coolly, after a pause, and he took Peg- 
 gy's hand ; she struggled, and " Hear me, 
 John !" she cried ; " I wish not this, I — " 
 
 " Not another word !" he exclaimed. All 
 further opposition seemed not only useless, but 
 really dangerous, to a degree too horrible to
 
 THE NOWLANS. 31 
 
 contemplate ; in vain did the friar try to exert 
 his voice ; in vain did Peggy add — " Brother, 
 brother, you are ruining me !"" At the maniac's 
 still increasing threats, the old ecclesiastic drew 
 out his missal, and, in a few moments, Mr. 
 Frank and Peggy Nowlan were married. 
 
 *' That will do, I wish ye joy !" resumed 
 John, when the sudden ceremony was over: 
 " good-b'ye, sister; brother Frank, good-b^ye,"" 
 shaking their hands ; " and now for my own 
 luck ; you '11 hear of me if ye do not hear from 
 me : good night !" 
 
 He was rushing from them : " John ! John !"' 
 cried Peggy, " throw down the pistols ;" she 
 ran after him, and a second time fell at his 
 feet. 
 
 He stopped a moment. His glaring eyes 
 darted into hers. He flung the pistols far over 
 her head ; kissed her cheek, and finally dis- 
 appeared from his overwhelmed sister. A few 
 bounds brought him back to the poor Letty. 
 She reclined, senseless, on the earth. He 
 caught her up in his arms, muttering — " And 
 now no tie but that one which crime has tied, 
 which hell binds close ! No lot but your lot, 
 my victim ! Here lowly you shall not lie, to be 
 spurned and scorned of all, and I the undoer !
 
 32 THE NOWLANS. 
 
 Come, I can yet sacrifice myself with you ! 
 The father's and mother's curse, the curse of 
 that church whose ftillen minister I am, the 
 shouts of the world, shall follow me ; still we 
 shall be one ! Come, Letty !"" he ran with her 
 to the post-chaise, lifted her into the seat his 
 sister Peggy was to have occupied ; was whirled 
 off on his road to Dublin, and seven years 
 elapsed before any positive tidings of John 
 Nowlan reached his native place, with the ex- 
 ception of a circumstance known only to the 
 old clergyman, Mr. Kennedy, which that gen- 
 tleman never divulged.
 
 THK NOWLANS. 33 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 Had we to rehearse a story woven out of our 
 own brains, imagination, unable or unwilling 
 to recognize any plausibility in the stern truths 
 of real life, would, perhaps, have rejected the 
 sudden catastrophe of the last chapter ; and, 
 even allowing John and Letty finally to commit 
 crime, have invented some more gradual pro- 
 gress to it. The lovers of beautiful fiction may 
 exclaim against their fall at the very moment 
 when they had braced themselves in virtue, and 
 only met to prove to each other how straight 
 and how firmly they could walk their path. 
 But human nature, such as it is known to 
 those who study it, must be an appeal from 
 possible censure in this instance. Temptations 
 that have long borne hard, and often made a dis- 
 tinct, though imwelcomed impi-ession, are not 
 to be set at bay by any other means than total 
 estrangement from the object or opportunity 
 
 c 5
 
 34 THE NOWLANS. 
 
 that has set them on. In the presence of that 
 object or opportunity, Will, however previous- 
 ly made up and determined, may, in one second, 
 be dethroned and trampled down. We prose, 
 or we sermonize ; but, in illustration of the oft- 
 repeated, though oft-forgotten theory, cannot the 
 sagest reader recollect any slight case in which he 
 has made the identical slip he had spent much 
 preparation to avoid ? Crime is not meant ; the 
 most trivial counteraction of " re-resolved" rea- 
 son, by a momentary pressure of old tempta- 
 tion, will suffice — indeed, more than suffice ; — 
 for, as it is ordained that the greater the sin 
 the greater shall be the temptation to commit 
 it ; and, as in the instance recorded, the sin and 
 the passion accordingly balanced each other ; 
 so, if but an ordinary Infatuation has over- 
 thrown the wisest plans of the wisest reader, 
 an extraordinary one must have had equal 
 power, more power, over the best resolves of 
 this poor boy and girl. 
 
 At the utmost speed the unhappy young pair 
 were whirled in the post-chaise to Nenagh. We 
 believe Letty was half sensible of being lifted 
 by John into the vehicle ; but she made no re- 
 sistance ; she even showed no consciousness.
 
 THE \'OWLANS. 35 
 
 He held her in his circling arms, as they now- 
 sat together ; still she remained passive and 
 motionless ; her head hanging towards the cor- 
 ner of the chaise, or falling on his shoulder. 
 Night closed ; he could not see her ; and yet 
 she stirred not. It suddenly struck him that 
 she was dead ; but he did not start at the 
 thought ; nor call out to stop the chaise ; nor 
 utter a cry ; the wretched youth only smiled to 
 himself. His feeling could not be understood, 
 were it even well-defined ; it is left then, in the 
 darkness and confusion that gave it birth. 
 
 Thus, without moving or speaking, they 
 gained Nenagh. The horn of a night coach 
 was heard coming to the inn-door. The driver 
 told him he could have two seats for Dublin, 
 and asked should he change his luggage from 
 the chaise. John calmly answered him. The 
 man re-appeared, saying the coach was about to 
 start, and offering his assistance to remove the 
 lady. John fiercely turned from him, caught 
 her up, suddenly and unassisted, and with some 
 difficulty, removed her himself. 
 
 '' Is the lady very sick. Sir ?''' enquired a 
 surly old gentleman, as, after much squeezing 
 among well-wrapt knees, broad shoulder.s,
 
 36 THE NOWLANS. 
 
 el bows squared, and heads wearing white night- 
 caps, John placed her in the corner of a " six- 
 inside."" 
 
 *' Very, Sir ;"" imagining he answered a com- 
 miserating person. 
 
 " Then wouldn't it be more comfortable to 
 you and her, Sir, to travel alone, than for us 
 to travel with you ?"" continued the man. 
 
 " Answer your question your own way, Sir,'"" 
 growled John Nowlan. 
 
 " Guard !" cried the knowing stage-coacher, 
 thrusting his head out at the window. The 
 moving woolsack appeared at the door. 
 
 *' Do you mean that I am to travel in your 
 coach to Dublin, with a sick and dying body 
 cheek by jowl with me ?" 
 
 " Rascal !"" exclaimed John, and was starting 
 from his seat to seize the old barbarian, when, 
 to his utter surprize — horror — liCtty roused 
 herself — caught his arm, and said, scarcely ar- 
 ticulate — " I am not very ill. Sir ; I am only — 
 only^ — and burst into tears. 
 
 Even the crabbed selfishness of a cruel-heart- 
 ed old man melted at her voice and her sorrow ; 
 apologies were instantly made to John and her ; 
 the pert voices of two younger passengers broke 
 out in assurances of satisfaction and good wish-
 
 THE NOWLANS. 37 
 
 es ; the guard disappeared to his place, the 
 horn sounded, the driver's whip cracked, and 
 John proceeded on his journey, half-thinking, 
 even amid the chaos within him — " So this is 
 our first welcome among; mankind." 
 
 After Letty had spoken, she sank back in 
 the corner of the coach, covering her face, 
 although it was pitch-dark, with some loose 
 drapery ; and did not utter another word du- 
 ring the remainder of the journey : nor did 
 John once address her. He did not now even 
 hold her in his arms : and she seemed to shrink 
 from his touch. 
 
 The night, the dreary, horrible night wore 
 on, unnoticed and uncared for. Without wea- 
 riness, without a tear, without a thought, John 
 sat by the side of his poor partner in guilt, in 
 misery, and in despair. If, as his unwinking 
 eyes strained through the blank at the window, 
 perception brought, now and then, a notice of 
 any thing to his mind, it was only to encourage 
 the mood that was upon him. The howling of 
 the midnight wind over the black bogs of 
 Tipperary ; the gusty beating of the rain 
 against the glass; the feeble glimmering of 
 lanterns at the doors of misei*able inns or 
 cabins, as the coach stopped to change horses,
 
 38 THE NOWLANS. 
 
 and the miserable, half-dressed, ghost-like, 
 figures, roused out of their sleep, who vaguely 
 appeared and disappeared in the dreary light 
 and engulphing darkness; such circumstances 
 or sights, if at all observed by John Nowlan, 
 could only tend to answer, in an outward 
 prospect, the inward horror of his soul. 
 
 When the first ray of grey dawn entered the 
 coach windows, he found himself puHing his 
 hat over his eyes; then glancing at Letty's 
 face, which was still covered, and then fear- 
 fully around him, into the faces of the other 
 passengers : — and thought of her, because for 
 her, now at last began to break his trance, 
 and, folding his arms hard, he fell back in 
 his seat. 
 
 The two younger passengers awoke, yawning, 
 shrugging, and pulHng off, one a night-cap, 
 the other a smart fur-cap ; and turned to him 
 and Letty, expressing hopes that they had 
 found themselves comfortable during the night. 
 John scarcely answered, Letty did not breathe. 
 They spoke to each other of causes pending in 
 Chancery and the Common-pleas and the 
 King's-Bench ; and of " latitats," writs, de- 
 clarations, pleas, plaintiffs, and defendants ; 
 plainly indicating, to any one that would pay
 
 THE NOWLANS. 39 
 
 attention, that they were two rising young 
 attornies from Limerick, going up to term : 
 but our poor friends Avere still abstracted, and 
 the surly old fellow was still asleep, or, the 
 better to avoid any talk of his former rudeness, 
 pretended to be so. They changed the topic, 
 and — in the acceptation of the term among 
 young Limerick attornies who knew town — 
 waxed witty : evidently exhibiting, with a 
 polite intent, to interest the lady whose face 
 they could not see. Practical joking, (now that 
 people began to pass along the road) which, to 
 any one that can enjoy it, is the life of an Irish 
 stage, went on among those of their friends 
 and acquaintances who, as they expressed 
 it, had " endorsed the coach," and they 
 contributed as much as they could : still no one 
 but themselves took the least notice of their 
 cleverness. John scarce heard or heeded any 
 thing ; or, if he did hear and heed, it was only 
 to loathe it. Even tranquil, rational happiness 
 he would have loathed ; and how must he have 
 felt affected by mere trifling? The chastest 
 wit Avould have played round him in vain ; how 
 must he have relished buffoonery ? 
 
 The coach entered Dublin. Streets and high 
 houses closed around him ; other night-coaches
 
 40 
 
 THE NOWLANS. 
 
 passed him coming in from the country ; or 
 day-coaches whisked by starting from town. In 
 the trading and manufacturing district of the 
 metropohs by Avhich he entered, that of James- 
 street and Thomas, street, groups of " opera- 
 tives" were aheady in motion towards the places 
 of their daily occupation ; the early cries were 
 sung or screamed aloud ; carts, drays, and such 
 vehicles ground their way over the stones ; 
 from different pubhc-houses, the voices of very 
 late or very early tipplers now and then came 
 in vehement accents ; every thing gave him 
 the novel sensation of a morning in a great 
 city. To the young person who, for the first 
 time, experiences such a sensation, it brings — 
 no matter how calm may be his mind and 
 breast, how certain and soothing his prospects 
 — depression rather than excitement'; a bleak 
 strangeness seems around him : he doubts and 
 slirinks more than he admires or wonders; he 
 is in a solitude, unlike the remote solitudes he 
 has quitted ; in solitude with men, not nature ; 
 without the face of nature to cheer him. But, 
 added to this common depression, John Nowlan 
 felt remorse for the past, despair of the present, 
 terror of the future. First — his distracted spe- 
 culations only made on his own account, — he
 
 THE XOWLANS. 
 
 41 
 
 saw himself sunk in crime, an outcast among 
 men, poor, hopeless, helpless ; — his eye glanced 
 to Letty, and he started to find his thoughts 
 occupied without her ; he shuddered to behold 
 her at his side ; to behold her torn by him from 
 rank, name, and affluence, and dependent on 
 him, alone, for future protection, for mere ex- 
 istence ; on him who was unable to protect him- 
 self; who had no earthly means of shielding 
 his own outcast head from poverty, shame, 
 ruin ; and who dared not now even call on God 
 to interpose between him and his crime and 
 punishment. 
 
 The passengers left the coach, and the waiter 
 often invited him to descend before John heard 
 or understood the request. Still he was obliged 
 to take Letty in his arms into the hotel : she 
 appeared almost as helpless as ever. The 
 young attornies and the cross old gentleman 
 eyed him and her from top to toe, as he bore 
 her through the hall ; and, had his observation 
 been acute, he might have seen many a leer 
 and grimace upon their features, as well as 
 those of the waiters, called up by his clerical 
 dress, primitive air, and questionable situation. 
 Again the waiters winked at each other as, in 
 a tone that showed little of the self-confidence
 
 42 THE NOWLANS. 
 
 of an experienced traveller, he requested a bed- 
 chamber for the lady. A female attendant ap- 
 peared, however ; Letty retired with her ; and 
 then John rapidly left the Royal Hibernian 
 hotel, Dawson-street, in prosecution of some 
 plans he had calmly, as he thought, within the 
 last few hours, determined upon. Turning 
 down Grafton-street into College Green, and 
 thence over Carlisle Bridge into Sackville-street, 
 he gazed from house to house, only anxious to 
 find open shops of a particular kind, and un- 
 interested by the fine city prospect about him, 
 indeed unconscious of it. Few shops of any 
 kind were, however, yet opened ; and for nearly 
 two hours he walked about the streets, awaiting 
 the leisure of the Dublin shopmen and ap- 
 prentices, who had no motive to leave their 
 well-esteemed beds before the hour prescribed 
 by their masters. At last they began to take 
 down their windoAv-shutters, and John entered 
 a ready-made clothes shop ; purchased a suit 
 that did not show a bit of black ; put it on in 
 the back parlour, into which, at his request, the 
 young man had ushered him, and walked out 
 among the awaking crowds of Dublin, so far 
 disguised from their most dreaded scrutiny. 
 Beautifully closing the perspective of Sackville-
 
 THE NOWLANS, 43 
 
 Street, he saw the steeple of George's Church ; 
 he knew it must belong to a Protestant place of 
 worship ; and, in furtherance of his most impor- 
 tant plan, John hastily walked towards it. 
 Arriving before the church, (a little architectural 
 gem,) he proceeded to make enquiries for the 
 residence of the clergyman, which he supposed 
 must be in the neighbourhood ; and, after much 
 trouble, was at last directed to his house. 
 
 At his request for an interview upon par- 
 ticular business, an amiable old gentleman 
 appeared. In a few Avords, which sounded 
 with a startling abruptness and energy, he 
 stated that between himself and a young lady, his 
 companion in town, crime and misery had taken 
 place : that they were obliged to fly from their 
 friends in the country, had arrived in Dublin 
 that morning, and now besought the clergy- 
 man to confer upon them the only consolation 
 their sorrow and remorse could admit; to marry 
 them. After some questions that evinced a due 
 sympathy in the case, the clergyman said he 
 should but attend, with all despatch, to the ne- 
 cessary preliminaries, and at once meet his re- 
 quest. John's face showed the only gleam of 
 relief that had lately visited it. He pressed 
 the old gentleman to name an hour ; " Twelve
 
 44 THE NOWLANS, 
 
 o'clock," he \vas answered. " Could it not be 
 sooner ?" Impossible. " Well, he was most 
 thankful :" and he rose to take his leave, with- 
 out naming a place of meeting. The clergy- 
 man now spoke of seeing him and his lady in 
 tlie church. John clasped his hands, and beg- 
 ged him not to insist on that ; the poor young 
 lady was too ill, she could not stir out. The 
 clergyman paused ; but, with a benevolent 
 smile, said he would, in that case, call at the 
 hotel ; and his suitor, eloquent in thanks, left 
 tlie house. 
 
 " It is the only step I can now take," thought 
 John, as he walked rapidly through street after 
 street, he did not know where, — " the only one : 
 she is a Protestant, and this will help to bring 
 her to some peace with herself ; it will give 
 some little relief, no matter how little. Accord- 
 ing to her creed, my vows can form no bar ; 
 and even the laws of the land make it a good 
 marriage. As for myself, and my own creed and 
 obligations, why, it is but heaping blasphemy 
 upon blasphemy, sacrilege upon sacrilege. Well, 
 no matter about me ; I have destroyed her, and 
 the least satisfaction I can offer is my own de- 
 struction at her feet ; and I am bound to cheer 
 her present despair, and to guard her future lot,
 
 THE NOWLAMS. 45 
 
 by any means, earth, heaven, or hell, can sug- 
 gest. I have chosen my fate ; I have made it, 
 and it must be gone through ; it shall be gone 
 through : from this hour let me be as forgotten 
 by myself, as I am shaken off" by the world; let 
 me live and die only for her ; suff*er and perish 
 here, and for ever, so I but help her to a conso- 
 lation. Come, there are other things to do ; 
 come, come, no drooping, no tardiness, no neg- 
 lect of a moment." 
 
 It was but nine o"'clock : he had to wait 
 three hours ere he could meet Letty with the 
 clergyman, and without him he dared not meet 
 her ; to that resolution he had tied down his 
 soul. But she must not be left uninformed 
 about him, in the mean time. So he strove to 
 retrace his steps into the more bustb'ng parts of 
 the town ; enquired his way to a tavern, called 
 for breakfast, of which he could not touch a 
 mouthful ; seized a sheet of paper, wrote her a 
 line, saying, that he was engaged on business 
 which concerned them both, and which would 
 not allow him to wait on her till noon ; sent it 
 by a messenger procured by the waiter ; paid 
 for the untouched breakfast, and once more sal- 
 lied forth into the streets. 
 
 To a goldsmith's shop John next bent his
 
 46 THE NOWLANS. 
 
 steps, and asked for a wedding-ring. The man 
 enquired the size ; John recollected the ring he 
 had so long worn round his neck, and so lately 
 returned, selected one that he believed was 
 about its compass, purchased it, together with 
 its guard, clasped both in his palm, and amid 
 the titters of the shopman and his boys, hurried 
 out. 
 
 More than two hours were yet to elapse, before 
 he could face towards the hotel. Again he wan- 
 dered, he did not know nor care whither. Pass- 
 ing through a private street, a person, he thought 
 he should recognise, stopped at a hall-door op- 
 posite to him, and knocked. Another look con- 
 vinced him ; it was, indeed, his old reverend 
 friend and relative, Mr. Kennedy. AVhlle he 
 looked, and as the door opened, the clergyman 
 started and glanced towards him. John felt as 
 if cleft by a thunderbolt. His face turned 
 down, he expected every instant the approach 
 of his old guide and patron ; but it seemed that 
 Mr. Kennedy refused to believe the suggestion 
 of John''s identity, which his first glance and 
 start intimated ; the changed dress, the unlikely 
 situation, must have baffled him, for the door 
 sounded as if heavily shut to. John ventured 
 to peep up; the clergyman had retired into the
 
 THE NOWLANS. 4)7 
 
 house. He turned, walked a few steps very 
 slowly, gained the corner of a cross street, there 
 began to run forward with all his speed, got 
 into other streets, still more private and silent, 
 without knowing it, upon the Circular Road, 
 thence into the Phoenix Park, and under shelter 
 of a clump of trees, there cast himself upcn 
 the grass- 
 It would be superfluous to display his feel- 
 ings ; every reader will comprehend them. He 
 was roused from his trance by a near clock 
 striking eleven, and the chimes for a quarter. 
 Starting up, and examining his watch, he saw, 
 indeed, he had but three quarters of an hour to 
 get to the hotel, and keep his most important 
 appointment. He staggered to the gate of the 
 Park, enquiring his way to Dawson-street. The 
 people told him he was very far away from it. 
 Again he ran along the Circular Road ; found 
 himself in the town ; turned into street after 
 street, without asking any proper direction, or 
 without thinking of a hackney coach : as he 
 rushed by a stand of them, however, a Dublin 
 jarvey hailed him, and after some trouble made 
 him understand the nature of the service offered. 
 John gladly bounded into the crazy machine ; 
 gained the steps of his hotel a fev/ minutes
 
 48 THE NOWLANS. 
 
 before twelve ; looked up and down the street 
 for the clergyman ; precisely at the appointed 
 moment saw him approach ; accompanied him 
 into a waiting-room, and then, pausing to 
 compose himself, slowly ascended to Letty's 
 chamber. 
 
 He tapped at her door ; no voice sounded in 
 answer : he tapped again, all was silent : seiz- 
 ing the handle in much alarm, he entered, 
 and, at the remote end of a large apartment, 
 saw her kneeling, her back turned, in earnest 
 prayer. He started, and stood motionless. 
 Letty did not seem aware of his presence, but, 
 her hands clasped, and her head raised, conti- 
 nued to pray. Still Jolm stood without moving; 
 without a loud breath ; but he shook from top 
 to toe ; and, his feelings at last exhausting him, 
 he staggered against the wall. Then she looked 
 round, and, seeing him, buried her face in the 
 bed. He manned himself, stept softly towards 
 her, gently took her hand, placed in it the wed- 
 ding-ring, and in a solemn tone said, " The 
 Protestant clergyman is in waiting." 
 
 She looked at the ring, again hid her face, 
 groaned dolefully, but, in a few seconds, rose 
 up, snatched a white veil that lay near her, 
 threw it over her head and neck, and, without
 
 THE NOWLANS. 49 
 
 venturing a glance at John, took his arm, and 
 walked with him to the waiting-room. 
 
 The moment the door opened she curtsied, 
 profoundly and lowlily, not raising her eyes 
 from the ground, and advanced with John into 
 the middle of the floor, both scarce able to 
 move. The good clergyman, fully understand- 
 ing the scene, spoke only few words, and those 
 few of the gentlest accents, but at once opened 
 his book, and performed the marriage service ; 
 his servant standing by as a witness. John and 
 Letty did not know the ceremony was over, 
 when, taking their hands, he caused them to 
 confront each other, as he said, " Salute one 
 another, my poor children ; wife, behold your 
 husband ; husband, behold your wife." 
 
 Letty at last looked up, pale, shivering, and 
 in blinding tears ; she saw John stand with ex- 
 tended arms : shrieking, she cast herself upon 
 his neck, and was clasped to his despairing 
 heart, and their united sobs were soon echoed 
 by the clergyman : until, as he tried to lead the 
 sinking girl to a seat, she dropped, fainting, at 
 her husband's feet. 
 
 When recalled to her senses, the former 
 scene was renewed. The poor young pair 
 again clung to each other, sobbing aloud, and 
 
 VOL. II. D
 
 50 THE NOWLANS. 
 
 continuing to pour forth tlie first shower of 
 blessed tears that had conic to melt the hardness 
 of their sorrow. Now and then Letty mur- 
 mured, " I knew it — I expected it. — I knew 
 you would immolate yourself, John, to your 
 wretched Letty. — I knew I was to be your 
 ruin !"" — and he only replied — " My joy ! my 
 only joy and hope, you mean ! — my only life — 
 my pride — my own Letty — my wife ! my wife, 
 dearly loved, and honoured for ever !" 
 
 The clergyman, again taking their hands, 
 withdrew. Hours lapsed while they still re- 
 mained weeping in each other's arms. It was a 
 miserably happy nuptial day ; a day and even- 
 ing of delightful anguish ; of terrible enjoy- 
 ment. She clung to him, now in a sense of vir- 
 tue somewhat restored, as her sole earthly good ; 
 — all other good — every one and every thing 
 lost for him ; and a hope of the future, by his 
 side, springing up in her heart : he clung to 
 her with a conscience unrelieved, a remorse un- 
 soothed, a future uncalculated or dreaded, and 
 yet with a surpassing pity and love, an obli- 
 vion of self that humanized even the black visaffe 
 of despair, and made him determined, if not 
 content, to think tins world and the next "well 
 lost" upon her bosom. He felt the joy of fren-
 
 THE NOWLANS. 51 
 
 z-^^ the secret of despair, that sends the poor 
 suicide to the bed destined to be drenched in 
 his blood, smiling upon the hard-crammed pis- 
 tol, which, at a certain hour, is to give him his 
 supposed triumph over misery. 
 
 2
 
 52 THE NOWLANS. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 They did not stir out for days, having no 
 business, and totally uninterested about the at- 
 traction of their novel Situation in a large city. 
 John further felt unwilling to go out, lest he 
 should meet Mr. Kennedy. From morning to 
 night they sat, then, by each other's side ; al- 
 most as silent, too, as they were inactive ; for 
 not a word was spoken of the past or the fu- 
 ture ; not a word about Letty's uncle, or about 
 John's family, or the vows he had broken, 
 or the common ruin of both. They even 
 thought very little ; they were afraid to think. 
 But, of the two, Letty thought most. As 
 John had anticipated, she looked with no 
 horror on his entering into the marriage state, 
 in the face of obligations her conscience did 
 not represent as binding ; and Letty hoped her 
 uncle might yet half forgive her elopement, 
 and that John, aided by his friendship and in-
 
 THE NOWLANS. 
 
 53 
 
 terest, might get on in the world. She took it 
 as granted, that, with his priest's vows, he had 
 changed his rehgion; the selecting a Protest- 
 ant clergyman to marry them, confirmed her ; 
 he had talents of, she believed, the first order ; 
 some learning too ; a manner and address cal- 
 culated to fascinate ; her uncle certainly liked 
 him ; her brother Frank admired him ; and, on 
 the whole, poor Letty's heart began to lighten 
 with hope ; and, upon the first afternoon John 
 left her alone, she wrote two letters, one to Mr. 
 Long, another to Frank, confessing her mar- 
 riage, praying pardon and mercy, and throwing 
 herself and her husband on their indulgence. 
 
 John went out in a different frame of mind. 
 For him there was no hope. He had not 
 given up his religious creed. He was still a 
 Roman Cathohc: nay, according to the ordi- 
 nance of his church, and his own continued be- 
 lief, still a Roman Catholic priest, living in a 
 monstrous state of sin, against all laws and 
 authority. Letty might suppose they were 
 married; he knew they were not married; he 
 knew they never could be : and though he 
 indulged her illusion, partly in furtherance of 
 his plan to sacrifice every thing to her happi- 
 ness—his own thoughts, feelings, despair, the
 
 54 THE NOWLANS. 
 
 truth, as well as himself — still he distinctly 
 felt, that while, in his own person, he stood a 
 renegade, a giver of dreadful scandal, a blas- 
 phoner, an outcast, and a marked sheep, she 
 led with him a life of partaken sin, and was, 
 in fact, no more than his mistress. Do what 
 he might, he could not prevent that. Immo- 
 late himself as he might, he believed he dared 
 never call her his wife ; and his blood curdled at 
 the thought. It was the most horrible thought 
 of all, because it involved her ; because, even 
 while he gave himself up to ruin for her sake, 
 she really derived no advantage from the sacri- 
 fice : he could not pray to God to bless her as 
 a married woman. 
 
 But, upon this day, he walked into the 
 streets with an additional cause of despair. A 
 voice had called him forth to think in solitude — 
 a voice he durst not resist — the awful one of 
 the future. It fell on John's heart like the 
 mutter of approaching desolation. He heard 
 it coming on, as the spell-bound in a hideous 
 dream await, wordless, and shivering, the pro- 
 gress of some chimera monster, whose grasp 
 is to crush and destroy. He knew not the 
 world, no more than the world knew him ; 
 and where to face, or how to turn himself
 
 THE NOW LANS. 55 
 
 for the support — ay, the common support — of 
 the unconscious partner of his crime, John had 
 no more notion than a sprawhng infant in the 
 streets might have how to escape the cart-wheel 
 that rolled on to grind over his little helpless 
 carcass. Yet there she was by his side ; a 
 young, gentle, delicate creature, reared in lux- 
 urv and elegance ; unacquainted with even the 
 name of want : and as he turned, in miserable 
 smiles, to walk out and think of her and for 
 her this day, he found, after settling his hotel 
 bill, that of the unusually ample purse supplied 
 by his poor family for his voyage to Spain, 
 only a few pounds were left. Willing he was 
 to exert himself ; but how ? His nerves strained 
 to be set to work ; but at what ? 
 
 He wandered in the direction whither he had 
 been led upon the first morning of his arrival in 
 Dublin, and once more entered the Phenix Park. 
 Seeking one of its wild little solitudes, he sat 
 down, determined to think. Deep as was his de- 
 spair, no extravagance was now in his mood or his 
 actions. He did not, as before, cast himself on 
 the ground, nor groan, nor shed a tear. The 
 wretch, when his death sentence is pronounced, 
 may shi'ink, or faint away ; yet he can after- 
 wards walk firmly to the gallows, and ascend it
 
 56 THE NOWLANS. 
 
 without much visible emotion ; and thus was 
 John Nowlan at present sobered, by famiharity 
 with the fate, which, at its first view, made him 
 frantic. 
 
 Calmly, therefore, he sat down to reflect and 
 plan. The impulse to throw himself upon his 
 knees and pray, more than once occurred, but 
 he checked it. From him, he believed, prayer 
 would not only be blasphemous, but useless. 
 Before he durst breathe one aspiration to 
 lieaven, his present connexion with Letty must 
 be dissolved and that was impossible. 
 
 It also occurred to him to write home for as- 
 sistance to his mother, or to his sister Peggy ; 
 but a second thought decided against this step 
 too. He had separated himself from them as 
 well as from God. He could no longer be any 
 thing to them, nor they to him. He must 
 struggle through his fate, without a friend on 
 earth or in heaven. " Ay,"" he added, " I 
 have made my bed, and must lie on it." 
 
 Centring his thoughts, then, on what he 
 might possibly do by himself, he got before 
 him, with more method than a few weeks pre- 
 viously he could have done, his present situ- 
 ation, his chance of future employment, and the 
 best steps to be taken in setting himself to
 
 THE NOWLANS. 
 
 57 
 
 work. Pounds, shillings, and pence, were in- 
 cluded in his calculations ; he even took out a 
 pencil and a yoiece of paper, emptied his purse 
 into his hand, and summed up how long, ac- 
 cording to a certain system of economy, he had 
 a chance of not starving, before he should suc- 
 ceed in obtainina: a situation. 
 
 After hours of patient and minute arrange- 
 ment, he arose, determined on a little train of 
 action. Alarmed by the extravagance of the 
 hotel bill, he first resolved to seek some more 
 humble place of residence. As he slowly walk- 
 ed homeward, through an outlet called Phibs- 
 borough, notices of " Furnished Lodgings" 
 caught his eye, posted on the windows of some 
 small, but neat and cleanly-looking houses. 
 He entered more than one ; even here the 
 terms seemed too high for his means. At last 
 he inspected a single room, accommodated with 
 a turn-up bed, which, in the day-time, was con- 
 trived to look like a sofa ; and though he disliked 
 the persons who showed it, and the room it- 
 self, neat and tidy as it was, still the rent came 
 within his views, and John engaged the lodg- 
 ings, provided his lady should like them. 
 
 Proceeding still homeward, he debated how 
 he should dispose of his watch, as he had de- 
 
 D 5
 
 58 THE NOWLANS. 
 
 termined to add whatever it would produce to 
 his httle stock-purse ; indeed, it was ah-eady in- 
 cluded in his calculations. Knowing little of 
 the trade of pawnbrokers, he thought his best 
 way would be to offer the article at a watch- 
 maker's, and he was looking out for a shop of 
 this description, when a placard of " Money 
 lent," attracted his notice. The announcement 
 puzzled him in the first instance ; he was really 
 simple enough to debate the question of its 
 being a benevolent offer to assist the needy : 
 at all events he entered the house, handed his 
 watch at the counter, and received for it about 
 a third of what he had calculated. But then 
 he understood this was only a loan ; and trying 
 to feel contented, he hurried to Dawson-street, 
 most anxious about breaking to Letty, in the 
 best manner, his proposed change to Phibsbo- 
 rough ; uneasy, on her account, at his long ab- 
 sence, and, in the midst of all his blacker feel- 
 ings, experiencing the tenderest yearning of the 
 heart, once more to see before him, and to clasp 
 in his arms, the poor devoted one who sat so 
 solitary in her chamber, dependent on him alone 
 for society and happiness. 
 
 Letty met him at the door of her apartment, 
 with outstretched arms, and a happier face and
 
 THE NOWLAN&. 59 
 
 freer manner than she had lately shown ; her 
 mind was lightened by writing her letters to her 
 uncle and brother, and, as we have seen, hope 
 fluttered in her heart. She had made her toi- 
 let, too, with more than usual care ; John saw 
 her dressed in one of the gowns he had pur- 
 chased for her; altogether, while she looked 
 perhaps more beautiful than ever, his feelings 
 for her took a peculiar turn of fondness and de- 
 votion ; and he folded her to his breast in 
 murmurs of melancholy delight. 
 
 As evening approached, he studied to shape, 
 in the most delicate way, the announcement of 
 a change of abode ; but the words stuck in his 
 throat : he knew the lodgings he had selected 
 were too humble for Letty"'s former rank, tastes, 
 and comforts ; and he durst not explain why 
 she was not to be introduced to better lodg- 
 ings ; he durst not speak to her of pecuniary 
 matters yet. 
 
 But Letty saved all his feelings on this sub- 
 ject. She had reflected as much as he during 
 the day, and started her own plans, and taken 
 her own resolutions. 
 
 " Dearest John," she said, as they sat side 
 by side before dinner, " perfect confidence 
 should exist between all married persons, and
 
 60 THE NOWLAKS. 
 
 especially between us, on account of our pecu- 
 liar situation. You know I have no property 
 in my own right, or at my own immediate dis- 
 posal, and I know you are similarly circum- 
 stanced ; and until our friends think of forgiv- 
 ing and assisting us, of which I do not despair, 
 whatever little funds we possess between us 
 should be known to both, and all placed in 
 your hands : so, dear John," as she hid her 
 face on his neck, " keep this little purse for 
 me ; it is the amount of a half-year's pocket- 
 money allowed by my generous uncle, and I 
 brought it out upon that evening — the evening 
 we met — to apply it to some particular purposes ; 
 — now we may surely use it ourselves." 
 
 He put up the purse without an observation. 
 — " And I have been thinking, too, how very 
 expensive this place is ; you must, every way, 
 have already spent much money, dear John ; 
 and the sooner we leave it for a humbler abode 
 — a very humble one — (you know, though lately 
 accustomed to luxury, my early life, at my fa- 
 ther's, was thrifty and humble enough) — why, 
 John, the sooner that step is taken, the better. 
 We can await, anywhere, answers to my letters.'"* 
 
 The same evening they occupied the single 
 apartment at Phibsborough. When Letty first
 
 THE NOWLAKi?, 61 
 
 entered it, John did not see her strange glance 
 around ; he only saw the smile she assumed as 
 he turned to consult her features, and heard 
 the cheering tone in which she compelled her- 
 self to admire the Uttle thriftily-contrived room, 
 and say it even went beyond her expectations, 
 and was a state-room compared with that as- 
 signed to herself and three of her sisters at 
 Mount Nelson. 
 
 But, notwithstanding Letty's manner and 
 expressions, John continued to dislike, on 
 her account, and indeed on his own, the 
 room, and the house, and the people of the 
 house, and every thing connected with it and 
 them. His dislike of the very first day in- 
 creased each day he remained ; and yet he 
 could not exactly tell why. It was not a very 
 wretched house, and they were not ill-conduct- 
 ed or disreputable people; on the contrary, 
 their abode and themselves bespoke independ- 
 ence, even comfort; and yet he had an inde- 
 finable notion that it was all mean, pinching 
 economy, miserly comfort, unwarranted neat- 
 ness and propriety ; cold, heartless, Avorthless 
 independence. It more overpowered him with 
 ideas and apprehensions of poverty, than could 
 a scene and group of squalid misery ; and he
 
 62 THE NOWLANS. 
 
 feared the same impression would be made on 
 Letty. 
 
 Although very small, containing, indeed, but 
 four rooms altogether, every inch of this house 
 had been made the most of; nay, over-occupied, 
 over-attended to, over -done, in fact. From his 
 window John looked into a little yard, around 
 which were various wooden sheds, clumsily con- 
 structed in his evening leisure hours, by the 
 old man of the establishment, assisted by as 
 old a helper, a kind of jack-of-all-trades in the 
 neighbourhood, and composed of all the scraps 
 of boards and staves both could pick up, here 
 and there, without paying for them. There 
 was a little shed for coals, another for turf, 
 another for ashes, another for odds and ends ; 
 another for " case of necessity ;" and in the 
 middle of the yard rose an impoverished grass 
 plat, from whicli a sickly laburnum tree vainly 
 strove to draw moisture for its scanty boughs 
 and leaves. Below stairs, in the parlour, was the 
 bed of the old couple; a daughter and a niece 
 slept in the kitchen ; and next to John's room, 
 was another chamber " to be let." Each apart- 
 ment was barely furnished, (and yet furnished) 
 with articles selected, from time to time, wher- 
 ever they could be found cheapest, of the old-
 
 THE NOWLANS. 03 
 
 est known fashion, and all out of suit with one 
 another ; yet all shining and polished from in- 
 cessant care, into a presumptuous appearance 
 of respectability. An oil-cloth, composed of 
 three different scraps, of different patterns, 
 spread over the little hall, or passage, from the 
 street-door ; a shame-faced attempt at a hall 
 lamp, suspended by the old man's pecvdiar 
 contrivance, dangled so low as to oblige one, 
 at the risk of one or two shillings for a new 
 green glass, to stoop under it, or walk round 
 it ; and the little narrow stairs boasted a strip of 
 carpet, half as narrow as itself^ patched up, like 
 the oil-cloth, darned over and over, like the 
 heels of all the old fellow's stockings, and yet 
 absolutely looking smart from endless brushing 
 and dusting every day, and shaking and beat- 
 ino; once a week. 
 
 The carpet of John's own room was an ex- 
 traordinary patch-work of diamond bits of cloth, 
 showing every colour in the rainbow, and each 
 no biffffer than the corner of a card. His sofa- 
 
 on 
 
 bed was covered, during the day, with stamped 
 calico of a venerable pattern, half washed out ; 
 his one window had a curtain of a different pat- 
 tern, and his five chairs, covers still diversified. 
 His one table was of old mahogany, dark even
 
 64 THE NOWLAKS. 
 
 to blackness, and shining as a mix'ror ; his chest 
 of drawers was of oak, more ancient still, and 
 also glitterhig so as to put him out of patience ; 
 his corner cupboard pretended to be Chinese ; 
 six high-coloured, miserable prints hung in 
 black frames, and at the most regular distances 
 round the room, of which three sides were pa- 
 pered, and one wainscot ; but the old people 
 had ventured on one modern article, in the 
 shape of a long narrow chimney-glass, set in 
 a frame of about an inch deep, and presenting 
 to the eye about as faithful a reflection of the 
 human face, as might a river or a lake with 
 the wind blowing higii upon it ; nay, a row of 
 flower-pots were placed inside the window, in 
 a curious frame-work ; as if to show a wanton 
 exultation in the midst of this scene of beg- 
 garly contrivance, flowers had actually been 
 prostituted in its service, and Nature's rarest 
 perfumes deemed well employed in scenting its 
 shreds and patches, and its crazy " fragments 
 of an earlier world." 
 
 " Poor flowers !" sighed Letty, after she had 
 given them one first and only look ; '' poor 
 flowers ! what brought ye here ?" 
 
 The old man, who had some petty situation 
 of thirty or forty pounds a year in some public
 
 THE NOWLANS. 65 
 
 office, was upwards of seventy-five years, tall, 
 shrivelled, stooped in the neck, ill-set on his 
 limbs, and with a peculiar drag of one leg, which, 
 from certain reasons, and taken with other things, 
 rendered him very disagreeable to John. He 
 was obliged to be up every morning at seven, in 
 order to reach his office, or place of occupation, 
 by eight ; and he might be heard creeping about 
 the lower part of the house, making the parlour 
 and kitchen fires, to save his daughter and 
 niece so much trouble ; cooking his own solitary 
 breakfast, his fat wife lying in bed ; and then 
 cautiously shutting the hall-door after him, as, 
 rubbing his hands, he tried to bustle off" in a 
 brisk, youthful pace, to his important day's 
 work. His voice could never be heard in the 
 house : if ever a man of a house lived under 
 petticoat law, it was he. The coarse, masculine, 
 guttural tones of his spouse often rose indeed to 
 some pitch ; but his, never. In other respects, 
 too, he showed utter pusillanimity of spirit. He 
 would never appear to John, in answer to a 
 summons for arranging any misunderstanding 
 (and several there soon arose) between him or 
 poor Letty, and the daughter or niece : his wife 
 always represented liim ; and he would run to 
 hide behind a door, or into the yard, if he heard
 
 66 THE NOWLA>!S. 
 
 John's foot on the stairs, during these domestic 
 commotions ; nay, even when all was at peace, 
 his habitual poverty of nerve urged him to shun 
 a single rencontre with his lodger ; or, perhaps, 
 he still dreaded to be called to account for any 
 thing his wife or daughter had said ; and when- 
 ever he was caught by John in the passage, or 
 the yard, his fidgets, as he lisped and mumbled, 
 and continually tapped his chest with one hand, 
 ever complaining of his asthma, called up senti- 
 ments of irresistible disgust. 
 
 His sole attempts at manhood we have indi- 
 cated, in describing the way he used to step out 
 to his day''s labour every morning. But rarer 
 proofs of this still farcical and contemptible hu- 
 mour came under John"'s eye. As he and his 
 ancient fellow-labourer before described (a con- 
 trast to him, by the way, being square-built, 
 erect in his body, cross in his temper, and loud 
 and independent in his tones,) used to fumble 
 about in the yard of an evening, chopping or 
 sawing sticks and rotten boards, and mending 
 the little sheds with them, or for ever waterincr 
 the roots of the sad laburnum tree, there was a 
 would-be briskness in his every motion, (he 
 knew his wife was always looking at him out of 
 the parlour window,) an energy in the way he
 
 THE NOWLANS. 67 
 
 grasped his saw, adze, or hammer, or his water- 
 ing pot, and jerked them from hand to hand, 
 or upon a bench, when he had done with them ; 
 all of which plainly bespoke his ambition not to 
 pass for " so very old a man, neither ;'' certainly 
 to give the idea that he was a miracle for his 
 age. 
 
 Every Sunday he appeared caparisoned for 
 church in a complete shining suit of black, taken 
 out of a press, and in a hat, also shining, ex- 
 tracted from one of his wife's early bandboxes ; 
 the clothes and the hat some ten years in his, 
 or rather in her possession, and thus displayed 
 once a-week during that period, yet both look- 
 ing as if sent home the Saturday night before; 
 and, indeed, considering that they had encoun- 
 tered scarce three months of careful wear alto- 
 gether, namely, the Avear of about two hours 
 every seventh day for ten years, it was not after 
 all so surprising they should look so new. Some- 
 times his wife allowed him to invite to a Sunday 
 dinner five or six old men like himself, all clad 
 in shining black too ; and when John saw them 
 come crawling towards the house, or, joined with 
 their host, crawling and stalking about the yard, 
 he felt an odd sensation of disgust, such as he 
 thought might be aroused by the sight of so
 
 68 THE NOWLANS. 
 
 many old shining black-beetles; the insects that, 
 of all that crept, were his antipathy and loath- 
 ing. 
 
 His wife has been called fat ; she was so, to 
 excess ; so much so, that she waddled under 
 her own fardel — herself; but she was strong 
 and sturdy too ; and her waddle did not lessen 
 the length and stamp of her stride, when, upon 
 occasions that required a show of authority, she 
 came out to scold, or, as her niece called it, to 
 " ballyrag," in the kitchen, at her handmaidens, 
 or in the hall, at her poor lodgers up stairs. 
 Then the little house shook from top to bottom 
 under her heavy and indignant step, as well as 
 \\dth the echoes of her coarse man"'s voice, half 
 smothered amid the fat of her throat, and the 
 sputterings of her great pursy lips. And poor 
 Letty also shook, from top to toe, on these 
 occasions, and flew for shelter to John's arms. 
 
 When not called upon thus to enforce law in 
 any refractory branch of her garrison, Mrs, 
 Grimes spent the day in a vast indolent arm- 
 chair, reading pathetic novels of the last age, 
 or casting up her accounts, to re-assure herself, 
 over and over again, of the pounds, shillings, 
 and pence, laid up during the last month or week, 
 and how half a farthing might be split for six
 
 THE NOWLANS. 69 
 
 months to come. Every day, by twelve o'clock, 
 she was dressed " like any lady," (still according 
 to her niece,) to receive her cronies, or strike 
 with importance the tax-collectors or landlord's 
 ao-ent, none of whom had ever to call a second 
 time ; and that was her constant boast ; but 
 even there, shut up in her parlour, the old fe- 
 male despot was fully as much dreaded as if 
 her voice and her stride sounded every moment 
 through the house, — or as much as if she had 
 lain there screwed down in her coffin, and that, 
 at the least turn of a hand, herself or her ghost 
 might come out to roar for a strict reckoning. 
 
 Her daughter and niece (the latter an or- 
 phan) supplied the place of a servant maid, in 
 lieu of the eating, drinking, and sleeping, such 
 as it was, that came to their lot. They were of 
 a size, and that size very little ; of an age, and 
 that more than thirty ; but from their stunted 
 growth, hard, liny shape, and non-descript ex- 
 pression of features, might pass for ten years 
 younger, or ten years older, as the spectator 
 fancied. They gave no idea of flesh and blood. 
 They never looked as if they were warm, or soft 
 to the touch. One would as soon think of 
 flirtina: with them, as with the old wooden effi- 
 gies to be found in the niches of old cathedrals.
 
 70 THE NOWLANS. 
 
 They imparted no notion, much less sensation of 
 sex. But tliey were as active as bees, and as 
 strong as httle horses ; and as despotic and cruel, 
 if they dared, and whenever they dared, as 
 the old tyrant herself. From the moment they 
 arose in the morning, thump, thump, thump, 
 went their little heels, through the passage, to the 
 kitchen, up stairs and down stairs, or into the par- 
 lour, to see after the fires the old man had light- 
 ed ; to make up the beds; to prepare breakfast ; 
 to put every thing to rights; to sweep, to brush, 
 to shake carpets, to clean shoes, knives, and 
 forks ; to rub, scrub, polish, and beautify, for 
 ever and ever ; the daughter always leading the 
 niece ; and the whole of this gone through in a 
 sturdy, important, vain-glorious manner ; ac- 
 companied by slapping of doors, every two 
 minutes, and (ever since Letty had refused to 
 go down to the parlour to join an evening par- 
 ty,) by loud, rude talking, and boisterous laugh- 
 ing, just to .show that they did not care a far- 
 thing for the kind of conceited poor lodgers 
 they had got in the house. 
 
 The housekeeping of the establishment was 
 peculiarly loathsome to John. The baker had 
 never sent in a loaf, bunn, roll, biscuit, or muf- 
 fin, since the day, now some fifteen years ago,
 
 THE NOWLANS. 71 
 
 when Mrs. Grimes came to reside in the neigh- 
 bourhood : and even the home-made bread was 
 of the coarsest possible quality, and often used 
 a fortnight after it had been baked. Each day, 
 the dairy-man left one halfpenny worth of milk 
 at the door. They made their own precious 
 mould candles, or burnt such nefarious oil in 
 the kitchen lamp, or, upon a gala night, in the 
 passage, as poisoned and fumigated the whole 
 house. The morning tea leaves were preserved 
 and boiled for evening. No eggs, no fresh but- 
 ter ever appeared. The fires, after having been 
 once made up in the morning, were slaked with 
 a compost of coal-dust and yellow clay, which, 
 shaped into balls, also formed stuffing between 
 the bars. Upon a Saturday evening, the old 
 man sneaked out to drive hard bargains for 
 some of the odds and ends left in the butcher's 
 stall after the day's sale ; and these, conveyed 
 home by stealth, furnished, by means of salting 
 and hanging up in a cool place, savoury dinners 
 for the week. Upon a washing-day, starch was 
 made out of potatoes, to save a farthing. 
 
 No charity was in the house, nor in a heart 
 in the house. In the faces of all professed beg- 
 gars the street door was slammed without a 
 word, but with a scowl calculated to wither up
 
 72 THE NOWLANS. 
 
 the wretched suitor ; and with respect to such 
 as strove to hide the profession under barrel- 
 organs, flutes, flageolets, hurdy-gurdies, or the 
 big-drum and pandean pipes, their tune was, 
 indeed, listened to, but never requited. 
 
 Yet the family was a pious family. Mr. and 
 Mrs. Grimes sallied out to church every Sunday, 
 and sat at the parlour window every Sunday 
 evening, (while their daughter and niece went- 
 in turn, to have a rest, as they said,) a huge 
 old Bible open before them, and visible to all 
 passers by, that the neighbours might remark — 
 " There's a fine old couple." John, however, 
 thouglit it odd, that after all this, his cold mutton 
 or his cold beef used to come up to him, out of 
 the safe, (a pretty " safe," truly) rather di- 
 minished since he had last the pleasure of seeing 
 it ; and one Sunday evening, after listening for 
 half an hour to the daughter's shrill voice, read- 
 ing the Bible before supper, when, on particular 
 business, he somewhat suddenly entered the 
 parlour, he was still more surprized to find the 
 good family seated round the ham, (a rare temp- 
 tation, no doubt, in their system of housekeep- 
 ing) which that day had formed part of his 
 dinner. 
 
 But nothing irked him half so much as the
 
 THE NOWLANS. 73 
 
 ostentatious triumph over starvation, the pro- 
 voking assumption of comfort, nay, elegance, as 
 it were, and the audacious independence which 
 resulted from the whole economy. He felt 
 it, as before hinted, to be the most irritating 
 specimen of poverty. Old Grimes"'s glossy Sun- 
 day coat, perpetually the same, was worse 
 than the clouted gaberdine of a roving beggar. 
 Every burnished thing around him seemed to 
 shine with a beggarly polish. The whole house 
 and its inhabitants had an air of looking better 
 than they really were, or ought to be; and the 
 meanness, the sturdiness, the avarice, the hard- 
 heartedness, that produced this pohsh and this 
 air, he considered as loathsome as the noise, the 
 thumping about, the loud talking, and the end- 
 less fagging of the two little skinny Helots 
 was brazen and vexatious. 
 
 We should not, indeed, have so long dwelt 
 on this domestic sketch, did we not wish to s-ive 
 some clear idea of the causes, that, during many 
 weeks, while he and Letty awaited an answer 
 from the country, served to keep up, in John's 
 mind, a continvied though petty ferment. And 
 still no answer came ; and at last his poor 
 companion began to droop, and, like him, de- 
 
 VOL. ir. K
 
 74 THE NOWLANS. 
 
 spair : although she did not dream how long 
 his feelings had anticipated her. 
 
 Almost their last pound had been changed, 
 when a large and bulky letter was finally de- 
 livered by the postman, directed to John. He 
 tore open the envelope, and found two notes for 
 himself, and one for Letty. He waited to hear 
 hers : it was from her brother, as follows : — 
 
 " My Dearest Sister, 
 
 " I write in the greatest hurry, by stealth, 
 and against the vehement commands of our 
 dear uncle. He is indignant, and, I fear, not 
 to be moved ; — yet do not quite despair : what- 
 ever a brother can do, I will do. You know 
 how close he holds me in money matters, and 
 lately he has even tightened his hand, lest (as 
 I suppose) I should bestow his allowances 
 where he knows my heart inclines me : so that, 
 dear Letty, I can only inclose a poor ten 
 pounds, until better times, which I hope are 
 not far off, though I fear they are. God bless 
 you. Your immediate family are still more 
 outrageous. Heaven melt and convert them all, 
 prays your affectionate brother, 
 
 "F. A."
 
 THE NOWLANS. 75 
 
 As Letty remained stupified over this note, 
 John began to read his epistles aloud, in a 
 deep, steady voice. 
 
 " Dear, Dear John, 
 
 " What can I say ? what comfort can I 
 offer? Oh, nothing; none. Oh, did you see 
 us, it would move your heart ; — but that is 
 moved, I am sure, by this time, at least ; if, in- 
 deed, it was ever hard or wicked, which I, for 
 one, will not believe. My husband — the hus- 
 band you have given me, dear John, tells me 
 where to address this; and you will find a line 
 from another friend — or one that was a friend, 
 your best friend — along with it. Oh, listen to 
 him, John, dear brother, listen to him ; listen to 
 us all. Humiliation, time, penance, and a good 
 life, may yet go near to make up for the past, 
 if you would only turn your heart to think of 
 it : but if you do not, oh see what is to hap- 
 pen ! Read his letter, and see ! God help 
 you, John ; and God help me, your loving 
 sister, and the poor old couple, and their grey 
 hairs. I don't know what to think ! Oh God, 
 pity, in particular, the poor young lady, who, 
 whatever way you turn, must be the victim ! 
 
 e2
 
 76 THE NOWLANS. 
 
 " John, Dearest John, I liave thought of 
 your situation in every view ; and, with other 
 things, remembered you would want what your 
 poor Peggy has not to give, and strove to 
 procure it elsewhere, from father and mother, 
 and from another person, now nearer to me 
 than either, but all in vain ; And oh, dear, 
 poor brother ! what are you to do ? or what 
 am I to do, who cannot assist you ? Once 
 more, on my knees, I pray of a merciful Hea- 
 ven to have mercy on you. 
 
 " Oh, John, I thought Frank, at least, could 
 send you help, and I asked him again and 
 again ; but from what he says, I believe he has 
 very little in his power, indeed. And I '11 say 
 nothing, John, about the kind of husband he is 
 to me ; not a word : for not a word to give you 
 fresh pain would I say for worlds. You had 
 your own reasons for the part you took ; and 
 no matter now, until we meet again, and can' 
 speak of them. But John, John, will that 
 meeting ever come.'' No one but yourself is 
 able to answer. And again I cry out to you, 
 in tears and misery, listen to us all, and, 
 above all, to him who writes along with me. 
 I have told 30U nothing of our father and
 
 THE NOWLANS. 77 
 
 mother : I dare not tell you any thing ; but God 
 look down on them and you, is the prayer of 
 Your miserable sister, 
 
 " Peggy Adams." 
 
 Before he had read aloud a dozen lines of 
 this epistle, John saw he must not continue to 
 communicate its contents to Letty. Accord- 
 ingly he told her, with a gloomy smile, it con- 
 tained nothing but silly lamentations from his 
 sister, which, while they were natural, would 
 only serve to give her unnecessary pain ; and 
 therefore he prayed Letty to excuse his silence. 
 Then he finished the reading, to himself, with 
 a brow of studied ease, a frozen eye, and a 
 nerve braced to desperate firmness ; and, with- 
 out pausing, took up the accompanying letter, 
 to which Peggy had alluded, and which his 
 heart readily instructed him to anticipate. We 
 transcribe it also : 
 
 " Wretched man ! It was, then, you indeed, 
 whom I saw in Dublin ; although I could no 
 more trust my eyes to the appearance you made, 
 than I could trust my ears to the monstrous 
 story of your scandal and sin, which awaited
 
 78 THE NOWLANS. 
 
 my return to this place. It is said here, it is 
 believed here, that your fall was not from the 
 temptation of the moment, but rather the ac- 
 complishment of a plan, long studied, and, with 
 deep deceit, carried into effect at your leisure. 
 Even your bishop thinks this of you ; but can 
 it be possible ? was that letter you wrote me, 
 and was your story to your poor father and 
 mother, (God pity them !) about going to 
 Spain, all a deception ? a contrivance to raise 
 means for your horrid purpose ? John Now- 
 lan, I strive to believe, to hope, it was not. I 
 pray morning and night, that you may not 
 ultimately prove such an unparalleled sinner :— 
 I recollect your youth, your character, — or 
 what, perhaps, in my blindness, I supposed to 
 be your character; I recollect our commun- 
 ings together ; I recollect the laying bare your 
 heart to me in the confessional, and those re- 
 collections give me the hope. 
 
 " But, listen to me, John Nowlan. Only in 
 one way can you confirm my hope ; only in one 
 way can you prevent certainty of the worst kind 
 against yourself; and oh, miserable young 
 man, only in one way can you ward off the 
 dreadful curse that is collecting to burst over
 
 THE NOW LANS. 79 
 
 your head. — If you have fallen but through im- 
 pulse, arise, and stand erect through reflection. 
 Turn your back upon your sin, and your face 
 to God and to your church — accuse yourself — 
 humble yourself — repent— cry aloud for pardon 
 and mercy, even after punishment — cry aloud 
 for sackcloth upon your body, and ashes upon 
 your head — ask to moisten the bitter bread of 
 years to come, with your more bitter tears — and 
 thus alone can you hinder even me, from re- 
 garding you as a pre-determined sinner — thus 
 alone can you hinder all Christian people from 
 shuddering at your name — thus alone can you 
 stay the final anathema of your insulted church 
 and the eternal wrath of your insulted God. 
 
 "Already, of course, you are a suspended 
 priest ; and your bishop awaits but your answer 
 to this letter, ere he commands me to pronounce 
 your name as accursed among your own people, 
 from the altar of your own chapel, and by the 
 lips of your own priest and relation, and oldest 
 friend. I say to you, John Nowlan, tremble ! 
 — But a few days stand between you and your 
 earthly curse, and your long woe. 
 
 "Matthew Kennedy.'"
 
 80 THE NOWLANS. 
 
 This letter, too, John read to hhiiself, without 
 betraying to Letty's observation an iota of the 
 confirmed despair v/hich it fastened on his heart. 
 He even smiled, again, as he put it uj) ; and, 
 turning to her, strove to talk cheeringly of the 
 future. He could exert himself, and gain some 
 little independence, he said, notwithstanding 
 the anger of all their friends ; or until they 
 
 should grow more forgiving until his own 
 
 stifled and cramped heart should burst into 
 .shivers, he should have said, for that was what 
 he felt. 
 
 He sat down by Letty''s side, and seeing her 
 still stuplfied, or else wrapped in reflection, con- 
 tinued to speak empty words of comfort. To- 
 morrow, John said, he would go out, and think 
 of looking after some reputable employment. 
 He was a good classical scholar, and he had 
 heard that in Dublin a handsome income was to 
 be derived from but limited tuition. Letty sud- 
 denly started, looked full at him, again cast her 
 eyes on the ground, and seemed really engaged 
 with her reflections. 
 
 The day, the evening, the night, wore away, 
 and he did not stir from her side. They pre- 
 pared to retire to their humble bed, and Letty 
 fell on her knees, and, with swimming eyes,
 
 THE NOWLANS. 81 
 
 asked him to join her in prayer. He laughed, 
 sh'ghtly, and said he was so cold he would pray 
 in bed. She continued long kneeling; then, 
 still in unrestrained but silent tears, her head lay 
 for hours on his breast, both awake, though 
 neither spoke. At last John heard her breathe 
 more quietly ; after a further pause assured 
 himself she was fast asleep ; then he gently 
 removed her head from his breast, wet with her 
 poor tears ; and then, and not till then, the pas- 
 sion — the loaded shell of passion — that had so 
 long remained fuzing in his breast, — exploded 
 in the silence of the night. 
 
 He sat up, flung aside the covering from his 
 burning body, and, in an instinctive effort to 
 hide his emotion from the unconscious creature 
 at his side, desperately grasped the ticken in his 
 spasmed hand. 
 
 " Ay," he thought, "let them do their worst ! 
 — let them brand me— curse me — outlaw me 
 here, and bar the gate of mercy against me 
 hereafter ! — I am prepared for it — I expected it 
 — body and soul were freely staked before they 
 spoke — ^yet let them have a care ! — Their ven- 
 geance upon me is nothing — shall be borne — 
 but if, through ruin to me, ruin shall fall upon 
 this sleeping innocence, now at my side — if, by 
 
 E 5
 
 82 THE NOWLANS. 
 
 their curse and ban, my exertions in her behalf 
 shall be cramped, so as that she must be a com- 
 mon victim — by the Heaven that I have out- 
 raged, and that casts me off, they may rue it 
 sorely !" 
 
 Had John been called on to define the kind 
 of vengeance he threatened, he could have 
 given no answer ; yet this burst of excitement 
 somewhat relieved him ; it was a partial 
 escape of the pent-up volcano. No gentler 
 relief would, indeed, come. He reverted to 
 Peggy's letter, to its simple and touching tone, 
 to her deep affliction at home; — to the whole 
 picture of home, such as he had made it — yet 
 not a tear flowed. Her half allusion to " the 
 husband he had given her," and her mysterious 
 hints as to the life they led together, supplied 
 more matter to his boiling mood, than could her 
 sorrow and her sisterly affection. He flamed 
 impatiently at the thought of his having been 
 too precipitate in forcing Peggy to marry Mr. 
 Frank — in giving him a command and right 
 over her. His whole soul rose as he allowed 
 himself to doubt the truth of Maggy's informa- 
 tion. And then the depth and ambiguity of 
 Frank''s character began further to oppress and 
 irritate him ; he brought to mind how lamely
 
 THE NOWLANS. 83 
 
 did Frank's letter of that day hold the promise 
 of friendship given to him upon the accursed 
 evening, when the young gentleman first turned 
 his eyes to his present ruin ; the letter did not, 
 in fact, mention his name ; and again, John, 
 getting before him a supposed case, muttered to 
 himself vague threats of revenge. 
 
 As the morning broke on his sleepless eye, 
 his former mood of composed despair again 
 closed round him ; and again he was able, by 
 an anomalous operation of mind that is one of 
 the wonders of our nature, to form deliberate 
 calculations for the coming day. When the 
 hour for rising approached, he shut his eyes 
 that Letty might think him asleep. 
 
 They breakfasted without speaking much to 
 each other ; and when John proposed to go out 
 in search of an engagement, Letty quietly bade 
 him farewell. He returned about four o'clock, 
 and did not find her at home. He enquired 
 when she had gone out, and the little kiln- 
 dried niece sullenly answered, a few minutes 
 after himself. Dreadful apprehensions crowded 
 upon his mind ; but in about an hour, a knock 
 came to the door, and Letty, modestly dressed, 
 pale, fatigued, and yet with a tearful smile, fell 
 on his neck.
 
 84 THE NOWLANS. 
 
 " Oh, love, love, liave you succeeded ?" she asked. 
 " Not yet, but I have hopes still, Letty. I 
 called at every public academy I could enquire 
 out ; they were all supy)lied with efficient teach- 
 ers : the}' told me, however, to advertise for 
 private tuitions, and, no doubt, I should have 
 employment. And now, Letty, a\ here have you 
 been ? and why give me the shock of not find- 
 ing you at home ? Oh, it was dreadful." 
 
 " I did wrong there, indeed ; I should have 
 contrived to be home before you: — where have I 
 been, you ask ? Where. John, but trying, like 
 you, to procure the means of honourable sub- 
 sistence .'' — and, oh, dearest John ! thank God^ 
 I return more successful !" 
 
 " How ? where .'' what do you mean ?" 
 
 " I '11 tell you all : — long ago, thinking of the 
 worst, I purchased a few little materials un- 
 known to you, and whenever you left me alone 
 for an hour, sat down to make drawings, from 
 recollection, of some of my former studies ; and 
 — now hear me out — when you spoke of tuition 
 yesterday, it occurred to me, for the first time, 
 that I might teach drawing as well as sell my lit- 
 tle works ; and so, John, when you went out, I 
 hid my drawings under my shawl, and went out 
 too ; and" — smiling — " while you were calling
 
 THE NOWLANS. 85 
 
 at the academies, I was calling at the boarding- 
 schools ; but they all refused me, intimating 
 that an introduction would be necessary ; and 
 I was turning down the steps of the last, sad 
 enough, when — when a good lady, who" — her 
 voice broke — " who just then stepped out of her 
 carriage at the next door, saw my tears, I be- 
 lieve, and stopped mc, and addressed me very 
 kindly and politely, and returned into the car- 
 riage with me, and was good enough to look at 
 my poor drawings and praise them, and offer to 
 — to purchase them" — Letty here blushed scar- 
 let as she wept ; — " and she did purchase them, 
 John ; and, besides, she has daughters, and I am 
 to teach them! and this, dear love, was what 
 kept me out so long." Again she fell on his neck. 
 
 " Did the lady ask any questions about your 
 situation ?" enquired John. 
 
 " She did, and I freely answered— for I be- 
 lieve I was surprised into some energy ; I an- 
 swered, that I had made a marriage, which, on 
 account of a difference of religion, displeased 
 my husband's friends and mine." 
 
 " Did you say I was a priest, Letty ? 
 
 '• No, that was not necessary ; particularly 
 as you are not a priest now ; I only mentioned, 
 in answer to the lady's questions, that I was a
 
 86 THE NOWLANS. 
 
 Protestant, and that you had been a Roman Ca- 
 tholic, and it seems our good patroness is a Ro- 
 man Catholic too, and perhaps on that account 
 more disposed to assist me for your sake." 
 
 " 'Tis likely,"" observed John; " but thanks, 
 at all events, my own dear Letty, for this heroic 
 proof of your love ; I need not say why I think 
 it heroic — I will only say I am grateful." 
 
 He pressed her, still in despairing tenderness, 
 to his heart, and endeavoured to show that he 
 shared with her a happy evening. Letty, ro- 
 mantic and enthusiastic as she was, felt proud of 
 herself ; her sparkling eyes, brilliant smiles, and 
 cheering and playful conversation, told that she 
 triumphed in the idea of having made a success- 
 ful sacrifice and effort for the chosen of her 
 heart ; and the vivacity of youth lacquered the 
 future with delusive promise. 
 
 At first, indeed, all seemed promising. Letty 
 not only succeeded in pleasing her first pupils, 
 but, through them, got many others ; and fur- 
 ther, her friends interested themselves about 
 John, and procured him also private tuitions, of 
 which the produce, added to Letty's earniiigs, 
 enabled them to live above fear of want. This 
 turn of good fortune happened two months after 
 their arrival in Dublin, and continued four months
 
 THE MOWLANS. 87 
 
 longer. Then, however, a change as terrible 
 as it was unaccountable occurred. One by one 
 their friends grew cold and distant ; one by one 
 their pupils were withdrawn from them ; until, at 
 last, while neither could guess a solution of the 
 mystery, that at once struck them with wonder 
 and consternation, Letty had not a tuition left, 
 and John had but one. 
 
 While they wondered, and drooped, and trem- 
 bled, want closed round them more formidably 
 than ever. The receipts from one pupil did not 
 meet a third of even their humble daily expendi- 
 ture ; and first, they were left without a pound ; 
 and next — after both had repeatedly gone out, 
 each unknown to the other, to dispose of different 
 articles of dress — without any means of exis- 
 tence. Then it was, while weeks of lodging- 
 money became due, that they trembled at the 
 sound of their tyrant landlady's voice ; then it 
 was, as their poor attire and sad brows bespoke, 
 too plainly, the state of their purse, that the rude 
 flaunts of the hard-grained little daughter and 
 niece sank into their souls ; then it was that, by 
 tacit consent, they often went out at dinner-hour, 
 pleading an engagement to the sneering attend- 
 ant, to wander by the lonesome banks of the 
 adjacent canals, Letty weeping away her heart.
 
 88 THE NOW LA MS. 
 
 and John stifling the despair of his, until he felt 
 as if it would shiver his breast in atoms ; then it 
 was that they feared to face home — alas, it was 
 not home ! — to encounter the malignant consci- 
 ousness of their poverty, that they thought they 
 could read in the eyes of the creature who should 
 open the door to their timid knock. Then it was 
 that they felt the realities of the world, and, John 
 believed, the first pouring out of their curse. 
 
 To his single tuition they could only cling, in 
 dismal hopes of its producing others. Meantime, 
 poor Letty, long ignorant of the first enfeebling 
 symptoms, that, to an older eye, would have pro- 
 claimed her situation, at last knew she was to be 
 a mother. John suspected the fact — and only 
 suspected it— and in the silence of one dreary 
 and bitter night, asked her if it were so. — 
 "Your child stirs with life, under my bosom !■" 
 she answered, in showering tears, and yet in a 
 tender embrace. 
 
 The event differently affected them. Letty 
 trembled at the thought of not having a shil- 
 ling to provide for her time of trial, or to pur- 
 chase for her baby the commonest things ne- 
 cessary to shelter it from the winds of heaven. 
 It was now the beginning of a very cold April, 
 and she had not a warm shawl or cloak to shelter
 
 THE NOWLANS. 89 
 
 herself. In fact, — miserable as ?s the fact— the 
 only covering she liad left was the old gown 
 she wore every day. John heard, in fulness of 
 horror that equalled only his despair, the an- 
 nouncement of his being about to be a father. 
 That wretched infant, svhen born, would but 
 prove the record of its father's guilt. Now, 
 he could not even die and be forgotten ; his 
 child would live after him, and leave, perhaps, 
 another child, and that another still, so that the 
 memory of the blasphemer must be perpetuated, 
 in his race, upon earth. His abject state of 
 poverty, and the suflTerings in store for Letty, 
 gave him, indeed, dreadful anguish; but this, 
 above all others, was the prepossession that 
 brooded over his soul. 
 
 In the eighth month of Letty 's pregnancy, in- 
 stead of John's single tuition leading to others, 
 he received a cold note from his young pupil's 
 father, dispensing with his attendance even upon 
 that one. He snatched up his hat, and ran to 
 the gentleman's house, at last determined to 
 demand a solving of this withering mystery. 
 The person on whom he called was not at home, 
 or was denied to him ; but, as he turned away 
 from the door, an individual came out, and an 
 eye met his, that at once seemed to supply an
 
 90 THE NOWLANS. 
 
 explanation. It was an old class-fellow in the 
 Bishop's school at Limerick, ordained long be- 
 fore him, and, as he now recollected, since offici- 
 ating as a coadjutor in a Dublin parish. They 
 exchanged one deep look ; and the young priest 
 turned away, while John rushed through the 
 streets in an opposite direction. 
 
 Arrived at home, wild and breathless, he 
 could no longer doubt the secret of his ruin. 
 His and Letty's friends had all been Roman 
 Catholics ; the story of the runaway priest had 
 reached Dublin ; had become whispered about ; 
 this brother clergyman, his own early friend 
 and neighbour, had doubtless recognized his 
 name, — which John had never thought of dis- 
 guising, — or perhaps seen his person ; and the 
 excommunicated and hardened sinner had con- 
 sequently been shaken out of Christian society. 
 
 Trembling with mingled rage, despair, and 
 terror, still he would ask an explanation ; and 
 he wrote and despatched to the gentleman he 
 could not meet at home, a peremptory note, 
 which was thus answered : — 
 
 " Mr. acquaints the Rev. John Nowlan, 
 
 that he cannot, with satisfaction or propriety, 
 entrust the education of his son to a Roman 
 Catholic clergyman who keeps a mistress."
 
 THE NOWLANS. 
 
 91 
 
 " Curses !" screamed John, starting up, after 
 he had read this billet,— Letty, terribly alarm- 
 ed, enquired what was the matter — " Ruin ! 
 destruction !" he answered, stamping on the 
 note ; " come ! we are hunted out of this — out 
 of this city, as we shall be hunted through this 
 world ! come !"" 
 
 " Whither ?" she asked. 
 " Anywhere, Letty ! anywhere out of the 
 streets of Dublin— I durst not again show my- 
 self in them ; the common rabble would shower 
 curses on my head ! Come, get up, and dare 
 not to pray !" 
 
 Mrs. Grimes's daughter here opened the door 
 without ceremony, and to John's furious 
 " What do you want .?" answered, that her mo- 
 ther would be much obliged, if, instead of 
 stamping and roaring, to bring down the 
 house, he would let her have her three weeks 
 
 lodging. 
 
 The note that had released him from his 
 last tuition enclosed about the amount of the 
 demand now made; he flung it to the Httle 
 creature, and shut the door in her face. After 
 an instant's pause, he again rose up, and desir- 
 ing Letty to meet him at a certain point on the 
 Circular Road, left her to follow.
 
 92 THE NOWLANS. 
 
 Hastily putting on her shabby little bonnet, 
 and wrapping round her the relic of an old thin 
 shawl, she soon obeyed him. He was not at 
 the place appointed. She waited for him, shak- 
 ing with horrid fears. At last he ran up to 
 her, without a hat, and without the surtoutthat 
 had served to cover the broken under-coat he 
 lately wore beneath it. 
 
 *' I have it !" he cried, as he held out his 
 clasped hand, in which were the few shillings he 
 had just obtained. " You shall see what it is, 
 Letty ; you shall not starve on the road from 
 Dublin ; but come now any road from Dub- 
 lin ! in any other distant place let us hide our 
 heads ; I can change my name, you know, and 
 all will be well : come ; when you grow tired I 
 will carry you, awhile, in my arms."
 
 THE KOWLAKS. 
 
 93 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 Upon the evening of the second day after the 
 scene described in the last chapter, in a town 
 about twenty miles from Dublin, (out of particu- 
 lar motives of dehcacy we do not give its name) 
 a charitable club, composed of the respectable 
 middle classes of the place, held its weekly 
 sitting. Throughout many of the towns of Ire- 
 land there are several of such clubs, very nume- 
 rous in their members, and very moderate in 
 their annual subscriptions, and all having in view 
 the relief of objects of different kinds. 
 
 The objects assisted by the club at present 
 noticed, were poor way-farers, who, in passing 
 through the town might stand in need of some 
 little sum to gain them temporary food and 
 lodging, and perhaps a help on their road. Its 
 sittinirs, like those of all the others, commenced 
 at seven or eight o'clock in the evening, when 
 good folks might conveniently leave home, busi-
 
 94) THE NOWLANS. 
 
 ness, and wife for a few hours, and, each sure of 
 meeting a neighbour's face in the club-room, 
 rationally combine together a little relaxation, 
 a little chat, a little charity, and a little whiskey 
 punch. Let us not be supposed to speak in the 
 slightest terms of satire of such excellent insti- 
 tutions. We have known many of them, hum- 
 ble as might be their pretensions, do a great 
 deal of good ; while the antiquity of several of 
 them (we could name one which has endured 
 nearly a century) proves a persevering, an 
 abiding, and an inherited benevolence, that re- 
 flects much honour on their native towns and 
 cities. 
 
 The president of the night sat in his great 
 high-backed, quaintly carved, venerable oak 
 chair, worn into a polish all over from constant 
 use, and ornamented with a coronal wreath of 
 peace and charity, and faded gold letters, im- 
 pressed on a blue garter, expressive of the name 
 and object of the club. The ancient secretary, 
 a superannuated pedagogue, whose father before 
 him had held the same office, put on his specta- 
 cles, mended his pen, opened his huge well- 
 thumbed book, called " order" in the name of 
 the chair, and business commenced, amid the 
 grave looks of the elder members, and the sly
 
 THE NOWLANS. 95 
 
 winks and hems of some of the juniors, who 
 saw no crime in dispensing charity with a Hght 
 heart, and who were content to brave, now and 
 then, the primitive fine of one halfpenny, for a 
 jest upon the precision and pecuUarities of 
 " Mr. Sec;' 
 
 Referring to his official copy of the last list 
 of objects, with the several sums dealt out at- 
 tached to each name, he noticed to the last 
 week's president, (who had received it from him 
 for service, and whose further duty it was after- 
 wards to give in his report, in the club-room,) 
 to go over it aloud, along with him. As he 
 called the names, the ex-president communi- 
 cated, in brief words, his observations upon the 
 cases of each ; for instance, when the secretary 
 cried aloud, " Peter Dowhng," or " Mark Cas- 
 sidy," or " Mary Whelan," he answered in this 
 sort — " Peter Dowhng returns thanks, and 
 
 walked for this morning ;" or " Mark Cas- 
 
 sidy prays another week's money ;" or '* strike 
 off Mary Whelan ; I saw her running out of Ro- 
 nan's public-house, to jump into bed, and be 
 sick, before I could pay her a visit to serve the 
 allowance." 
 
 As the reading of the list continued, the name 
 of Nancy Clancy occurred, and the last week's
 
 96 THE KOWLANS. 
 
 president prayed, in her name, a continuance of 
 the charity. 
 
 " Stop," cried a young fellow, with a wink to 
 his neighbours, " is that the pretty little 
 strange girl that has a bed in the widow Laf- 
 fin's cabin?"" The ex-presidcnt answered it 
 was : " then strike out Nancy Clancy, for I saw 
 somebody — I won"'t tell who," again winking to- 
 wards the grave ex-presidcnt, " comin' out from 
 her, last night, afther nine oYlock ; no time for 
 servin'' the list, at any rate." 
 
 The village jest was taken, the club set 
 up a roar, and the secretary rose to give notice 
 of a fine, according to the rules, against " Mas- 
 ther Brenan," for a tendency to impurity in his 
 speech ; the (question to be debated after the 
 more regular business had been disposed of. 
 
 " Here, Mr. Sec. to save you trouble," 
 laughed the accused party, rolling up a half- 
 penny. 
 
 The reading of the list was over ; the secre- 
 tary prepared his new one for the present week ; 
 and while he was making it out, the acting pre- 
 sident signified that this was the time for re- 
 commending new objects. His predecessor 
 rose, and gave in the name of George Spike, as
 
 THE •NOWLAXS. 97 
 
 a fit object for the largest allowance the usage 
 of the club would afford. 
 
 " He is a stranger, of course, Mr. Fagan ?"" 
 asked the president, addressing the speaker. 
 
 " He is, Sir ; and, I believe, a gentleman in 
 distress,"" answered Mr. Fagan. 
 
 " And has a young wife, 1 '11 engage, Mr. 
 president," remarked " Master Brenan." 
 
 " He has, Sir ; a very young creature." 
 
 " I thought as much, Sir."" 
 
 " Order, Master Brenan !"" cried the secretary. 
 
 " "Where did you visit him .''"" continued the 
 president. 
 
 " I didn't visit him, at all,"""" answered Mr. 
 Fagan ; " but I ""Jl tell the club how it was. 
 Some of the objects on my list lived more than 
 a mile outside the town, and as I had many 
 calls to make in the town itself, I left the 
 suburbs for the last, and wasn't able to get 
 through with the whole till late this evening, 
 just before I came to the room. Well : in 
 crossing over the Dublin road, to come on a 
 scattered row of cabins, where the road hasn''t 
 a house at one side or other, I met this poor 
 fellow, standin"* in the rain an"* could, for it ""s a 
 rough April evenin', with his back against the 
 
 VOL. II. V
 
 98 THE NOWLA\S. 
 
 fence ; and the crature of a wife in his arms, 
 sinking with fatague and hunger, I suppose, and 
 himself little betther off than she was. There 's 
 a ione, waste cabin, built in a lone field, off o' 
 the road, belongin' to a tenant of a friend o' 
 mine, that never was able to live in it for the 
 wet and damp, and afther a few words, I 
 helped him to lift her over the fence, and lay 
 her down in the cabin ; and then I went for a 
 bundle o' sthraw, to put under her, and gave 
 him an advance of half-a-crown, and asked him, 
 was she well enough to be brought into the 
 sthreets o"* the town, where we might get her 
 and him a dacent lodgin"", and an apothecary, 
 if need was : but the poor man only shook his 
 head, and knelt down by her, and took her 
 hand, and said, 'twas betther not stir her yet ; 
 but he would buy food and dhrink with the half- 
 crown, he said ; and he thanked me much. I 
 bid him look about a spark of fire, and a scrap 
 of candle ; and he said he would do that too : 
 and then I left him, being in such a hurrv to 
 the club, making him promise, that if she didn't 
 grow betther, he would come to my house, or 
 to this room, before bed-time." 
 
 This case silenced all present disposition to 
 merriment in the club, and the name of George
 
 THE NOWLANS. 99 
 
 Spike was entered on the list for the next week, 
 at the allowance of one crown, the highest the 
 rules could warrant. 
 
 " What made you think he seemed like a 
 gentleman in distress, Mr. Fagan .^" asked 
 Master Brenan, in a changed tone. 
 
 " Not his clothes, Will," answered Mr. 
 Fagan ; " for he has hardly a rag on his back, 
 and never a shoe to his foot, nor a hat on his 
 head; but his words, and the way he bore it 
 ail, — that was what made me think so." 
 
 " He ought to be visited arly to-morrow 
 morning Sir ; will you let me walk out with 
 you, at six o'clock ?" 
 
 Mr. Fagan assented. The club closed. The 
 elder members retired, betimes, to their reput- 
 able beds ; and though some of the juniors, and 
 Will Brenan among the number, staid up tip. 
 pling to rather a late hour, he was not much be- 
 hind-hand in his appointment with Mr. Fagan, 
 tlie next morning. 
 
 The elderly and the young man struck out 
 of the clustering thatched suburb, upon the 
 Dublin road, and about a quarter of an hour's 
 walk brought them in view of the lonely cabin 
 in the lonely field. 
 
 " And now for your poor gentleman, Mis- 
 
 F 2
 
 100 THE KOWLAKS. 
 
 ther Fagan," said the youngster, as he vaulted 
 from the crisp, frosty road, into the whitened 
 grass ; " I 'm longin' to see how he is afther 
 the night ; but all is safe, I suppose, or he ""d 
 send or come to you, as you bid him." 
 
 " I hope so," answered Mr. Fagan. 
 
 " Is the wife as purty as she 's young, Sir ?" 
 continued the lad, jeeringly. 
 
 " Nonsense, now, Will ; it 's a shame, and 
 nothin'else, to make light of a case of disthress, 
 not to talk of my years : — but stop," as they 
 approached very near to the cabin, — " where 's 
 the dour of the house gone, I wondher ?" 
 
 ^' Aha !" cried Will, " and your advance of 
 the half-crown, Misther Fagan. I thought 
 they Vl be no betther than they ought to be.'' 
 
 " Let us step in, any how." They crossed 
 the threshold — but sprang back, with a com- 
 mon cry, the moment they had done so. The 
 door of the cabin, which they had supposed to 
 have been stolen, lay, supported by four large 
 stones, on the wet floor ; upon it lay the corpse 
 of a beautiful young woman, of which the arms 
 clasped a new-born babe, also dead, to the 
 breast ; a rushlight, stuck in a lump of yellow 
 clay, flickered by their side ; and at their feet, 
 kneeling on one knee, while the raised knee prop-
 
 THE NOWLANS. 101 
 
 ped his arm, and the arm his head, appeared a 
 young man, his face as white as theirs, except 
 where a black beard, long unshorn, covered it. 
 The fingers of the hand that supported his head, 
 grasped and ran twining through an abundance 
 of dishevelled black hair. The other hand was 
 thrust into his bosom. His unwinking, distend- 
 ed eyes were riveted on the lowly bier. 
 
 " The Lord save us !" whispered Mr. Pa- 
 gan, outside the door ; " many 's the poor wake 
 I 've looked at in my time, but never the likes 
 o' that," 
 
 " He 's mad," replied the youth, also in a 
 whisper ; "" no one but a disthraeted crature 
 could think of doin' what he done, takin' the 
 dour off o"* the hinges, and gettin' the stones, 
 and all : and may be he watched them, that 
 Avay, the night long." 
 
 " God preserve us ! may be so," resumed his 
 companion, crossing himself; " and fovmd the 
 rushlight on the hob, I suppose, and went out 
 to light it at a neighbour's cabin ; and did you 
 see his ould coat taken off, and thrown over the 
 infant, all but the head ?" 
 
 " What 's to be done ?" asked Will Brenan, 
 " he can't be left here : come in again, though 
 I 'm a'most afraid, and let us spake to him."
 
 10!^ THE NOWLANS. 
 
 " Conic, then, in the name of God." 
 They stept lightly, once more, into the cabin, 
 John Nowlxin appeared piecisely in the same 
 position ; but, as they again entered, he fixed 
 on them one flaring look, and instantly re- 
 assumed his set gaze on the bier. They spoke. 
 He did not answer. 
 
 " It 's as 1 tould you," resumed Will ; ••' he 's 
 mad, and neither hears us, nor heeds the sight 
 before him." 
 
 " Do I not ?" cried John, springing up and 
 darting to them, his right hand still plunged 
 into his breast ; " mad I may be — mad I am — 
 but do 1 not heed nor feel ! Look at that !" 
 He tore the hand from under his shirt, and 
 with it a portion of the mangled muscle of his 
 breast. " Look at that ! there's the way I was 
 trying to keep it down." 
 
 They spoke to him all the comfort that, as 
 perfect strangers, horrified by such a scene, 
 they could naturally suggest. 13ut he did not 
 answer again. They left him to apply to ano- 
 ther charitable club for a coffin. They return- 
 ed with it, called upon the neighbours, and bu- 
 ried for him, as the wandering poor are buried 
 in Ireland, his supposed wife and child. He
 
 THE NOWLAXS. 103 
 
 grew passive in their hands. He received the 
 articles of dress he most needed, and a little 
 sum of money, collected througfi the town. 
 He walked after the coffin to the grave, and, 
 when all was done, asked to be left alone. 
 The sorrowing crowd withdrcAv, a few only 
 remaining, out of sight, to watch, — for they fear- 
 ed what he might do. But when he thought 
 himself quite alone, he only flung himself upon 
 the fresh grave ; and, after some time, started 
 up, walked rapidly out of the town, and to this 
 day remains unknown, by his real name, among 
 its simple and charitable inhabitants. 
 
 But in some days after, his old friend, Mr. 
 Kennedy, had a sight of him among his native 
 hills. 
 
 The clergyman had been attending a sick 
 call at some distance, and was riding slowly 
 homeward, along a rough and narrow road. 
 The moon shone high in the heavens. At an 
 abrupt turn in the road, a man, haggard, wild, 
 and greatly agitated, jumped from a bank, some 
 paces before him, holding a blunderbuss ujwn 
 his arm. At the same instant, Mr. Kennedy 
 dismounted and faced him. " I am John 
 Nowlan !'" shrieked the wretch, " and you have
 
 104 
 
 THE NOWLANS. 
 
 cursed me, and banned me, and ruined me 
 and her : — she is dead !" presenting the blun- 
 derbuss. 
 
 " I know you, John," replied the old priest, 
 erecting himself to his full height ; " and I 
 know, too, I have done my terrible duty by 
 you ; and now you are here to kill me for it — 
 that so you may add a priest's murder to a 
 priest's apostacy. Do, then ! fire on my grey 
 hairs, John Nowlan, and the sacrament lying 
 on my breast ! look here !"" snatcliing out the 
 little case in which John knew the sacrament 
 was usually carried to the sick ; " and now, 
 pull your trigger, man ! — fire !" extending his 
 arms: — then, as his tone rose into one of stern 
 and loud command, " Sinner ! down at my feet ! 
 you dare not pull a trigger !" 
 
 The courao;eous old man aug-ured ariffht. 
 John Nowlan cast the deadly weapon on the 
 ground, and flung himself after it : tlie frenzy 
 that urged him to the horrid attempt, having at 
 once quailed before the voice which his ear had, 
 from infancy, been accustomed to obey, and in 
 the presence of the sacrament which even mad- 
 ness durst not steep in blood. As for an instant 
 he lay upon the earth, the old clergyman prepar- 
 ed himself to address the poor outcast in another
 
 THE NOWLANS. 105 
 
 tone ; but at the first sound of his words in 
 kindness, John leapt up, and bounded, howling, 
 from the road. Mr. Kennedy remounted his 
 horse to pursue ; called up some peasants, who 
 joined him ; and the search was continued until 
 morning, but in vain. Upon the rugged banks 
 of a mountain river, swollen with late rains, they 
 found, indeed, a hat, and some letters directed 
 to John Nowlan ; and at the discovery all 
 crossed themselves, and stared aghast at one 
 another ; and for many years it was believed 
 among his native wilds, that John Nowlan had 
 ended by suicide a life of crying sin. His own 
 family, however, were not made acquainted with 
 the report ; nor, as has before been mentioned, 
 did Mr. Kennedy ever divulge the shocking 
 rencontre which had that night taken place be- 
 tween him and his unfortunate relative. 
 
 F 5
 
 lOG THE NOWLAMS. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 The fortunes of Peggy Nowlan now demand 
 attention ; and the reader will be pleased to re- 
 cur to her at the moment, when, in consequence 
 of her brother"'s violence, she became the wife of 
 Mr. Frank, according to the canons of the Ro- 
 man Catholic church, though not according to 
 the law of the land. 
 
 Confounded and silent, Peggy, Mr. Frank, 
 and old Friar Shanaghan, stood together in the 
 field, listening to John's retreating steps. In a 
 few moments the post-chaise was heard to drive 
 furiously off. 
 
 " There he goes," said the friar, breaking the 
 confused silence — " and now, can any one tell 
 me the meaning of this ?'''' 
 
 " I cannot," answered Frank ; " except that 
 he is grown stark mad of a sudden." 
 
 " Nor I, Sir," added Peggy, " except (jn a 
 like thought."
 
 THE NOWLANS, 107 
 
 " He seemed to speak of a necessity — a 
 shameful necessity — for your immediate mar- 
 riage, Peggy," continued Mr. Shanaghan. 
 
 " He spoke in great error tlien," answered 
 Peggy, holding herself erect, and looking firmly 
 from the eyes of one gentleman to the other. 
 
 " He did, Sir,'' echoed Frank ; '* in error that 
 wronged us both : and his unaccountable preci- 
 pitancy, although it confers upon me a happi- 
 ness I long proposed to myself, under certain 
 circumstances, and at a certain time, yet" — 
 
 " Has made you this young girl's husband 
 against your will, on this particular evening," 
 interrupted the friar. 
 
 " Not against my will. Sir ; that is, not against 
 my feelings for Miss Nowlan, but solely against 
 present expediency. I had hopes that time 
 would have enabled me to obtain the consent 
 of my friends ; to avow my marriage to them 
 now would be ruinous." 
 
 " Then what do you propose to do. Sir ?" de- 
 manded the old ecclesiastic. 
 
 " That is exactly the point necessary for us 
 all to determine ; for it concerns us all : our com- 
 mon safety is at stake." 
 
 " You include me, Sir .'**' 
 
 " Yes, good Sir. You know my immediate
 
 108 THE NOWLAXS. 
 
 family are rather violent religionists ; and should 
 they at once become acquainted with your agency 
 in this matter — that is, should they hear, while 
 their feelings are warm, of your having solem- 
 nized an illegal marriage between a Protestant 
 and a Roman Catholic — " 
 
 " They might prosecute me, under the Act of 
 Parliament that makes my ministry penal ?" 
 " Exactly so, my good Sir." 
 " I thought so. But you "11 never mind that, 
 if you please : leave me to take care of myself, 
 and just consider the case without me." 
 
 " Well, then, Sir ; if my uncle be at once in- 
 formed of my marriage, I am convinced he 
 would turn me off." 
 
 " That 's more important ; and you therefore 
 wish secrecy for tlie present ?" 
 
 " For Peggy's sake, as well as mine, Sir, — 
 yes : — the most inviolable secrecy. I wish we 
 should promise each other not to speak of the 
 matter to another human being." 
 
 " Hum — let us see. Your wife's opinion will 
 be useful here. Master Adams. Peggy, my 
 child, what have you to say for yourself 'f 
 
 Peggy had, since her last observation, stocxl 
 by her husband's side as he held her hand, her 
 head droo])ed perhaps more in thought than in
 
 THE NOWLANS. 109 
 
 embarrassment ; now she spoke firmly and dis- 
 tinctly, though her voice was low : — " Since, by 
 my brother''s doing, I am this gentleman's wife, 
 Sir, it is my first duty to care for his interests ; 
 and, therefore, I at once engage to keep our 
 marriage a secret from every one but my father 
 and mother — and, when slie comes home, my 
 sister." 
 
 " But that may be the very way to publish it 
 to the whole country, dear Peggy — let me en- 
 treat you to make no exceptions." 
 
 " I cannot think," she resumed quietly, " that 
 my father, mother, or sister, would break a trust 
 upon the keeping of which my happiness de- 
 pends ; and, as they could not get their right and 
 their due, by being consulted on my sudden 
 and strange marriage, the least respect we can 
 now show them will be to tell them it has hap- 
 pened ; nothing can alter my mind on that 
 head — not even the commands of a husband." 
 
 " Well ;" resumed Frank, after a reverie, 
 during which the friar closely watclied liim — 
 " I have your promise, Sir ?" 
 
 " You have, Sir ; and besides," with a sneer 
 so slight and peculiar, that even Frank could 
 not perceive it — " my dread of a prosecvition 
 will be your further security, you know.""
 
 HO THE NOULANS. 
 
 " Tlien, dearest Peggy," continued Frank, in 
 a manner seemingly changed into the sincerest 
 vivacity — " ask this excellent old gentleman to 
 see you home — communicate the event to your 
 father and mother, just as you like, and expect 
 me to join you at a little bridal supper, in less 
 than an hour. Now I must look after Letty, 
 who, since your brother's departure, waits me 
 to squire her to Long Hall ; after that necessary 
 service I shall fly to your father's. Adieu, Peg- 
 gy ; you cannot refuse the bride's kiss at least," 
 — saluting her — " And cheer up, my hfe ; for 
 sudden and extraordinary as this has been, you 
 know it is but an anticipation of my wishes, and 
 every thing may be for the best — Farewell ! — Of 
 course"" — in a whisper — " we meet at your fa- 
 ther''s not to part again ; that is, you cannot ex- 
 pect your husband to return home to-night." 
 
 Burning in blushes, that immediately chang- 
 ed to paleness and trembling, Peggy heard him 
 in silence, and, taking the friar's arm, proceeded 
 to her father's house. 
 
 " Ay," muttered Frank, as he turned from 
 them to seek Letty — " let the madman have his 
 way ; he only gives me the triumph that nothing 
 else could. She was not to be surprised — force 
 would have been dangerous — but this mock
 
 TUK NOWLANS. Ill 
 
 marriage compels her, according to her mum- 
 mery creed, to receive me in her arms ; and 
 thus his own very act, his own insolent violence, 
 gives me my satisfaction for his own accursed 
 blow, and for her share in it ; forgetting alto- 
 gether the real liking towards the silly girl, 
 that not even my grudge can smother. But 
 how's this?"" as he entered the little retreat in 
 which he had left Letty : " j\Iy excellent sister 
 not here ? Ho ! Letty ! No one answers ; can 
 it be possible ? can such double happiness have 
 been in store for me ? No ; yonder she sits, 
 in tender sorrow at his loss." 
 
 The female figure he now more closely ap- 
 proached, proved, however, to be Maggy Now- 
 lan. She rose to meet him. 
 
 " Ha ! Mag ! what brings you here after all 
 my commands ? You have frightened Miss Letty 
 away, I suppose." 
 
 " I didn't frighten her away ; an' yet she 's 
 gone away, sure enough, Masther Frank." 
 
 " What do you mean ? gone home ? with a 
 servant, come to fetch her ?'''' 
 
 " Gone to DubHn, wid the priest," laughed 
 Maggy. 
 
 " How you sputter out your lies, old Mag ! 
 It cannot be."
 
 112 THE NOWLANS. 
 
 " I only saw liim lifting her into the shay." 
 
 He stood overwhchiied with contending emo- 
 tions. The accomplishment, even of his own 
 plans and wishes, shook him to the soul ; he 
 liad been taken off his guard ; he could not have 
 contemplated the event at this moment, although 
 we liave heard him speaking loosely about it ; 
 and the fate of a sister so suddenly determined, 
 compelled a natural struggle even in the breast 
 of such a brother as Mr. Frank, about whom, 
 by the way^ the reader has yet much to learn. 
 After a silence of some minutes, he left the spot, 
 saying, in a low voice, to Maggy — 
 
 " Now, you and your mother, and your bro- 
 ther Phil, are to get to Dublin as fast as you 
 can, Mag ; and as all has been settled, good 
 night ; I will see you here to-morrow evening ; 
 not a word in the mean time." 
 
 He separated from her without further adieu, 
 and walked slowly to his iuicle''s. Mr, Long 
 had retired to bed. He enquired for Miss I^etty, 
 telhng the servants she had left him, an hour 
 since, to return home. They had not seen her ; 
 he supposed slie also was in her chamber ; and 
 asking a hght, he said he would go and see. 
 Ascending alone to Letty's apartment, he found
 
 THE NOWLANS. 113 
 
 the door open, glanced round to ascertain if he 
 was unobserved, locked it gently, put the key in 
 his pocket, regained the drawing-room, inform- 
 ed Letty's attendant she must have retired early, 
 as her door was shut, and he could not get her 
 to answer, supposed she had entered the house 
 without their notice, and, finding herself fa- 
 tigued, gone straight to repose : and dismissing 
 the girl, with an injunction not to disturb her 
 young mistress, Frank then laid his head on his 
 hand in a deep reverie. 
 
 " No use,'' he thought, " to agitate the 
 house and my uncle to-night ; I can break the 
 news myself, in the morning ; and pursuit will 
 then be less dangerous than it now might prove 
 to be. Maggy may be seen early, to serve as 
 my informant, and to bring a message. Be- 
 sides, I must hide it as long as possible from 
 the Nowlans, too. Their blubbering about that 
 clown would sadly interrupt the joy of Peggy's 
 nuptials. Let me see. The priest will travel 
 with her all night, so that they will reach Dub- 
 lin to-morrow morning. Ay ; having once 
 taken the step, he is not likely to dally on the 
 road. Well; if I can now keep my uncle in 
 my hands, all goes fair for independence. 
 At his uncle's instance, Frank wrenched the
 
 114 THE XOWLAX'S. 
 
 Meeting every cursed demand upon me, a good 
 portion of the old acres will be left free ; and I 
 begin at last to breathe like a man.'"' 
 
 As he moved suddenly in his chair, something 
 fell off the table; he stooped and picked up 
 one of Letty's portfolios ; at a glance he flung it 
 far from him, and continued in a new train of 
 thought. " Poor little wretch ! I ])ity her, 
 Avhile her ruin is> my rise. I wish, after all, she 
 could have been saved. But she could not 
 when the question was between her partial suf- 
 fering and my ruin, my utter ruin ; loss of cha- 
 racter, perhaps loss of life, exposure, at all 
 events, detection, — blowing up. If possible, she 
 shall not want money. I will try to take care 
 of that : — that is, if I can. And, after all, 
 what has happened to her.^ She has just run 
 away with the idol of her heart, as the saying 
 is, and nothing more : and why should he not 
 be able to support her? Stuff. I'm boring 
 myself for no reason. The thing is to evade 
 pursuit. Yes; I must see Mag, on my way 
 home, in the morning. On my way home ! 
 Come ; I was forgetting that this is my bridal 
 niffht : — bridal fiddlestick ! If that old curmud- 
 geon is saucy, the magistrate shall get him pil- 
 loried, or whipt through Nenagh town, or trans-
 
 THE KOWLANS. 115 
 
 ported to Van's Land, or hanged, or whatever 
 it is to be. Peggy, my love, I cruelly keep 
 you waiting. Powers of chance ! to think of 
 this : on the very night, in the beginning of 
 which I had nearly run my neck in a noose, to 
 have my fancy and revenge another way !" 
 
 Muffling himself, he stole down stairs and out 
 of the house, a servant, so far in his confidence 
 as to wink at his occasional absence for a night, 
 opening the door to him. Walking rapidly, he 
 soon entered beneath the humble roof of the 
 Nowlans. The old couple received him in tears, 
 but they were tears of joy. Peggy and the 
 friar, omitting John's violent interference, had 
 made them assured that the important Mr. 
 Frank Adams was now the husband of their 
 eldest daughter ; and they readily consented to 
 be silent on a subject which so nearly concerned 
 them, and more than readily acceded to his own 
 arrangement, proposed to Peggy, for celebrating, 
 in a httle family feast, the happy night. The 
 good dame herself led Peggy to her nuptial 
 chamber. 
 
 Early the next morning, he stealthily left the 
 house, and bent his steps towards the wretch- 
 ed cabin, in which lived Maggy Nowlan and 
 her mother. Half way, he stopped upon the
 
 116 
 
 THE NOW LANS. 
 
 banks of a deep stream, looked round, assured 
 himself he was alone, took out the key of Letty's 
 sleeping apartment, hurled it into the turbid 
 water, and then sprang onward ; met Maggy, 
 gave her certain Instructions, and, desiring her 
 to follow him close, turned to Long Hall. 
 
 The moment a servant appeared, he asked, 
 in the greatest seeming agitation, for his uncle. 
 Mr. Long was not yet up. He hurried to his 
 room ; tapped loudly ; was desired to come 
 in ; and stood before the good gentleman's bed- 
 side, well looking " the prologue to a swelling 
 
 act." 
 
 It might be tiresome, as well as disgusting, 
 to give a minute account of the way he commu- 
 nicated the elopement of his sister, which, he 
 said, a strange woman, who had unfortunately 
 witnessed it, just then imparted to him. The 
 feelings of Mr. Long more forcibly interest us ; 
 and they were indeed poignant, even to de- 
 spair. He would not believe the story — it was 
 so very impossible; had Frank sent to her 
 room .? No— Frank had not thought of that ; 
 but they would repair to the door together. 
 They did so; and of course found it locked. 
 The}-^ called ; and of course got no answer. 
 At his uncle's instance, Frank wrenched the
 
 THE NOWLANS. 117 
 
 lock open, and they entered the apartment ; — 
 alas — 
 
 It was lonely. 
 
 As if the lov'd tenant were dead !"— 
 
 The delicately-framed invalid — the sensitive 
 and outraged uncle — swooned under this dread- 
 ful calamity, and was borne, insensible, to the 
 library, by Frank and the servants he had 
 summoned. 
 
 When restored, Frank was at his side, and 
 held his hand. Mr. Long fell weeping on his 
 neck, as he said — '' Now, Frank, now, I have 
 only you in the wide world ! do not deceive 
 me, too!" — 
 
 " Alas, Sir !" with a trembling voice, as he 
 pressed the trembling hand he held so close. 
 
 " But cannot the wretched creature be re- 
 claimed ?" continued Mr. Long, rousing him- 
 self — " can we not pursue, and bring her 
 back ?" 
 
 " Oh, Sir ! I have thought of that — it was 
 and is my only hope — " 
 
 " Where is this woman who saw them go ? — 
 A post-chaise, you say ? and she walked out to 
 meet him ^ Heaven and earth ! — it must have 
 been long planned ! — the heartless, worthless
 
 118 THE KOWLANS. 
 
 creature meditated it ! And that ungrateful dis- 
 sembler too! that smooth villain !— oh, Frank, 
 I suspected this long ago, and told you I 
 did !" 
 
 " Yes, my dear uncle, yes ! — and I shall 
 blame — hate myself eternally, for rejecting your 
 suspicions and counsel — indeed I shall — " 
 
 '' But this woman— where is she ? — her infor- 
 mation may give their route at least — "" 
 
 Frank rang the bell; Maggy soon appeared, 
 and after describing, with needful additions, the 
 manner of the elopement, delivered to Mr. 
 Long the following false message from his 
 niece. 
 
 " Afther I spoke to her. Sir, an' bid her take 
 heed what she was doin', an' she scoulded me 
 for my pains, the young mistiness tould me to 
 bring you these words. Sir — ' Go to my uncle, 
 in the mornin\ an', for your life, not afore the 
 mornin',' says slie, ' an' advise him, from me, to 
 give himself no great throuble on my account, 
 for, the thing I 'm now doin' I long planned to 
 do ; an' my coorse is my own free choice, an' 
 neither he nor any other can turn me from it ; 
 tell him I was tired of livin' the life I led, shut 
 up from the world in that big house, an' it 's 
 time for me to follow a likin' o' my oun ; as to
 
 THE NOWLANS. 119 
 
 the fortin he promised me, he may give it or 
 keep it ; I 'm not afeard of seeking my own.' "" 
 
 On account of some vulgar embelhshments 
 added by Maggy herself to this preconcerted 
 message, Frank thrilled with fear during its 
 delivery, lest it should prove too strong, too 
 strangely unnatural, for his uncle's ear ; but 
 the good gentleman's feelings did not permit 
 him to see nice distinctions ; perhaps, too, he 
 allowed something for the messenger's character 
 and probable exaggeration ; at all events, he 
 did not suspect it to be a cheat; and it in- 
 stantly caused him to alter his determination of 
 pursuing his unhappy niece. 
 
 When Maggy withdrew, he remained a long 
 time silent, resting his face on his hands. 
 
 " Human nature is the nature of a beast, 
 Frank," he at last resumed ; " there is no ge- 
 nerosity in it ; no heart or soul ; and, what is 
 worse, not even the gratitude of beasts for love 
 and caresses conferred. As to delicacy or taste, 
 sensitiveness or dignity of character, pshaw ! — 
 that is a dream. Here was such a creature as 
 we do not see every day, and yet she only 
 proves the more finished deception. Good Hea- 
 ven ! so young, too ! so seemingly pure, sim- 
 ple, and innocent ! and after all my cherish-
 
 120 THE NOWLANS. 
 
 ing. Frank, Frank ! I am abused as much as 
 I have been deceived." 
 
 His nejihew, while Mr. Long once more hid 
 his face in liis hands, spoke all the comfort 
 that love, duty, and sympathy, could naturally 
 be supposed to suggest. Mr. Long interrupted 
 him. 
 
 " I will deal very plainly with you, Frank. 
 I hope you may continue every way worthy of 
 my confidence and esteem ; but, after this 
 chance, and in recollection of your earlier life, 
 I doubt, I fear, Frank — pray, let me speak on — 
 If Letty can, all of a sudden, deceive and out- 
 rage me, you, who have been in the habit of 
 deceit, may relapse at your leisure." 
 
 " My dearest uncle ! rash, headlong, and 
 most guilty I have been, but pardon me if I 
 remind you, not so much through plan as 
 through impulse." 
 
 "I do not know, Frank. It was after I, 
 received the first private notice of your cul- 
 pable proceedings at Oxford, and after you 
 promised me future amendment, that your 
 fleecing of that young nobleman came to ray 
 ears, in a way too you could not have pos- 
 sibly suspected ; upon the occurrence of that 
 shameful act, which, but for my unwearied ef-
 
 THE NOWLANS. 121 
 
 forts, would have <;ost you expulsion ; you had 
 been, young as you were, an experienced gam- 
 bler for three or four years, and you know 
 people said there was some plan in setting upon 
 the thoughtless boy in the way you did. About 
 the same time, too, you contrived to get your- 
 self cut on the turf, while your suspected ac- 
 quaintance with the domestic inmates of cer- 
 tain places in and near St. James' s-street ex- 
 posed your friends to dreadful doubts of what 
 might be your more hidden courses. Excuse 
 me, Frank, for this retrospect ; but the present 
 event has startled me into candour ; I believe 
 you will see it make me an altered man ; at all 
 events, it pushes me upon a question : why 
 have you lately showed no anxiety to resume 
 your journey to Dublin, for the purpose of 
 entering college .'*" 
 
 " His arm had scarce been well," Frank said, 
 " and he was just thinking to ask leave to run 
 up — and, if his dear uncle pleased, he would 
 start that very day."*' 
 
 " No, Frank ; there must now be an end of 
 the scheme ; as I have said, you are the only 
 friend left to me in the world, and that brings 
 me back to my point. I hope your reformation 
 is complete, Frank : I will believe it is, but 
 
 VOL. II. G
 
 122 THE KOWLANS. 
 
 mark me : while we live, here or elsewhere, on 
 terms of perfect good-will and confidence, your 
 actions and the character of your whole life 
 must give me the best proof; I expect to see 
 no mystery, nothing equivocal, nothing to start 
 the shadow of a doubt ; and I fairly warn you, 
 Frank, that I shall be more watchful, and, if 
 necessary, more decisive than ever. I tell you 
 again, I am changed — this morning has changed 
 me, but let us never allude to her again ; leave 
 me, I wish to be alone some time. Stay, Frank; 
 when you go out to the drawing-room, remove 
 any thing you may find there that — you know 
 what I mean ; farewell." 
 
 With a good affectation of repentant hu- 
 mility, Frank listened to his uncle, and now 
 retired, bowing very lowly. When he had 
 left his presence, " I am warned," he mut- 
 tered, " and, being no fool, shall stand on my 
 guard ." 
 
 It is unnecessary now to say that the letter 
 his poor sister had addressed to his uncle, 
 never reached Mr. Long. 
 
 The news of John Nowlan's fall soon spread 
 to his humble family. We shall not attempt 
 to describe their agony. Peggy's letter to him
 
 THE NOWLANS. 123 
 
 may have indicated it. Tlie public denunci- 
 ation of the refractory sinner at the altar of his 
 own chapel, remained hidden from the two old 
 people : no one, not even the most babbling 
 and unfeeling neighbour, would tell them of 
 that. Peggy knew it, however, and it withered 
 up her heart. Along with, perhaps, more im- 
 mediate causes for solitary drooping and fret- 
 ting, it made her life a waste and a burden. 
 After her beloved and lost brother refused to 
 answer her affectionate letter, and after his de- 
 nouncement, she never raised her head. Her 
 young and handsome features never wore a 
 smile. 
 
 Frank seemed to exert himself to the utmost 
 to soothe the first storm of anguish felt by her 
 and her father and mother : that was a passing 
 consolation. But, in about a month from their 
 marriage, he began to absent himself from the 
 house ; and his few meetings with Peggy show- 
 ed neither the tender anxiety of a husband, nor 
 even the fervor of a lover. The old couple 
 noticed the change to her ; she made no reply, 
 and did not so much as weep in their presence. 
 Time wore on ; and Peggy presented to the 
 eyes of her watchful mother promises of a na- 
 
 g2
 
 124 THE NOWLANS. 
 
 tural event. Mrs. Nowlan, urged by the feel- 
 ings of wounded pride and parental affection, 
 spoke warmly to Frank upon the necessity of 
 acknowledging his marriage. The young gen- 
 tleman was very cool and deliberate, and re- 
 quested, next day, a private interview with 
 Peggy. They met in a lonesome place. 
 
 " My dear Peggy," he began, " you do not 
 wish to ruin your husband, and the father of 
 your child." 
 
 " God knows," she said, " how my heart ans- 
 wers the question ; — I am careless, for my own 
 part, how soon or how late you own me as your 
 wife, Frank, if that is what you mean." 
 
 '' But your mother, Peggy, — she is obstinate 
 and foolish ; and if my uncle hears of our mar- 
 riage, I tell you, once again, I am a ruined 
 man. Will you go to Dublin, for a time, where 
 one of my friends is anxious to attend to you .?" 
 
 " No, Frank ; I cannot leave my mother's 
 side during this trial ; but I promise you to do 
 my best with my mother to make her hold her 
 peace ; and let the good neighbours say just 
 Avhat they like of me ; let them say, that the 
 sister of the runaway priest — " 
 
 " Come, come, Peggy ; no whimpering; that, 
 you knowj is useless : and sit down here ; you
 
 THE NOWLANS. 125 
 
 are weak; and taste this — " producing a phiaJ. 
 " As a husband, you know I must be alive to 
 your situation, and its necessary comforts ; so, 
 here is a little draught I have got from the best 
 physician in Limerick, to strengthen you, and 
 do you good — taste it, dear Peggy."" 
 
 " What is it, Frank ?" she asked, taking the 
 bottle, and gravely looking on it. 
 
 '* I have told you ; a nourishing draught for 
 persons in your state : — and "'tis not so disagree- 
 able neither — just try it." 
 
 " My mother will know better than either of 
 us, Frank, and I will first show it to her." 
 
 " No, Peggy," snatching it, as she was about 
 to put it up, " if you so unceremoniously reject 
 my opinion, no other person shall decide betwixt 
 us ; and I must tell you, madam, this is more 
 unceremonious, more insolent than I reckoned 
 upon, from you to me." He rose up pale and 
 trembling, his handsome eyes flashing, for the 
 first time, fiercely and ominously on Peggy. 
 
 " What do you mean, Frank ? what have I 
 done ?" not able to rise with him. 
 
 " Since explanation is necessary, madam, I 
 shall tell you. Vou call me a husband ; you 
 profess to hold towards me the duty of a wife ; 
 I put it to your affection and obedience to oblige
 
 126 
 
 THE NOWLANS. 
 
 and obey me in two distinct matters, and you re- 
 fuse both ; but by the hght of Heaven ! — by — *" 
 
 He stamped, and was becoming outrageous, 
 when Peggy interrupted him, — " Give me the 
 draught, again, Sir ! give it, dear Frank ! I am 
 sorry for having vexed you — give it — I will 
 drink it, at once ; there can surely be no harm 
 in so simple a matter." Wholly unsuspicious, 
 although she had been prudent, Peggy reached 
 outlier hand. His eyes flashed with a different 
 passion as he gave the bottle, and said — " That''s 
 my own good gentle Peggy, drink, and get 
 strength." 
 
 She raised the phial to her lips, — when, at a 
 hop, step, and jump, tumble over a bank came 
 Peery Conolly, and with one judicious tap of his 
 cudgel shivered it in pieces, as he cried out — 
 " The divil's-dam's cordial ! not a taste of it do 
 we want ! hould your hand, a-chorra! it's the 
 dance it 'ill gi' you ! the dance, a-vourneen ! the 
 dance that'll never let you alone, night or day, 
 over-an-hether, in town or counthry !"" — and con- 
 tinuing to speak after his deed was done, Peery 
 capered about, with might and main, as if to 
 hold up himself as an example of the visitation 
 he conditionally prophesied.
 
 THE NOWLANS. 127 
 
 " Impudent rascal !"" cried Frank, collaring 
 him, " how durst you do that ?"" 
 
 " It 's not that, but this, a-roon,"" answered 
 Pcery, as, with great skill, he tripped up his 
 heels. Frank started to his feet in a moment, 
 and, while Peggy screamed aloud, again ap- 
 proached him as he exclaimed " Scoundrel ! 
 you shall be duly punished for your insolence ! 
 what is your name ? who or what are you ? 
 Villain ! you shall shake for it i*** 
 
 " My name it 's Conolly the rake — " 
 
 And Peery got through his verse, still capering 
 strangely, " an' that 's my name, so it is ; an' 
 about the shakin', let us thry who 's to shake 
 first : whisper a bit — " 
 
 He darted suddenly to Frank's ear, gave one 
 inaudible whisper, and the result showed that 
 Frank, indeed, was the person doomed first to 
 shake, and shake fearfully too. He started 
 back as if he had been shot ; and while he 
 trembled from head to foot, gazed horribly on 
 poor Peery. His eyes glazed and set, his lips 
 parted widely, and moved as if in slight con- 
 vulsions. Presently a sudden change came over 
 his face, his brow knitted, his glance lightened, 
 his teeth clenched, and he slowly moved his
 
 128 THE NOWLANS. 
 
 arm to his breast, and thrust in his hand, as if 
 searching- for something. l^t-'ggy leaped up, 
 frightened to death. 
 
 " Frank !"" she cried, " rouse yourself, what 
 are you about to do .'* what do you search for ?" 
 
 " Off, woman !" flinging her aside, so rudely 
 . that she reeled and fell. " I search for that 
 which I ought to be accurst for not finding, for 
 that which, after his assault, would get me but 
 a lawful revenge, in self-defence ! Damnable 
 traitor !" he continued, addressing Peery, 
 " breathe that word again, and you are lost ! 
 Even as it is, tremble ! you are an idiot, in- 
 deed, and none will believe you — but beware ! 
 Come to me, and come soon ; fall upon your 
 knees at my feet, and promise and swear, and 
 humble yourself in the dust, or woe upon your 
 miserable head ! Beware ! I say." 
 
 He rushed out of sight, and Peery, remain- 
 ing a moment ludicrously to mimic his frown 
 and gesticulation, gave two or three transcend- 
 ent capers, and with a " pilla-la-loo-oo-ah !" 
 danced off in another direction. 
 
 " The good God deliver me from that man !" 
 cried Peggy, now left alone, as she sat weep- 
 ing on the ground ; "the good God that gave 
 me into his power, deliver me from his hands !
 
 THE XOWLANS. 
 
 120 
 
 It was poison he wanted me to drink, I 'm sure 
 of it now ! Oh, brother ! brother ! where are 
 you this day to reheve me in the suffering your 
 own madness brought on me ! Oh, I haven't a 
 friend in the world to stand up for me ! what 
 am I to do ? what am I to do ?" 
 
 '* You are to put your trust in the God you 
 have invoked, ma-colleen, and you are to act 
 a bold and an honest part," said the voice of 
 Friar Shanaghan, close by her. 
 
 " Oh, Sir, Sir, pity and help me !"" clinging 
 to the old man's knees : *' You do not know 
 what has happened — what has just liappened, 
 in this very place, on this spot !" 
 
 " But I do though, my child, I heard all the 
 bad man said to you ; and my own hand should 
 have dashed the phial from your lips, had not 
 that poor silly creature been before me." 
 
 *' He wanted to poirson me and my child, 
 Sir !" continued Peggy, sobbing wildly. 
 
 " No, Peggy, you wrong him a little there ; 
 he only wanted to wither up, before its time, 
 the infant you are bringing him ; nothing else 
 could he have intended — simply because he 
 dared not ; but that he certainly thought to 
 do." 
 
 " You tell me so, Sir.?" she resumed, slowly 
 
 g5
 
 ISO THE NOW LANS. 
 
 rising with the friar's help, and apparently more 
 shocked at this certainty, than at her first 
 suspicion ; " the inhuman man ! could he mean 
 thatr 
 
 " T have my own reasons for thinking — per- 
 haps for knowing what 1 say, child. You have 
 heard I am an inquisitive ould fellow, though 
 I don't always seem so, and that I ask ques- 
 tions and get answers when nobody minds me ; 
 and then you see I am mostly on the foot, here 
 and there, or, to tell the blessed truth, it's the 
 poor grey that 's mostly on the foot, and I snug 
 on her back ; so, to make a long story short, I 
 believe I heard say where and how he got the 
 little bottle yesterday evening, and for Avhat he 
 wanted it." 
 
 " Then, Sir," resumed Peggy, who had list- 
 ened with profound attention, " my part is 
 taken." 
 
 " And what part is that, a-vourneen ?"" 
 
 " To save myself and my infant from this 
 man. Sir." 
 
 "But how, child.? how.?" 
 
 " By never seeing his face again, Mr. Sha- 
 naghan." 
 
 " No," rejoined the old friar, frowning 
 shrewdly, as he shook his head and looked
 
 THK MOWLANS. 131 
 
 down ; " that won't do neither. Listen to nie, 
 ma-colleen. There 's a little bird that comes to 
 me with news, now and then, and is just after 
 telling me another thing : your husband wants 
 to say he 's not your husband, and that your 
 child is not to be an honest child." 
 
 Peggy looked simple astonishment ; she knew 
 nothing of the statute book, and could not 
 comprehend the meaning or practicability of 
 this. 
 
 " And moreover, my pet, he has been put- 
 ting questions, I hear, as to whether he can get 
 me sent to Botany Bay, or hanged, for marry- 
 ing you and him." 
 
 She looked still more confounded. The 
 friar explained briefly and clearly. Peggy 
 was quick at apprehending, and she at once 
 understood the whole question. 
 
 " So that you see, Peggy my child, it isn't 
 by never seeing his face again, that you and 
 your little burden are to be saved from shame 
 and danger." 
 
 " No, Sir, it is not, I believe that, now : 
 nor can you, either, Sir, be saved in this way." 
 Her agitation subsided, and she only looked 
 very thoughtful. 
 
 " Never mind me, Peggy ; and I tould him
 
 132 
 
 THE NOWLANS. 
 
 just the same thing before; only look sharp on 
 your own account, and you can yet do your- 
 self a service, may be. Have you a strong 
 heart, Peggy ? have you courage ?" 
 
 " I am not a coward in the right. Sir ; and 
 I think God will give me great strength in this 
 business." 
 
 " Well ; I don't fear you ; and now wait 
 till I tell you what I think you ought to do. 
 You know, he depends entirely on his uncle. 
 You know, too, his uncle is as good a man, as he 
 is a bad one." 
 
 " I do. Sir ; and I see the way you want to 
 point out ; indeed, I was thinking of it." 
 
 " That 's my brave colleen ; I expected no 
 less, and you '11 just put yourself at once un- 
 der Mr. Long's protection, won't you ? Just 
 tell him the whole story, plump and straight, 
 in your own little way .?" 
 
 " I will tell him the whole truth. Sir, from 
 beginning to ending, if you stand by me." 
 
 " And may be I won't. Do you know what, 
 Peggy .? The poor grey is nibbling a bit, at 
 the end of the bosheen : bundle yourself up, 
 body and heart, together ;— take my arm; 
 I '11 put you sitting on the crature's back, for 
 I know you can ride sideways in a man's sad-
 
 THE NOWLANS. 1S3 
 
 die : I saw you at it once, before you went to 
 the nunnery ; and you needn't have the laste 
 fear. My poor grey is as asy as a sedan-chair ; 
 but to make all sure, I '11 lade you by the 
 bridle, and in half an hour, or so, we'll be 
 walking up Long-Hall avenue : what do you 
 say ? There ""s no time to be lost ; a night 
 must not go over you for nothing, and the 
 dark is now coming on ; so, here 's an ould man's 
 arm for you, if you can trust him." 
 
 " In my God, Sir, in you, and in the right, 
 I put my only trust," answered Peggy, as she 
 accepted the proffered arm.
 
 134 THE NOWI.AKS. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 After leaving Peggy and Peery, Frank 
 Adams bent his steps to his uncle*'s, at first walk- 
 ing rapidly, and then slowly and thoughtfully, 
 when he began to grow ashamed of the vehe- 
 mence into which he had been betrayed. An 
 avoidance of the danger threatened in poor 
 Peery's whisper, became his chief subject of 
 meditation. Even Peggy Nowlan, and all con- 
 nected with her, at present yielded to the su- 
 perior importance of this matter. Ere he had 
 gained a view of Long-Hall, Peery's destruc- 
 tion was not only resolved upon, but planned 
 without the seeming possibility of failure. All 
 the means were at hand. As if fortune studied 
 to favour him, a person, deemed by Frank to 
 be most useful, indeed, indispensable in the 
 project, met him outside the shrubbery, near 
 the house. He could not expect to see his 
 friend in that very place, although he knew he
 
 THE NOWLANS. 135 
 
 was within call. They whispered together a 
 few moments, but were obliged to separate very 
 suddenly, as a slow step came down the shrub- 
 bery walk ; and Frank, now alone, advanced to 
 see his uncle. 
 
 After a salutation, " Who was that ?" asked 
 Mr. Long. 
 
 ''Where? when, my dear Sir? whom do 
 you mean ?" 
 
 " The person that turned from your side, 
 at the far end of this path, as I came up." 
 
 " Dear uncle, I was quite alone ; no one 
 turned from my side ; you must have seen 
 my own shadow among the trees, faintly cast 
 by the moon just beginning to shine, — and 
 how beautifully she does shine ! — or the shadow 
 of one of the stems. Sir."" 
 
 " Perhaps ; yet I am not quite certain, 
 Frank." 
 
 " My dear uncle ! what can you mean ?" 
 
 " This, Frank, — you begin, — you have more 
 than begun to break the compact last entered 
 into between us — pray do not interrupt me. We 
 were to have had no mystery, no doubtful, or 
 secret goings on : but, Frank, all you do, all 
 you say, all connected with you, is doubtful 
 and secret. The very tones of your voice, the
 
 136 THE NOWLANS. 
 
 very expression of your eyes, grow troublous — 
 fearful to me. I am here, a solitary, nervous 
 invalid, and you terrify me with mystery ; 
 you begin to make me tremble. I will come 
 to particulars with you. I cannot bear this 
 existence. Strange people lurk about my 
 grounds : men, whose appearance and faces, as 
 I catch glimpses of them, are not like the pea- 
 santry of the country, and I fear, Frank, I fear 
 some of them lurk in my house ! Listen to me. 
 But last night, as I lay awake, I heard you, 
 notwithstanding all your precautions, arranging 
 to leave the house, (and there is another in- 
 stance of your secret proceedings,) and much 
 interested, of course, I arose, dressed myself, 
 saw you issue towards the village disguised — 
 but that is not the point : liaving watched 
 you from the parlour windows, I was return- 
 ing alone to my chamber, a lamp in my hand, 
 when a foot sounded stealthily in the stairs 
 above me ; and, looking up, I caught indis- 
 tinctly the profile of a face I had before seen, 
 although I had no right to see it a second time, 
 in my own house, at the dead of the night. 
 Do not smile, Frank, do not attempt to tell me 
 I might have been mistaken ; that pale, calm, 
 marbly face, is never to be forgotten : — and it
 
 THE NOWLANS. 137 
 
 was, Frank, the face of the Englishman, who 
 deposed, along with you, to the robbery of the 
 mail-coach — the face of Lawson." 
 
 " And, my dearest uncle," said Frank, con- 
 tinuing to smile, " I know it was : now, for 
 common charity. Sir, hear me out, in turn. 
 Some months ago, I got reason to believe that 
 one of the fellows engaged in the outrage, to 
 which you allude, lived in the neighbourhood, 
 and, under cover of assumed insanity, thought 
 to hide himself from notice. I contrived to see 
 him, and became rather assured he was the very 
 person who fired upon me, and wounded me 
 in the arm. But, before I would take any de- 
 cided steps, I wrote to Mr. Lawson." 
 
 " He could give you no assistance, Frank, 
 in identifying the man : for Lawson's deposi- 
 tions, drawn up by himself, and which I still 
 hold, assert his ignorance of the persons of any 
 of the mail-coach robbers." 
 
 " And so tliey do, uncle ; and that was not 
 my motive in writing, at all ; I only deemed 
 that two respectable witnesses to the fact of the 
 robbery would be better than one ; so, my dear 
 Sir, after many delays, Mr. Lawson at last con- 
 sented to come over to Ireland. Early in the 
 evening of yesterday, he announced to me, by
 
 138 THE NOWLANS. 
 
 a private message, his arrival in the village ; I 
 sent him word to meet me as privately in the 
 house, here, that we might go over the whole 
 matter, alone; he came towards midnight: act- 
 ing upon particular information, I repaired to 
 the village, to obtain, in a public-house, a se- 
 cond closer observation of the robber; Mr. 
 Lawson remained behind me, and you saw him : 
 I returned perfectly convinced ; indeed, more 
 than ever so, of the identity of the fellow in 
 question ; and we but await the assistance of 
 competent officers to lodge our joint informa- 
 tions, and secure his arrest. And now, my 
 dearest uncle, you will ask, why conceal this 
 from you ? But need I answer ? You were an 
 invalid ; your nerves shattered, indeed, from 
 various irritations ; and surely it was my duty, 
 the common duty of grateful affection, to save 
 you from any protracted annoyance on this 
 head ; to wait until the thing was done, and 
 then at once inform you of it ; not fret you 
 about it, morning, noon, and night, during Mr. 
 Lawson's long delay and indecision, which from 
 the beginning I foresaw." 
 
 " Is the gentleman now in the house ?" ask- 
 ed Mr. Long. 
 
 " No, Sir ; ha has walked down to the vil-
 
 THE NOWLANS. 130 
 
 lage; but, if you wish, you can see him to- 
 night, or else — " 
 
 " Phru-u ! stop a bit, ma'am, if you please, 
 here," interrupted the voice of Friar Shana- 
 ghan, admonishing his " poor grey,"" as he led 
 her up the avenue. 
 
 " Who are those persons ?" enquired Mr. 
 Long. 
 
 " Heaven and earth !" Frank began, getting 
 a view of the group : then checking himself — 
 " Who can they be, indeed ? — oh, some wander- 
 ing beggar with his wife, ass, and brats. Allow 
 me, my dear uncle — these scenes are too strong 
 for you ; I will soon relieve you from them. 
 Pray turn towards the house. Sir ; the night-air 
 does not serve you : thanks, dear uncle j and 
 now—" 
 
 " Do not dismiss the poor people roughly, 
 Frank, whoever they may be ; give them a lit- 
 tle assistance," interrupted Mr. Long, as he 
 walked away. 
 
 " Fear nothing, Sir,"" answered Frank, as he 
 bounded from the shrubbery across the lawn 
 that separated him from the avenue. 
 
 " Welcome, Sir," began the Friar, while he 
 came up ; " seeing you and your uncle toge- 
 ther, we halted to speak a bit."
 
 140 THE NOWLANS. 
 
 " My uncle will ^i^ladly see you in the house, 
 good Sir, and has sent me to say as much to you 
 and your companion — Ah ! Peggy, my life, what 
 brings you out, so late ?" 
 
 " A httle business, Sir ; a little business, that 
 concerns you and her," answered Mr. Shana- 
 gan, as Peggy remained silent. 
 
 " What, Peggy !" advancing closely to her, 
 and speaking ardently, though in a suppressed 
 tone, " can this mean that you propose to ad- 
 dress my uncle on the subject of the connexion 
 between us ?" 
 
 *' Yes, Sir ; on the subject of our marriage,"" 
 answered Peggy, with emphasis. 
 
 " For God's sake ! for both our sakes ! But 
 first grant me your private ear, only a moment 
 — just allow me to lead the animal a step aside- 
 just ask this good man to allow us one confi- 
 dential word ; this cannot harm you, Peggy, 
 and I entreat it !"" 
 
 She requested the old ecclesiastic to take no 
 notice of Frank and her, for an instant ; and 
 Frank led her out of his sight and hearing, as 
 the Friar muttered, " Ay ; let him palaver 
 you again ; do ; I see the end of it." 
 
 " Now, Peggy," resumed Frank, when they
 
 THE NOWLANS. 141 
 
 were quite alone, " I am your humble peti- 
 tioner ; I will kneel, if you ask it, only to beg- 
 that, for this night at least, you do not expose 
 me to my uncle ! It would be my ruin ! he is in 
 some unaccountable ill-humour against me — 
 and if you ever loved me — and I believe you 
 did, and hope you do — if you love the child 
 you have not seen — " 
 
 " Mr. Frank," interrupted Peggy — " these 
 ifs come with little effect from you — from you, 
 who this day thought to make me show my 
 love for my unborn infant and for my God, in a 
 way that — " 
 
 " You mean that accurst draught — you sup- 
 pose it was intended badly ; some fool and 
 meddler has told you so— but, dearest Peg- 
 gy, you wrong me, sorely ! I offered it but 
 for your good — it could have produced no 
 other effect — let me be confounded for ever if 
 it could. The thought is horrible, Peggy! 
 horrible, of your husband — of the father of 
 your infant — throw it from your heart, and if 
 this be your only reason for coming to destroy 
 us both to-night, just turn home again, and 
 see what to-morrow will do ! On my knees, in- 
 deed," (he knelt) " I ask that."
 
 142 THE NOWLANS. 
 
 "It is not my only reason, Frank : I fear 
 something even worse ; I fear you want to say 
 we are not man and wife, that our child is to 
 be a base-born child, and that I—" she stopped. 
 
 " Madness, again, Peggy — worse than mad- 
 ness ! I swear to you, on my soul, and my 
 soul's hope, you are shamefully wronged by 
 whoever has told you this. Listen to me. 
 Only return home, and give me a few hours' 
 preparation, and before the dawn of morning 
 I will prove this cannot have been my intention. 
 Let me have time to speak to a Protestant 
 clergyman — and, about midnight — say twelve 
 o'clock, exactly — let you steal out of your 
 father's house, and meet him and me at the 
 upper end of the Foil Dhuiv — 'tis the nearest 
 point to his road — and there, the moon and 
 stars for our sole witnesses, except the all-seeing 
 eye above them, there, Peggy, shall you and 
 I be re-married, according to the rite of the 
 established church — will that satisfy you ? will 
 that show how much I have been belied ? will 
 that restore you to no confidence in the husband 
 of your heart .'' — and, after it, can you not 
 consent to await a proper time for my pubhc- 
 ly taking you by the hand as my wife ?" 
 
 " It would, indeed, satisfy me for the pre-
 
 THE NOWLANS. 143 
 
 sent, Frank ; and, I hope, my father and 
 mother too. What is the name of the clergy- 
 man you intend to bring with you ? have I 
 seen liim ?" 
 
 " You have, no doubt ; young Mr. Sirr ; an 
 admirer of one of my sisters ; he shall be the 
 man : I am quite sure of his obliging me." 
 
 " Well, I '11 meet you, Frank, at the upper 
 end of the Foil Dhuiv, at twelve exactly ; and 
 no one but Mr. Shanaghan by my side." 
 
 " No one on earth, Peggy ! — no human 
 being by your side ! Consent to this, or we are 
 indeed undone : I fear the imprudent babbling of 
 your friends, one and all — see how they have 
 injured me in your own opinion already — it 
 cannot be — I will brave my uncle at once, 
 rather than that." 
 
 " But witnesses are always necessary," urged 
 Peggy, coolly and watchfully. 
 
 " I know they are, where doubt exists ; and, 
 since you doubt me, Peggy, although I first 
 thought to be quite alone, witnesses you shall 
 have— -of my choice, though — Do not dissent, 
 but listen ! one of my brothers and one of my 
 Asters shall come with me, and be ready to take 
 you by the hand — my eldest sister — Are you at 
 ease, now ?'""
 
 144 TlfE NOWLANS. 
 
 " You promise, this, Frank ?" looking seri- 
 ously upon him. 
 
 " On my life, I do ! — yet, if you will doubt 
 me stillj what use of a promise or an oath ? 
 have you not your remedy in your own hands ? 
 If, when we all meet, you do not feel pleased 
 at the arrangements I shall have made, can you 
 not keep your cruel resolution until morning, 
 and accuse me to my uncle then, as well as 
 now ? Dearest and only-beloved Peggy, your 
 heart must be quite hardened against me and 
 my child, or you would not hesitate so long. 
 This is the very harshest treatment — I did not 
 merit it— God knows I did not.*" — She thought 
 he wept. 
 
 " Then I will fully depend on you, Frank — 
 No ; I have no doubt ; I will have none ; I 
 can have none ; I will meet you and your 
 friends quite alone." 
 
 *' Eternal thanks, my own dear Feggy ! But 
 now, I ask you in turn, is this a solemn promise ?"" 
 
 " It is : a solemn promise, before God." 
 
 " No one shall even know you leave home ? — 
 Assure meof that too ; for their suspicions would 
 be as bad as any thing else : they would follow 
 you, dog us, and you promise again ?" 
 
 " Yes; 'tis but part of my first promise; I
 
 THE NOWLANS. 145 
 
 could not leave home alone, unless I hid my de- 
 parture from every one in the house." 
 
 " True, true ; — and there is another little 
 matter that, as you say, also forms part of your 
 first solemn engagement. If no one is to know 
 where you go, you can tell no one ; neither fa- 
 ther nor mother, nor yet this old priest — this 
 good old gentleman — is it not so?" 
 
 "• Certainly ; I must be as silent as I am 
 careful."" 
 
 " And of course, again, when he asks you 
 what we have been saying, you cannot answer 
 him r 
 
 " Not a word.'' 
 
 " But what will you say ? You must invent 
 something ; — let us see." 
 
 " No, Frank ; we are not obliged to invent 
 any thing. It is not necessary, even if it could 
 be done ; even if I would do it. Should he ask 
 me, I will just plainly tell him not to ask me 
 again ; and surely he cannot be displeased at 
 any confidence between man and wife." 
 
 '*- You are right, my good excellent girl ; you 
 teach me what is right : in fact, then, he shall 
 not know upon what account you alter the de- 
 termination that has led you both here this even- 
 
 VOL. II. H
 
 146 THE NOWLANS. 
 
 ing — what you intend, one way or another. 
 You will merely say you defer your purpose ?" 
 
 " Nothing more." 
 
 " And as soon as twelve o'clock comes, you 
 will meet me and my friends in the Black Glen ?" 
 
 " I will ; but, Frank, I wish the hour was 
 a little earlier, or the place another place. I am 
 not very childish about these things ; but you 
 know the Foil Dhuiv has a bad name, and is an 
 ugly place at any rate."" 
 
 " Pho, my dearest girl, I did not expect this 
 from you ; nor do I, can I expect you will think 
 of it a moment longer. All places are alike to 
 those who fear no harm from having done bad, 
 or from coming to do it ; and friends will be 
 waiting for you, you know, and 'tisn't so far 
 from vour father's door ; scarce a mile ; and be- 
 sides, as I said, Mr. Sirr can so easily turn to 
 the spot — that is the great point." 
 
 " No matter then-— I will be punctual." 
 
 '' Blessings on you, for ever, Peggy ! — and 
 now, won't you give me a wife's farewell till mid- 
 night, after all ? — Ah, Peggy, what a soft and 
 silky kiss ! — none other in life is like it. Adieu, 
 love, for a few hours ; and now let us return 
 to Mr. Shanaghan."
 
 THE NOWLANS. 147 
 
 In perfect silence, except that he met ali 
 stated with a " hum," or the end of a tune, 
 the old friar received his charge, with her own 
 request to be led home to her father's. 
 
 They proceeded down the avenue, and along 
 a good stretch of the road, and still the dry old 
 man remained without speaking a word as he 
 led the " poor grey" by the bridle, over rut 
 and puddle. His humming of bits of tunes 
 grew, indeed, more surly ; and sometimes he 
 broke out into the opening of a Latin hymn, 
 sucii as the " Mognijicaf or the " Coiifiteor 
 tibi^ to which exercise of his voice for vespers he 
 was, during his lonely quests, accustomed. At 
 last, though still he did not speak, he began to 
 interrupt himself with little bursts of splenetic 
 laughter, and Peggy saw it was time for her to 
 conciliate. 
 
 " You are angry with me. Sir," she said. 
 
 " Me angry ! — for what, child ? — God set- 
 tle your poor little head, I have something else 
 to think of; only, to tell the blessed and holy 
 truth, I certainly was fancying, just then, 
 what a respectable figure I cut, thrapsing about 
 the country, myself and my grey, witli a wo- 
 man on our backs, at this time of our life, that 
 
 H 2
 
 148 
 
 THE NOWLANS. 
 
 knows just as much of her own mind, or her 
 own good, as a blind cow does of a holiday." 
 
 " I could not help changing my mind. Sir ; 
 indeed I could not ; charity and fair-dealing 
 obliged me to change it ; and, Sir,"" anticipating 
 what she knew she had to encounter — " if I 
 was at liberty to tell you our conversation, you 
 would yourself say the same thing." 
 
 " Oh, no doubt in the world of that, ma'am ; 
 not the laste ; all quite right and as it should 
 be, to be sure ; all settled to a hair, I know ; 
 and all to be kept snug from the meddling 
 ould friar that brought you the road ; sure I 
 know, very well, thank God ! — you're a rock of 
 sense ; grey hairs on a priest's head, no more 
 to you than a mill sthrame to the Shannon : Ay, 
 ay, and why not ; you understand him so well, 
 and youVe such a match for him, particularly 
 at the tongue. Well, praise be to God, I say 
 ag.ain, it's a dacent calling I Ve turned myself 
 into in the latter end o' my days ; the grey and 
 1 ; ay, yes, and good enough for us ; qups, 
 Sheela, qups ; show your paces, miss, and mind 
 your steps ; a wiser load you couldn't have on 
 your back, supposing it the whole Council of 
 Trent, and you an elephant big enough to carry
 
 THE NOWLANS. 149 
 
 them ; and a bettlier trade your masther couldn't 
 have than roaming about with you, from post to 
 pillar, day and night, as a carter with his load, 
 or a raree-show-man with his wonders of the 
 world." 
 
 " Indeed, Sir, if you knew all, you would not 
 be angry with me ; and indeed, and in truth, 
 I am very grateful for your kindness, and very 
 sorry for your trouble ; especially your walking 
 so much, while I am on your horse ; and if I 
 was a year younger, Sir, you should be on Shee- 
 la's back, and I, as 'ud be my duty and pleasure, 
 stepping along at your side ; and, badly as you 
 know I am able, I will even now tire you no 
 longer, if you please ; only just help me off. Sir, 
 and,"— 
 
 " Bother, child," interrupted the friar ; " bo- 
 ther says Brotherick, when he lost mass ; stay 
 where you are ; I'm not so tired, either, ould as 
 I am, and such a fool as I am, tho' it's kind of 
 you (poor thing like you) to think of it. No 
 ma'am, I didn't mean to quarrel with you ; I 
 like you too well, you baggage, for that ; 
 so, there now ; and if you cry another tear, 
 and if you don't give a good laugh at the 
 ould friar, from the heart out, salvation to me.
 
 150 THE NOWLANS. 
 
 but I'll kiss you and run away witli you : — 
 what — eh? — are we friends yet ?" 
 
 Peggy made a dutiful answer. 
 
 ^' Well : that 's right ; and now, Peggy, my 
 child, we're in the bosheen, and I must lave you 
 to step home by yourself, for neighbour Shear- 
 man promised me a bed to-night ; and so God 
 bless you, Peggy ; — and only one word — Do not 
 depend on him, too far — do not depend on him 
 at all ! — I know him, and you do not. What- 
 ever he has said to you — whatever he has pro- 
 mised, — ^look close at it. li you have promised 
 any thing, think twice before you perform it. 
 I don't want your little secrets ; even if I did, I 
 see how it is ; — I might go without them ; nt) 
 matter for that ; but — since you can have no 
 utiier adviser, now advise with yourself; ask 
 God to enlighten you. He is a bad man, I 
 tell you, Peggy ; and so good night." They 
 parted. 
 
 After Frank saw them turn upon the road 
 out of the avenue, he stood some time in deep 
 and breathless meditation. Then he returned 
 to the house, and sought his uncle. Mr. Long 
 again candidly brought forward in conversa- 
 tion the doubts of Frank he had before express-
 
 THE NOWLANS. 151 
 
 ed ; Frank combated them as adroitly as he 
 could ; the topic changed to Mr. Lawson, and 
 the prosecution of the mail-coach robber. At 
 last it grew late ; Mr. Long rose to go to his 
 chamber ; Frank, accompanying him, bore a 
 night-lamp into his own ; shut his door, seemec' 
 to lock it ; laid his lamp on a table ; listened to 
 his uncle's movements ; heard a voice call to him 
 out of an inside closet ; started on tip-toe to the 
 key-hole, and vehemently whispered through it 
 — Have a care, and curse you ! — not a move or 
 a breath, yet !'*''' 
 
 For more than ten minutes he continued to 
 bustle about his chamber; then became mo- 
 tionless, as if he had retired to bed ; again 
 whispered into the closet, *' Open, but not a 
 word !" — handed in the lamp to the person who 
 there awaited him, stole to the outside door, 
 gently opened it, listened for sounds in his 
 uncle's room, and along the corridor, found all 
 silent, and at last entered the closet. 
 
 " You Ve staid d — d long to-night," said 
 the man he had secreted in it, and who sat at 
 a small table, with a whiskey bottle, Avater and 
 sugar, before him ; " it has been hell-dark these 
 three hours, except for the winking of the glim
 
 152 THE KOWLANS. 
 
 in at this little high window, that reminds me 
 of a crib more than any thing I ever saw out 
 of one ; and confound my — eyes, if I can 
 stand all this much longer." 
 
 " I 'm quite sure, Ned, you can't stand it 
 this moment, if one may judge from the in- 
 crease of your complexion, your flash, and the 
 decrease of the black bottle ; but, hold your 
 tongue, you drunken goose, and speak lower, 
 while I tell you this, — we are on the brink of 
 ruin ; you, Studs, you have ruined us." 
 
 " As how, Master Frank ?"" 
 
 " As how, you headstrong hound ? Last 
 night, after I stole out to pack off' Mag, mother, 
 brother, and the whole kit, and left you here to 
 lock yourself in, and be d — d to you, with 
 your promise to stay quiet, and behave your- 
 self, out you must creep, to take the air of 
 the house and the staircases, so that the old 
 chap, who was watching me (he 's getting 'cute, 
 Ned ; sharp 's the word) saw you on the land- 
 ing-place above him, as he returned to bed ; 
 saw you, and knew you, too." 
 
 " He lies, Master Adams ; by this bottle, I 
 never tramped an inch through his house last 
 night." 
 
 " Thou liest most ungratefully to say the
 
 THE NOWLANS. 153 
 
 word, as it was by that very bottle thou wert 
 tlien led to it, and art now perjured." 
 
 " Know me? know Ned Studs? well, that's 
 a good 'un." 
 
 " Not as Ned Studs, you stupid beast, but 
 as Mr, Lawson, the English traveller."" 
 
 " Oh ! all right ; and now, Mr. Lawson must 
 be off, I take it ; and yet, that -ivon't do nei- 
 ther." 
 
 " No, curse you ! Mr. Lawson must stay 
 where he is, and appear as Mr. Lawson, and 
 as sober as he can to the elder, to-moiTow 
 morning; and I '11 tell you why. But first, 
 Ned, how goes on the httle firm over the water ? 
 After you came last night, I was obliged to shp 
 out before I could ask you all that ; this morn- 
 ing you were too drunkenly asleep ; and all 
 day I have been panting to pop the question, 
 and thought I could when we met this evening 
 in the shrubbery — Had the swag much luck .?" 
 
 " A little, at first ; doubled or so ; and so 
 kept on for a few months ; then— whew ! and 
 
 off." 
 
 «« D — d cross, that ; I believe you must play 
 me loyal here, Ned ; for the final stake is too 
 oreat to think you could nibble on what was to 
 win it for us both." 
 
 H 5
 
 154 THE NOWLANS. 
 
 " True blue, Master Adams ; no fairer man ; 
 show it, by being liere ; for when one swag- 
 went, I and another tried for as good a one ; 
 got blown, talked about, looked after, and so, 
 Ned Studs is a-drinking your Hirish stingo to- 
 night, just for peace-sake, and a look up to 
 Master Frank for a little help on the road, you 
 know."*' 
 
 " And you shall have it, Ned, if we step 
 high for it ; but all the last year has been curst 
 glum. I thought we could have coaxed off 
 from the reversions half the rooks by this 
 time ; but on they stick ; and then that run- 
 ning interest ! I say, Studs, you were to 
 have seen them for me ; what do they say ?" 
 
 " Nothingk ; only this, that if you don't 
 down the interest more regular, they '11 blab to 
 old chap about that and other things." 
 
 " Heirs fire round them ! He knows 
 enough already, and thinks more, Ned ; and 
 harps away on old matters from morning to 
 night. More than once, since the Irish swag 
 here, he has hit me in the teeth about that 
 plucking I gave the young Oxford Lord, and 
 that unlucky affair at Newmarket, and our lit- 
 tle firm in the West-end ; and do you know, 
 Studs, I begin to fear he has }>eard more than
 
 THE NOWLANS. 155 
 
 he ought concerning all the business of that 
 firm. Could niy real name have dropt ?" 
 
 " Do you mean the Brumagem affair, in l^ad 
 Lane, or the heavy Ipswich swag, at Hankey's 
 bundle ?" 
 
 " Why, Ned, you know I must mean both." 
 
 " Well, no fear of the last ; but while t''other 
 lay in the ring, and the Bow-street barkers at 
 it, with our broker, 'twas said your name teas 
 a little blown, — a httle winded or so." 
 
 " The devil ! I always thought that ; and 
 he — but no ; could he really have caught a 
 breath of it, I had not been here to-night. All 
 must be safe, so far. Let us talk of business 
 more at hand. You know, Ned, that upon the 
 night of the swag, on this road, we expected a 
 fellow to join us who did not come." 
 
 " Ay ; there was you in, with Mag and Mo- 
 ther Carey ; I, out with young Carey ; and two 
 country chaps of your choosing, were to join the 
 two Dublin chaps, of my own choosing, and only 
 one came to the scratch ; but 'twas all well as 
 it happened ; three could give as good a blank 
 volley as four, while young Phil and I did bu- 
 siness with coachee and guard; — never mind; 
 remember it all ; snug, I say." 
 
 " But listen to me, you stupid blunderer.
 
 156 THK NOW LANS. 
 
 This one fellew, who hung fire, was enhsted by 
 
 Mag, d n her ; I never saw him ; she only 
 
 told me his name, ConoUy; Conolly the rake, as 
 he calls himself, and a good alias I thought it 
 was. Since then, he has never come in my sight 
 until this day ; and, indeed, as I was so sure 
 my name was out of the thing, with all but you 
 and Mag, why I never much troubled myself 
 whether he might be alive or dead. But this 
 day, I tell you, Studs, this very day, I met 
 the fellow without knowing him ; and, before 
 we parted, after telling or singing me his name, 
 he put his lips to my ear and whispered, ' Who 
 robbed the mail coach. Master Frank ?' Studs, 
 I felt* as if cold lead went through my brain ! 
 as II 
 
 " As if Judge Best had asked you the ques- 
 tion," interrupted Mr. Studs. " I think I know 
 what you 'd say ; but. Master Adams, isn't 
 that ""ere chap the very one you told me was to 
 be put up for the self-same little swag you speak 
 of, when we met this evening in the shrub- 
 bery ?" 
 
 " To be sure he is ; have you done as I bid 
 you ? have you kissed primer before the good 
 magistrate, my father ?*"
 
 THE NOWLANS. :- 157 
 
 " John Lawson, of the county 'of Suffolk, in 
 England, gent., came before me this day, and 
 maketh oath, and saith' " 
 
 " Enough ; a point-blank deposition, I war- 
 rant ; and my excellent brother, the police chief, 
 will not be long without finding Master Conolly ; 
 and then, if the idiot hasn't peached before- 
 hand with us, which all the devils forbid, how 
 strange he will look to see us take the pretty 
 tale out of his mouth, while not a breathing 
 creature but will laugh out at his true story. 
 Well, Lawson, we must, by some means, have 
 another examination sworn." 
 
 " Against whom ? your own uncle, or your 
 own mother, or who the devil ?"" 
 
 " Only against an old popish friar. Studs, who 
 has, in violation of the statute in that case made 
 and provided, pretended to join in wedlock a 
 certain young lady and your humble servant. I 
 think I have the plan of the examination in my 
 head ; but more about it, by and by ; only it 
 must be done this very blessed night, and the 
 priest put up by day-break. I hope they can't 
 bail him ; do you know .? But why should I ask 
 you about bailing any thing that isn't swin- 
 dling, mail-coach swagging, hell-keeping, or.
 
 158 THE NOW LANS. 
 
 duly to honour the folHes of your youth, pock- 
 et-touchuio-, shop-lifting, and petty larceny, <id 
 Hint urn.'''' 
 
 " Speak no thieves'' Latin to me, Master 
 Frank, I 'ni above it."" 
 
 " Hold your hand, Ned ; not another throw 
 out of that black bottle: — lay it down, I say! 
 and don't pretend to fly into a passion with 
 me, just to put yourself off your guard, as it 
 were, for a snatch at it. I know your tricks, 
 Sir. Nor no grumbling, either, now, but sit 
 still and hear, at last, what is worth hearing. 
 I have told you, we were on the edge of ruin — 
 that the drop was under our feet, and only the 
 devil waiting to slip the bolt ; — now learn 
 really why and how. You have heard me 
 speak of a wench, whom I had by humming 
 her with the old priest's marriage ; well, she 's 
 up, of course, and getting, somehow, a wind 
 of my true notions about her, here she comes 
 to-night, to blow me to the old governor, and 
 blab all how and about it. If she is once al- 
 lowed to do that, my uncle, who thinks wench- 
 ing as bad as man-killing, would first make me 
 marry her in earnest ; and then turn me off with 
 the girl, upon a few thousands and a blessing : 
 and so, if you can understand any thing, Ned
 
 THE NOWLAKS. 159 
 
 Studs, behold, in this prospect, the fine old 
 acres wriggled fairly through our fingers: not 
 even the half I was sure of when my pretty 
 sister was here, left to clear the reversions 1 
 
 have (may I be well d d for it some day !) 
 
 suffered to get into the claws of the rooks." 
 
 " But who 's to allow the silly wench to come 
 down with her gab ? that 's all I ask, Master 
 Frank. You sent her off this evening, I know ; 
 can't you take care she don't call again ?" 
 
 " How do you mean, Ned Studs.?" 
 
 " Poh ! gammon, and so many hows in the 
 case ; and you knowing them all so well." 
 
 " I 'm to meet her to-night, at twelve 
 o'clock, in a very lonesome place, far out of 
 sight and hearing of house or home, Ned." 
 
 " Are you ?'" 
 
 " She thinks, to marry her legally." 
 
 '' Ay, ay." 
 
 " Studs, in my case, seeing that every thing 
 depends on mum — run to the saddle-skirts, as 
 I am, what would you do ? In what manner 
 would you come to a settling with a foolish, 
 ungrateful, unfeeling girl, if you met her alone, 
 at the dead of the night, in such a place, where, 
 if ever there was a spot to keep a secret — 
 Hush ! — who 's there ? douce the glim, Studs !"
 
 160 THE NOWLANS. 
 
 In obedience to the latter words, given in a 
 close, sharp whisper, his companion hastily ex- 
 tinguished the lamp. 
 
 They sat together in darkness, for many mi- 
 nutes, both silent, and suppressing their flut- 
 tered breath, as they strained their ears to catch 
 a sound in the outside chamber. At last, 
 
 " Didn't you hear a step.^" whispered Frank. 
 
 " Caunt say as a' did," answered Studs, 
 " and I think you 've only frightened yourself 
 a bit." 
 
 " Hush ! — let 's listen again." 
 
 Once more they remained perfectly silent ; 
 but, as not the slightest sound was heard, 
 Studs's interpretation seemed plausible. 
 
 " Go on, Master Frank," he resumed, " not 
 a mouse is stirring : why don't you go on "i I 
 don't half like this sitting alone, in the deep 
 dark ; I must either drink, or hear the sound 
 of your voice." 
 
 " Then I must speak, indeed, Ned, for you 
 liave already guzzled enough for the work in 
 hand. But can you guess what kept me silent 
 a moment ?" 
 
 " Saying your prayers, Master Frank." 
 
 " No ; not so bad, neither : I was only think- 
 ing—it was a sudden and a strange thought —
 
 THE NOWLANS. 
 
 161 
 
 that, if we had really heard a step, it could be 
 no other than nuncle ; and if so, it struck 
 me, Studs, to ask myself the question — should 
 we, or should we not allow him to go back 
 to his bed in full possession of all we don't 
 want him to know : particularly as there 
 has been some chaffer about it before, — and 
 (what he doesn't know) as I could lay my 
 hand, this moment, on the will he has last 
 made, by which every acre of Long-Hall es- 
 tate is legally bequeathed to a nephew of his ? 
 That was just what passed through my head.'' 
 
 " It would be dangerous, here in his own 
 house, Master Adams." 
 
 " Dangerous ! no more ! Curses on you 
 for a gallows dog, wouldn't it be treacherous, 
 bloody, diabolical? I tell you but of a flit- 
 ting thought that our master shot into my 
 brain, and you, Studs, you imagine it rests 
 with me, and argue only for convenience ! 
 You are a worse villain than I took you for. 
 Never dare to glance at it again. But, now 
 about this poor foolish wench. Sir. 1 say 
 we are to meet,— she and I, or any one that 
 will stand in my place, — quite alone, exactly at 
 midnight, in the most lonesome and wildest 
 part among these black Tipperary hills. What
 
 162 
 
 THE NOWLANS. 
 
 am I to do with her? how satisfy her? how 
 
 stop her from coming to accuse me before my 
 
 uncle in the morning ?" 
 
 " She thinks you meet her to marry her ?" 
 " Ay, that 's tlie understanding, as it were."" 
 *' Would the marriage make her mum ?'' 
 " Yes, I promise you ; but am I a fool, 
 
 Studs ?" 
 
 " Sometimes ay, sometimes no. You don't 
 
 want to marry her, then ? it 's all gammon, so 
 
 far ?" 
 
 " Confounded stuff and nonsense." 
 
 " Well, are you sure she will come quite 
 alone ?" 
 
 " Cock sure." 
 
 " But mustn't some one know where she 
 comes to so late ? — some of her friends ?" 
 
 " Not a soul ; her promise is given to that, 
 too ; and she '11 keep it for her own sake." 
 
 " So then she might step into a pit, or a pool, 
 
 or But zounds, Master Frank, at which 
 
 side of me are you ?*' suddenly lowering his 
 voice. 
 
 " Here, at your right hand ; why .?" 
 
 " Then," cried Studs, springing up, " here's 
 the devil at council with us in the dark, — some 
 one else stands at my left, near the door !"
 
 THE NOWLANS. 
 
 163 
 
 " Secure the door !'' exclaimed Frank, " you 
 are next to it ; curse you, fellow ! why will 
 you not move? I must scramble on myself; 
 there!" shutting and bolting the closet door, 
 '•' if the devil is in company, we have dared him 
 before, and shall not now fear him ; if any 
 other hearer has intruded, let him tell his beads, 
 and pay for his peeping; he goes not hence 
 alive. Keep you your back to the door, Ned, 
 while I go round by the walls ; and no pulling 
 of triggers, sirrah, no shots to alarm the house ; 
 but just lend me your case with the spring- 
 bayonets ; one of them never misses fire, and 
 makes httle noise ; so now stand quiet." 
 
 Carefully, although, despite the lightness and 
 hardihood of his speech, his blood curdled and 
 his hair bristled, carefully did Frank grope all 
 round the closet, but no intruder was to be 
 found ; again and again he searched, and was 
 disappointed. 
 
 " You must have raved in your cups. Studs," 
 he then said ; " here is no one but ourselves ; 
 where did you see, or think you saw, the per- 
 son .?" 
 
 " Where I said, at my left hand, his back 
 against the wall ; but when I looked a second 
 time, he was gone."
 
 164 
 
 THE NOWLANS. 
 
 " Tush ! you are a cowardly goose, and that 's 
 all. Let us leave this place, however ; my time 
 for meeting with the girl I spoke of is near at 
 hand. Muffle yourself up as well as you can, 
 and follow me out of the house by the private 
 way. Stick close to my skirts, lest you stum- 
 ble in the dark, and make some cursed noise. 
 Stop, I too must put on a disguise, some coarse 
 things that now and then serve me ; we will 
 talk over the whole business on our way ; and 
 whether or no you do any thing else for me, 
 you know you have to call on the magistrate." 
 
 At about the time they secretly left Long- 
 Hall, Peggy Nowlan also crept out of her fa- 
 ther's house, to keep her appointment in the 
 Foil Dhuiv. 
 
 Notwithstanding her solemn promise to Frank, 
 she did not bring herself to take such a step 
 without much inward struggling. The friar's 
 cautions first alarmed her ; in the alarm, all her 
 own former ones sprang up ; and while she sat 
 alone in her little chamber, by the feeble flick- 
 ering gleam of an economical rushlight, her 
 father and mother and their servants hushed 
 into sleep around her, and no -sound heard 
 outside the house but the hoot of the owl, and 
 the hoarse murmurs of many streams, near and
 
 THE NOWLANS. 
 
 165 
 
 distant, poor Peggy's heart failed and revolted, 
 she knew not why, at the thought of what she 
 was about to do. 
 
 In vain did she assure herself that, against 
 whatsoever the friar had intended to warn her, 
 he could not have contemplated possible ill- 
 treatment of her person at Frank's hands : he 
 could not have meant that she was in any danger 
 of bodily harm from him ; and if not, what else 
 did she fear ? why else should she shrink from 
 meeting him, even all alone, at any hour of the 
 day or night ? But he would not come alone-— 
 for, again, why should he have promised to 
 marry her, according to the form of his religion, 
 and in the presence of his brother and sister, if 
 he intended to break his word ? The disingenu- 
 ousness could be of no eventual good to him, 
 supposing him not sincere ; then why practise 
 it ? In the absence of a doubt too horrible — too 
 monstrous and unnatural, what could he mean 
 but to keep his promise ? The little phial, though 
 — the scene that day, when they were alone be- 
 fore ! — her veins ran cold — she would not go. — 
 Yet, had he not most solemnly, by the most so- 
 lemn oaths, disavowed the crime attributed by 
 the friar ? and might not the friar be mistaken ? 
 nay, he was mistaken— he must be — human na-
 
 166 
 
 THE KOWLANS 
 
 ture never produced such a monster ; she would 
 trample on the thought. And, again and again, 
 the idea that Frank's offer was a providential 
 chance to allow justice to be done to her unborn 
 infant and herself, and that, if she now weakly 
 rejected it, Heaven might, for her punishment, 
 harden his heart 'against her in future, — these 
 reveries at last determined Peggy ; and some 
 time before she need have stirred, she was walk- 
 ing rapidly towards the place of rendezvous. 
 
 It was a fine night, starry and nioonshiny ; 
 and, until she turned into the first shadows of 
 the Foil Dhuiv, Peggy held a brave heart. Then, 
 however, the intense silence, blackness, and lone- 
 liness of the place, disagreeably affected her. 
 She had never before been out, so late at night, 
 amidst the desolate solitude of nature ; and, — 
 from the change thrown over them by new ef- 
 fects of light and shade, — features of the rude 
 scenery with which she thought herself familiar, 
 seemed new and strange to her eye : — in one 
 place, a hill looked nearer ; in another, a huge 
 rock more distant ; while, generally speaking., 
 real outhne becoming lost, objects distinct in 
 day-light, merged into one strange whole, or 
 took peculiarities of sliape that started lii- 
 deous fancies to the baffled mind.
 
 THE NOWLANS. 167 
 
 Step by step, the scene deepened. At last 
 she gained the end of the valley farthest from 
 her father's house, where, at either hand, and 
 widely removed, two vast black hills swept up 
 into the sky, each so toweringly, that the cheery 
 moon, though more than halfway in the heavens, 
 was only able to glint, over the outer brow of 
 one, a few rays upon the inner brow of the other. 
 Thus, the whole deep glen remained in shade, 
 except the very unnoticed summit of the moun- 
 tainous side that, at Peggy's left hand, half form- 
 ed it. Before her, another heath-clad black 
 hill intercepted any distant view ; and, by the 
 last abrupt turn of her little trembling feet, 
 through the furze-choked and rain-sprinkled 
 path, she was also shut out from a view of the 
 long way she had come. 
 
 And here, shivering in the cold night blast, 
 and starting at every sound, Peggy had to await 
 the promised appearance of Frank and his 
 friends. A long time she did wait, alone, and 
 undisturbed, and she thought the hour of 
 appointment must have elapsed, and that, 
 whatever was the cause, he would not come 
 at all. As she looked timidly up and down 
 the shadowed solitude, many weakening fears 
 again assailed her. The interview with Frank,
 
 168 
 
 THE NOWLANS. 
 
 when he frightened her to take the phial from 
 her hand — his glaring eyes — his pale face — his 
 changed character — more vividly than ever oc- 
 curred ; and then the thought that he might 
 so visit her, alone, in her present situation — shp 
 shrunk from that. Peggy remembered too, 
 stories of the Foil Duiv, that use.d to shake her 
 childhood, and collect terrible dreams for her 
 childish pillow. About where she stood, a wo- 
 man had once been cruelly murdered, and her 
 bones were found whitening behind a rock, and 
 the cries of her angry s])irit often sounded 
 through the glen. In spite of her, for Peg- 
 gy was not weak-minded nor superstitious, 
 such extraneous recollections added an ominous 
 horror to her real fears ; and at last she was 
 about to rush, screaming, along the path she 
 had come, when the appearance of a single 
 figure, on the side of the opposite and remote 
 hill, rooted her feet to the spot ; called back, 
 with her observation, her presence of mind ; and 
 suddenly calmed her into a watchfulness of her 
 own safety. 
 
 A few seconds after her eye caught the ob- 
 ject, she sank down, carefully and completely 
 hiding herself amid a group of shivered rocks 
 and stones, hedged round by furze-bushes and
 
 THE NOWLANS. 
 
 169 
 
 tall fern, but allowing her, through a little 
 opening, to look out unseen. 
 
 The single figure came obliquely down 
 the sweep of the hill, often pausing, as if it 
 looked around, and to every quarter; but, 
 amid the great shadow, and scarce relieved 
 from the blacker back- ground of the hill-side, 
 its motions, as well as itself, were yet very 
 vague and indistinct- In some time it gained 
 the bottom of the Foil Dhuiv ; again stood still, 
 and looked to the east, and to the west. Peggy 
 could now assure herself it was a man ; but of 
 what quahty, his non-descript dress did not 
 allow her to decide. At a nearer approach, she 
 saw he carried something on his right shoulder, 
 and something else under his left arm. He 
 continued his heavy strides towards where she 
 lay ; again paused, and again looked to the east 
 and to the west ; and now the former article 
 seemed a spade ; the latter, a sack, folded hard. 
 He came still closer to her ; at the distance of 
 about forty yards stopped once more ; renewed 
 his keen scrutiny, at either hand ; then threw 
 down his sack, and, with his back turned to 
 her, began rapidly to dig the loose, slaty earth 
 with his spade. 
 
 Peggy was skilful enough in all agricultural 
 
 VOL. II. I
 
 170 THE NOWLANS. 
 
 operations to perceive that the man worked 
 clumsily, though vigorously, and in earnest 
 haste, often interrupting himself still to look 
 about him, far and near. By his stooping low, 
 and his continuing to dig at one spot, she saw, 
 too, that he was penetrating some depth into the 
 ground. After a lengthened exertion, he ceased : 
 his work seemed done. He cast down his spade 
 upon his sack, folded his arms, crossed the 
 valley to the far side, coming so near that 
 she could have touched his legs, though still 
 she did not see his face ; and all the while 
 looking out wistfully, and seeming to change 
 his ground only to gain more commanding 
 points of observation. 
 
 And thus he remained for more than an 
 hour ; and thus, for more than an hour, though 
 she covild not then measure time, Peggy lay 
 close and still, breathless and motionless, watch- 
 ing him. At length, as if overcome by impa- 
 tience, he abruptly walked to the pit he had 
 delved, gazed a moment into it, snatched his 
 spade, hastily pitched in the piles of earth 
 he had thrown up : when the hole was filled, 
 stamped with his heels, evidently to harden the 
 spot ; smoothened over and all round it with 
 his spade-handle ; took up his sack, and strid-
 
 THE NOWLANS. 171 
 
 ing off in the direction whence he had appeared, 
 slowly ascended the hill; crossed it obhquely, 
 as he had descended it ; disappeared, and Peggy 
 was left alone. 
 
 Her feelings, during this scene, we have not 
 attempted to describe ; we shall not now at- 
 tempt to do so. With the self-command, and 
 the mental endurance for which v/omen are, 
 even above the stronger sex, sometimes emi- 
 nently remarkable, she was able to look on, 
 and give not the slightest indication of alarm. 
 Though, before the coming of the man, imagi- 
 nary terrors had almost made her shriek out, 
 — yet, now a spectatress of real terrors, and 
 with a consciousness and a misgiving, horrible 
 beyond expression, she did not even breathe 
 hard. 
 
 Nor, long after the disappearance of this per- 
 son, did she stir. He might return; if once 
 caught by his watchful eye, she could not, per- 
 haps, though at a distance, escape him, and 
 therefore she still lay motionless. For more than 
 the time he had stayed, she lay so. But when 
 once Peggy started up, she ran, burdened as she 
 was, without looking to the right or to the left, 
 through the whole length of the Foil Dhuiv ; 
 in unabated speed gained her father's house — her 
 
 I 2
 
 172 THE NOWLANS. 
 
 own little chamber-window ;— opened it cauti- 
 ously ; drago'cd herself into the room, fastened 
 her window ; and then, and not till then, did 
 poor Peggy's brain reel, and her eyes swim, as, 
 staggering round the earthen floor, she sank 
 swooning on her bed.
 
 THE NOWLANS. 173 
 
 . CHAPTER VII. 
 
 About the grey of the morning Peggy reco- 
 vered to a confused sense of her situation ; and 
 the first effort of her mind was to master her 
 terror, her agony, and all her feelings. She 
 became impressed with the conviction that such 
 was her duty ; that she had a decided, coura- 
 geous, yet temperate part to act ; and that self- 
 possession was the first step in the discharge of 
 her responsibility. After sitting up, then, on 
 her bed, until she felt her strength in a de- 
 gree restored, Peggy knelt down in prayer. 
 While thus engaged, some unusual stir arose 
 outside the house : she paid it no attention. 
 In a few moments, a light step stole to her 
 chamber-door, which was not fastened : she 
 turned, and her little sister, Anty, sprang to 
 her neck, and was clasped, in showers of tears, 
 to her sad yet comforted heart. 
 
 " I heard it all at last, Peggy," sobbed Antj?,
 
 1*74 THE NOWLANS, 
 
 " though it was so well and so cruelly hid from 
 me — John's misfortune, and your unhappy mar- 
 riage, and all ; and, the moment I did hear it, 
 came to be one among ye in your trials. Last 
 night I slept at Nenagh. Oh! Peggy, it was 
 very unkind to leave me so long ignorant." 
 
 " Anty, Anty,"" answered her sister, " we 
 thought to keep our heart of one family safe 
 from the curse that fell among us: and then, 
 you were so young and so childish, we believed 
 it would have been a pity to darken your days 
 so soon— though, indeed, Anty, my dear, a 
 few years' absence has made a great chano-e in 
 you, — in your appearance, your manner, and 
 your mind, I 'm sure,— for you were always a 
 sensible child, Anty." 
 
 " God grant, sister, I may have sense enough 
 to be, now, to you the comfort you stand in 
 need of. Are you glad to see me, and to speak 
 to me .?" 
 
 " Since you are come, dear iVnty, Heaven 
 could not send a greater consolation. Oil ! you 
 will be such a support to me in what I have 
 to do; and it will make me so firm to tell you 
 all, and to get your advice ; for, till this mo- 
 ment, I had no one to advise with ; I was quite 
 alone in my trials, Anty : the poor fatlier's
 
 THE NOWLANS. 175 
 
 heart is a'most broke, and he cannot talk to 
 me ; or when he does, 'tis more like a child's 
 folly than a man's sense : and the poor mother 
 is turned into gall with her sorrows ; her speech 
 is only complaint and crossness; and she cries 
 so much, alone, that her old eyes are growing' 
 blind with it." 
 
 There was a long silence, while the sisters 
 wept in each other's arms. At last Anty whis- 
 pered, " This used to be his room, Peggy ;" 
 and the remark was again followed up with 
 tears. " Tell me, Peggy," she resumed, " was 
 the poor young lady such a temptation to him, 
 indeed ?"" 
 
 " Oh, Anty, my eyes never lighted on a 
 creature like her : as good as she was comely ; 
 as bright in the mind, as, before that happen- 
 ed, I believe she was pure in the heart ; and 
 the real gentlewoman, if ever one walked the 
 earth." 
 
 . " And he, too, Peggy— when it happened, he 
 must have been all in her eyes, or in any wo- 
 man's eyes, that she w as in his ; though 'tis so 
 long since I saw him, I can only suppose so ; 
 nearly six years, I believe; for, just after I 
 went to the nunnery, now two years ago, he 
 was coming home from the bishop's school, with
 
 176 THE NOWLANS. 
 
 the priesthood, but I didn't meet liini then; and 
 you know he had been at that time four years 
 away from us all. But, was not our poor John 
 a very handsome boy at three-and-twenty ?" 
 
 Instead of answering, a low abhorring 
 scream escaped Peggy, as she clung close to 
 her almost childish sister ; and Anty, following 
 her eyes to the little window of the chamber, 
 saw it darkened by the form of a man wrapped 
 in a large cloak. 
 
 " I will not speak to him, Anty," whispered 
 Peggy. 
 
 " Who is it ?"" enquired her companion. 
 
 " INIy ruin — my husband ! he that says he 
 
 is not my husband — he that Oh! Anty, 
 
 dear Anty !" as Frank tapped at the jessamine- 
 shaded glass — " tell him I cannot — will not see 
 him : get up and speak to him for me ; tell 
 him to meet me in his uncle's house in an hour 
 — nothing more can now pass between us — go 
 to him, for God's sake ! — and stay — help me 
 across the floor, out of his sight" 
 
 When Anty had attended to the latter part 
 of the request, she advanced steadily to the 
 window. Her glance curiously and earnestly 
 sought to make out Frank's features ; but the 
 collar of the cloak, and the leaf of his rustic
 
 THE NOWLANS. 177 
 
 hat pulled down to his nose, baffled her at- 
 tempt. 
 
 In a few words she gave, however, her sis- 
 ter's message, half opening the window for the 
 purpose. 
 
 " I must see her this moment,'' replied 
 Frank ; " who are you ? her sister ?'* 
 
 " You cannot and shall not see my sister, 
 Sir," insisted Anty ; answering both questions 
 in a breath. 
 
 " Pho, child ; open the lattice, like a good, 
 pretty girl, as you are ;" standing sideway to 
 her, and with one hand spread over that part 
 of his face which the cloak and hat had not 
 quite hidden, he thrust the other hand through 
 the half unclosed window, and, first catching 
 Anty's arm, further attempted a slight liberty. 
 The unsophisticated child instantly shut the 
 window, secured it as well as she could, and 
 rapidly disappeared to join her sister, out of 
 view of Frank. 
 
 He continvied to knock, unheeded. In some 
 time, they heard him walk away. 
 
 " Now come with me, Anty," said Peggy. 
 " that I may keep my promise with him, to 
 meet him in his uncle's house ; but first let us 
 seek an old friend, a few fields off." 
 
 I 5
 
 178 THE XOWLANS. 
 
 " What has he done to you, Peggy ? it must 
 be something very bad when you will not speak 
 to him." 
 
 " Do not ask me all, now ; I will tell you 
 soon ; but now I fear the thinking of it would 
 deprive me of the little strength I have, and 
 which I want to keep — Come, dear Anty ; let us 
 steal out without disturbing our father or mo- 
 ther.'' 
 
 " Yes ; but only one word : you said he 
 wanted to deny he was your husband .?" 
 
 " He does : he wishes to assert that we were 
 not properly married ; but he cannot prove that 
 in the sight of God, though he may in the sight 
 of men."" 
 
 " AVhat do you mean, Peggy ?" asked the 
 young sister, reddening and starting ; " what 
 do you mean by a marriage that will not hold 
 in the sight of man ? Are you his wife T' 
 
 " We were married by the priest. 
 
 " Well ? and what then ? what can he mean, 
 then .'' dear, dear Peggy, how you frightened 
 me ;*" winding her arms around her sister. 
 
 Peggy explained the legal exception, as the 
 old friar had explained it to her. Anty looked 
 as confounded as Peggy had done when she 
 first heard it ; and scarcely had her sister added
 
 THE NOWLANS. 179 
 
 that her only course could be to tlirow herself 
 upon the justice and humanity of Mr. Long, 
 ere they were both on the path diverging into 
 the fields from the by-road before their fa- 
 ther's door. 
 
 At a point where the path divided into 
 tracks, one leading to Long Hall, the other to 
 the house of a wealthy neighbouring farmer, 
 whither Friar Shanaghan had gone to sleep the 
 previous evening, Peggy signified her intention 
 of first calling on the old ecclesiastic to oive 
 them his support and company up to Mr. 
 Long's. " He was a courageous friend,*" she 
 said ; " and, besides, would be a protector on 
 the way, if any one they did not like to meet 
 came across their path." Accordingly the sis- 
 ters turned towards the rich farmer's. 
 
 In their progress they had to ascend an emi- 
 nence, which gave a view to their i-ight of the 
 direct path to Long Hall, winding through se- 
 veral lonesome little dells and retreats ; and 
 while they hurried along, Peggy, casting n 
 watchful glance in this direction, started, press- 
 ed her sister's arm, and quickened her pace, 
 Anty, standing a moment behind, also looked, 
 and saw some hundred yards off, through a me- 
 dium of bluish exhalation, the same person who
 
 180 THE NOWLANS. 
 
 had knocked at the chamber window, and ano- 
 ther man, mounted on a stout horse, which fur- 
 ther bore an empty pillion. Both men were 
 motionless, and seemingly in earnest discourse. 
 While Anty yet gazed, her sister turned, as she 
 now called out to her, and beckoned anxious- 
 ly ; and in wonder and alarm, she hastened to 
 join Peggy. But before she left her exposed 
 situation, she thought the figure in the cloak 
 turned and recognized her. 
 
 And she was right in her conjecture. 
 
 " There they go, by Heaven !" cried Frank ; 
 " avoiding the direct path, too : I told you so, 
 Studs ; she suspects every thing now : she zoas 
 in the Foil-dhuiv."" 
 
 " Not last night then. Master Adams, take 
 my word for it. And what a fuss about the path 
 she happens to fancy this morning ; can"'t you 
 just wheedle her in here, you that can sing the 
 birds oft* the bushes, get her upon the pillion, 
 well strapped, and then order me wherever you 
 like, with your own lawful wife .?" 
 
 " That must be it, hollow ; so I take a 
 race round to meet her: but. Studs, are you 
 sure the old priest can"'t stir without coming 
 across the Peelers .?""
 
 THE NOWLANS. 181 
 
 '•' Didn't I station them myself ?" 
 
 " And this cursed Conolly : what has be- 
 come of him ?" 
 
 " Run off in a funk, I say again." 
 
 " God or the devil make you a prophet ; 
 for, if ray fears be true — no matter — all that 
 another time; now for tliis hoaxing wench ; don't 
 budge an inch, Studs, till I come back." 
 
 In a few moments, Frank stood before the 
 sisters with a " Good morrow, Peggy ;" one 
 screamed, the other, encircling Peggy's waist, 
 changed to the side whence he approached, not 
 now daring or caring to look up into his face, 
 which was still carefully muffled, as if to leave 
 in future doubt of his identity, any chance 
 spectator of his present actions. 
 
 " I knew, or at least was told by your ser- 
 vant, that you did not intend to keep your ap- 
 pointment last night," continued Frank, as the 
 girls stood silent and motionless, " and so did 
 not go out myself; but iny friend Mr. Sirr, 
 ray sister, and one of my brothers, await 3^0u a 
 little way off, to give you the satisfaction you 
 required, early as it is." 'Twas yet scarce four 
 o'clock.
 
 182 THK NOWLANS. 
 
 Peggy continued perfectly silent. 
 
 " And so you will take my arm, and come 
 with me.'" 
 
 He moved towards her disengaged side ; An- 
 ty moved before him ; he changed his place 
 again ; she again anticipated him. 
 
 " Tut, child," he resumed, " this is no time 
 to play at bo-peep ; tho"" " — whispering her close- 
 ly — " at any other time you will find me willing 
 enough : for may 1 never die in sin, but, in a 
 year or two, you will be worth two of Peggy — 
 nay, this moment, you don""! know how I like 
 you ;" and taking Anty by surprise, he passed 
 his arm round her waist, and ardently saluted 
 her lips. 
 
 The young nunnery girl, gaining, from indig- 
 nation, extraordinary strength, flung him aside, 
 and, with some point-blank and rather for- 
 cible epithets, clung closer to her sister. 
 
 " After this, at least, let us go our road, 
 Frank Adams," said Peggy. 
 
 " Why will you be obstinate, Peggy ? my 
 friends all waiting, and you keeping them : from 
 the last height you have passed you might have 
 seen some of them — my sister rode behind Mr. 
 Sirr, on a pillion. Come, come ; if you are wil- 
 ful, and I will add, ungrateful, I cannot consent
 
 THE NOWLANs. 
 
 183 
 
 to be exposed to laughter ; so, come along, 
 
 Peggy." 
 
 He took her arm, and endeavoured to sepa- 
 rate her from her sister"'s embrace. Both girls 
 now screamed loud, and all struggled violently. 
 They were answered by a " hilli-ho !" from 
 the direction of the farmer's house whither 
 they had been going ; and presently appeared 
 a very handsome young man, dressed in a 
 rustic green sporting jacket, and bestriding 
 as handsome a horse, which bore him rapidly 
 towards the parties ; v/hile, at a good distance 
 behind. Friar Shanaghan's poor grey, with her 
 master on her back, did her best, at a very un- 
 usual stretch of muscle, to keep in the track of 
 the leader. 
 
 " Stop, Sir, whoever you are, and whatever 
 you intend!" said the young man, jumping 
 from his saddle. 
 
 " And who dares bid me stop .?'' retorted 
 Frank ; "I am warranted in what I do ; this 
 female is my wife."" 
 
 " Remember that, David," said the friar, now 
 almost at the spot ; " remember it well, David 
 Shearman ; he calls Peggy Nowlan his wife." 
 
 All seemed much struck with these words : 
 Frank looked irritated and perplexed ; and Peg-
 
 184 
 
 THE NOWLANS. 
 
 gy and David Shearman glanced in confusion 
 at each other. 
 
 " I see you don"'t know her, man, though you 
 ought ; nor Peggy you, though she ought, 
 too ; but, Peggy, my woman, this is httle Davy 
 Shearman that used to be, thougli, now that 
 he's come liome from the priest's school in 
 England, he's big Davy; and don't you remem- 
 ber long ago, when he and you, children as you 
 were — but never mind ; that's all past and gone ; 
 and now he 's nothing to you but a neighbour, 
 to do a neighbour's turn ; and, to make a begin- 
 ning, since he and I have come by chance to 
 your side so arly this morning, why, we'll just 
 stay at your side till we see you safe on the road 
 you're for going; though he left his snug bed at 
 such an hour to see me a bit on my own road, 
 for ould-time's sake ; eh, Peggy ?" alighting 
 slowly from his grey, "isn't that the way it'll 
 be? and ar'nt you this moment going to take 
 the course I bid you take yesterday ?" 
 
 " I am, Sir ; I was on my way to ask your 
 company, and now I thank you and this gen- 
 tleman." 
 
 " To be' sure you were, to be sure you do ; so 
 come ; stop, who's this ? eh ? Oh, I needn't ask 
 another word ; a Nowlan all over ; there 's
 
 THF, NOWLANS. 185 
 
 her mother's own nose and mouth, only the eyes 
 are blue like her poor ould father's ; Anty, ma- 
 colleen, how are you ? come here and tell me ; 
 there, God bless you, my fine child;" kissing 
 her cheek ; " how 's the ould suparior ? and all 
 the ould nuns? and all the purty novices? 
 and the boorders ? Well, you '11 tell me another 
 time ; come now, I believe wc 're bound for 
 Long-Hall : does Mr. Frank accompany us ?" 
 
 Frank, v/ho, since the interruption, had stood 
 silent, his back turned, did not answer, but 
 stepped aside to allow free passage to three 
 Peelers, who, advancing in the way the friar 
 had come, soon gained his side, and as soon 
 pronounced him their prisoner, on authority of 
 a warrant granted by Magistrate Adams. 
 
 " PuUaloo and 1)otheration entirely," cried 
 the old regular, as all other persons of the 
 group seemed, in different ways, much agitated 
 at this occurrence, " warrant away, arrest away, 
 hang away, my boys ; I know all about that ; 
 and I '11 go with you as quiet as any lamb, if 
 you just take me, first and foremost, before 
 Mr. Long's face, where I have a word to say ; 
 you'll oblige me so far, won't you ?" 
 
 Having secretly consulted Mr. Frank's eye, 
 the leader of the Peelers said lie could do no
 
 186 THE NOWLANS. 
 
 such thing ; Mr. Shanaghan must go before 
 Magistrate Adams. 
 
 " Then, Peggy," resumed the friar, speaking 
 earnestly, " go you your ways with your sister 
 and Davy Shearman, straight to Mr. Long ; 
 tell your story, plain and square, before all ; 
 and never cry for me, a good girl ; no fear o'' the 
 ould regular ; many a cat and dog and better 
 thing '11 die before me ; shake hands, my child, 
 and God speed you. David, don't leave her 
 side ; you know a little of the little rason why." 
 
 " Never fear me, Sir," answered David. 
 
 " One word with you, Peggy," whispered 
 Frank, stepping to her. Anty clung closer 
 than ever to her sister, and Peggy evidently 
 showed a resolution not to turn off alone with 
 him. 
 
 " Let pretty Anty come with you," he added ^ 
 " what I have to say may as well be said in her 
 hearing." 
 
 The sisters accordingly separated themselves 
 a few paces from their friends. 
 
 " ""Tis but one question," resumed Frank, in 
 a boding whisper ; " why do you now so ob- 
 stinately refuse the satisfaction you so earnestly 
 demanded yesterday, Peggy ?" 
 
 " I will answer your question, if you answer
 
 THE NOWLANS. 187 
 
 one from me first," replied Peggy, measuring 
 the distance between her and the friar and Da- 
 vid Shearman: then glancing at Frank's hands, 
 and pressing closer to little Anty. 
 
 " Let me hear it," he said ; his eyes falhng. 
 
 " This is it, Frank," as her hoarse tones be- 
 came almost inaudible; " who dug the hole 
 in the Foil Dhuiv, after twelve o'clock, last 
 night ?" 
 
 Without raising his eyes, he drew back, his 
 shoulders slowly cringed up, and inclined to 
 double forward, as if a creeping went through 
 every fibre of his body ; and when at last his 
 enlarged eyes as slowly rose and fell upon Peg- 
 gy's, she shrieked aloud at their deadly, animal 
 expression. 
 
 "What's the matter with you all there?" 
 enquired the friar ; " and stop — what 's the 
 matter here at our backs too ? Salvation to 
 my soul, but it's that crack-brained poor 
 omadhaun, Peery Conolly, coming prancing 
 on, like a year-ould coult, before my excellent 
 friend Mr. Nevin, of Nenagh town, and he 
 another magistrate, and with another handful 
 of Peelers at his heels — Christ save us all ! it's 
 a busy morning." 
 
 At the mention of Peery ConoUy's name,
 
 188 THE NOWLANS. 
 
 Frank quickly started from his baleful trance, 
 and, casting but a look towards the approaching 
 party, bounded away from our friends, before 
 the new-comers could well have got him in view. 
 " Here we are ! here we are, like May-boys r 
 shouted Pcery, dancing forward ; " come on, 
 Peelers, my darlins ! come on, Misther Nevin, 
 a-chorna, an' glory to you ! fauch-a-vollaugh !* 
 here we are !" 
 
 " Pray, gentlemen, has any one just parted 
 from you ?" enquired Mr. Nevin. 
 
 " Mr. Frank Adams, this moment,"" answer- 
 ed the friar. 
 
 " That looks bad,"" rejoined Mr. Nevin ; 
 " and now. Sir, I begin to believe your mad 
 charges,"'"' to Peery. 
 
 " It looks good, your honour means,"" said 
 that person ; " an' believe Peery or no, jist as 
 your honour likes, he "'s to the fore, any how, 
 to hould his own purty neck for a runnin' knot, 
 if he can"'t fit it on another's."" 
 
 " I will certainly take care of you. Sir, till the 
 affair has ended.— "Which way, Mr. Shanaghan, 
 has Mr. Frank gone .?" 
 
 The friar officiously pointed it out : two of 
 Mr. Nevin"'s attendants were despatched to ex- 
 * Clear the way.
 
 THE NOWLANS. 189 
 
 plore it ; two more moved in an opposite di- 
 rection. 
 
 " And now, whatever may be your business 
 among us, Mr. Nevin, you'll do me a fa- 
 vour, I know," said the friar : and thereupon 
 he explained his situation; the attributed 
 crime that had brought him into it; and 
 ended by requesting the interference of the 
 Nenagh magistrate with his captors, to prevail 
 on them for liberty to accompany his young 
 friends towards Mr. Long's house. Mr. Nevin 
 easily obtained the accommodation which the 
 Peelers had before refused; and adding, that 
 he had just been at Long Hall, and was again 
 called there by his present duty, the whole 
 party moved for this important ground of ex- 
 planation. 
 
 " Your honour wouldn't let me up to the 
 Hall wid you afore," said Peery, " me nor the 
 Peelin' boys; an' may be all was dacent an' 
 kind, for the sake o' the ould uncle, that was 
 the best man in the counthry till his nephew 
 came home; bud now, if your honour plaises, 
 we 'II go in, at any rate ; an' you '11 let the boys 
 break open any dour or lock I rise up my little 
 finger at." 
 
 Mr. Nevin assented. They soon gained the
 
 190 THE NOWLANS. 
 
 house. Mr. Long received the magistrate, 
 Peery, and our friends in his library, where 
 they found him pale and trembling in an easy 
 chair. 
 
 " Have you seen him, Sir.'^" asked the afflict- 
 ed gentleman, as his brother-magistrate en- 
 tered. 
 
 " No, Mr. Long ; but he may have since 
 returned to the house." 
 
 " Then^ Sir, you can again search the house.'* 
 The uncle more than suspected that Mr. Nevin 
 was right in his conjecture ; but, from the place 
 -towards which he believed Frank had retreated, 
 he hoped all search might be turned. He was, 
 however, left by Mr. Nevin and Peery to abide 
 the issue of a closer scrutiny than had before 
 occurred. 
 
 " And now, Miss Nowlan, your business with 
 me,"" continued Mr. Long. 
 
 " Tell jt all up, like an honest woman, Peg- 
 gy," said Friar Shanaghan. 
 
 " My name is not Nowlan, now, sir," an- 
 swered Peggy, " and for some time has not 
 been."" 
 
 " And I know that,"" rejoined the friar. 
 
 " And, since last night, I too know it," re- 
 sumed Mr. Long : " the young woman has been
 
 THE NOWLANS. 191 
 
 married by you, Sir, to my wretched nephew, 
 Frank Adams, according to the forms of your 
 church." 
 
 "You have just said it, Sir," observed the 
 friar, nodding : " may we ask how you found it 
 out ?" 
 
 " By his own acknowledgment." 
 
 " Good God, Sir !" cried Peggy, " then we 
 have all wronged him ; and I — I have injured 
 him in coming before you this morning." 
 
 " Fear it not, my good young woman ; and 
 do not think I heard his avowal with his own 
 free will ; in fact, he knows not, even now, 
 that I have his secret. So, go on. What re- 
 quest do you wish to make of me on the sub- 
 ject.?^' 
 
 " He has lately disowned me as his wife, 
 Sir." 
 
 " He has," echoed the friar. 
 
 "And that I know too,"" said Mr, Long. 
 " Well ?" 
 
 " We know you, Sir, to have the kind heart 
 and the straight mind ; and we hope you will 
 just ask him not to deny it ; for we hear he 
 can, if he likes, and with all the law on his 
 side. Sir." 
 
 " I will ask him, my child, if, after the end-
 
 192 THE NOWLANS. 
 
 ing of a matter that now nearly concerns him, 
 you still wish me to do so ; and, perhaps, the 
 question will do him more honour than he me- 
 rits. Do you love him ?" 
 
 *' It s not so much for myself, Sir, that I 
 want him to do me justice." 
 
 " For whom, then ?''"' 
 
 "Oh, sir!" — and Peggy's firmness began to 
 fail. The horror of the last night was fully 
 recollected, in the thought of what a man she 
 was about to present her child to. She sicken- 
 ed ; her head swam ; she leaned on her little 
 sister, and whispered her; and in a few seconds, 
 Anty, transmitting her'to the care of the friar, 
 advanced firmly, though she blushed scarlet, 
 and said in an even voice, 
 
 " My sister Peggy is more anxious for the 
 good name and happiness of her unborn child, 
 Sir, than for her own." 
 
 " Poor young thing," sighed Mr. Long ; 
 gazing through moist eyes at his niece-in-law. 
 
 " And she hopes. Sir, that you will put it 
 out of the power of the father of her child to 
 call it a " 
 
 The zealous advocate failed in her turn, and 
 could get no farther. The old friar supphed 
 the word.
 
 THE KOWLANS. 193 
 
 " Answer me, Peggy," resumed Mr. Long, 
 as she grew better ; " I ask no idle questions ; 
 but a certain one I have before asked requires 
 a candid answer: — Do you love my unhappy 
 nephew ?" 
 
 " No, Mr. Long ! — oh ! no, no, no I"" replied 
 Peggy, as she vehemently clasped !ier hands, 
 
 "You would not, then, be content to live 
 with him (if, as I said before, he now escapes 
 a difficulty) — in competence, though not in 
 wealth, and, perhaps, in solitude ?" 
 
 Peggy yielded a negative more earnest than 
 her former one ;. the horror and revulsion of her 
 soul, called up by the word " solitude" and 
 all its associations, being quite evident to Mr. 
 Long:. 
 
 " How did this happen ? — what cause has he 
 given, for this obstinate change of feeling.? 
 When did he forfeit jour affections ?'^ 
 
 " He never had them. Sir." . 
 
 " Indeed ! Why did you marry him, then .?" 
 demanded the catechist, now beffinnirfe to re- 
 gard poor Peggy as a cold-hearted, designing 
 young person — " his hopes of a good fortune 
 were, perhaps, an inducement r"" 
 
 " No, Mr. Long ; I can spurn fortune, though 
 T am only a farmer's daughter, if fortune does 
 
 VOL. II. K
 
 194 THE XOWLANS. 
 
 not bring peace and true heart's-love. 'Tis 
 true I never, never loved Mr. Frank, and yet 
 I became his wife. The first unlucky evening — 
 unlucky in every thing but the saving you 
 from danger — "" 
 
 " I remember it," said Mr. Long, as Peggy 
 paused. 
 
 " That very first evening. Sir, I '11 not deny 
 — for a young girl is sometimes foolish and 
 thoughtless. Sir — that, for an hour or so, he 
 might have pleased me by his flattery, and his 
 fine words, and his elegant manners, that I never 
 saw before ; to say nothing of his being then, as 
 well as now, the handsomest man that — God 
 forgive me ! — ever had within him so bad a 
 heart ; — but before he left my father's roof, my 
 mind — the soul in my body — changed against 
 him ; and changed, first, from a little thing. 
 I caught him, when he thought I wasn't mind- 
 ing him, sneering at my poor father and mother 
 and my poor brother John, while they and I 
 MTere doing the best to treat him kindly ; and 
 a'most in the same moment that he was praising 
 them to my ear for all they said or did. He 
 stayed that night ; and I watched him closer, 
 and liked him worse ; and the next morning.
 
 THE NOWLAXS. 195 
 
 Sir, after you and Miss Letty came back, I 
 saw his eye and his smile full of such contempt 
 to my poor lost brother, while he pretended to 
 be going under his very feet, that from that 
 blessed hour my heart was shut for ever and 
 ever against him." 
 
 " All this is still very singular to me,"" said 
 Mr. Long, as Peggy stopped, from exhaustion. 
 
 " And to me, Sir." echoed David Shear- 
 man ; who, in no common interest, watched 
 Peggy while she spoke. 
 
 " Hould you your tongue, Davy, and let 
 the poor child go on,"" observed the friar. 
 
 " I came, with him that's lost to us all, to 
 stay a while in your house. Sir," resumed 
 Peggy, " and though his attention to me grew 
 more and more, my bias towards him grew less 
 and less. I saw nothing in him or about him 
 that wasn"'t suspicious ; and, for a stronger 
 reason, I was on my guard evei;y time we 
 met." 
 
 " May I ask that reason, Peggy ?" 
 
 " I am bound to tell you, Sir, though it 's a 
 shame for any young woman to own it. This 
 was it ; while he talked of loving me better 
 than the world, he never spoke, at first, (nor 
 
 K 2
 
 196 THE KOWLANS. 
 
 'til! I reminded him by saying he must ask me 
 of my father) of making me his wife : and 
 worse, — he would have been freer than he 
 ought if I had allowed him. It often rose in 
 my mind to tell my brother John all about it, 
 so that I might escape Mr. Frank's insults ; but 
 I was afeard of John's passion, which was 
 always great when roused, and of a quarrel 
 between him and your nephew that wouldn't 
 become his callins:." 
 
 " You say, Peggy, you referred him to your 
 father : it is not unlikely your father would 
 have assented ; then you would have been 
 bound to marry him ; and how do you reconcile 
 that to your rooted dislike ?"" 
 
 " I knew, Sir, he never intended to ask me 
 of my father ; I knew he didn''t love me for his 
 wife ; I was quite sure : or, even supposing 
 he had come over the old man, I knew I 
 could get my father to give him the go-by at 
 last." 
 
 " But still, I cannot guess a reason for your 
 marrying him of your own free wall, at last." 
 
 " It wasn't of my own free will. Sir; I 'm 
 coming to that. After a night, when, by the 
 help of a poor boy I saw here just now, 1 bare-
 
 THE NOWLANS. 197 
 
 ly escaped the worst at Mr. Frank's hands, w-e 
 didn't meet for a long while. He sent me let- 
 ters and messages, through one body or another, 
 but I kept close by my father's hearth. At last 
 he thought of means to frighten rae into seeing 
 him. He wrote me word that my unfortu- 
 nate brother John was in his power ; that with 
 one word to his bishop, he could ruin him for 
 ever ; and he swore wicked oaths, that if I did 
 not come out in the evenings to speak to him, 
 he would say the word. So I was forced to 
 steal out from time to time, to try and soften his 
 heart towards my poor brother, God above, and 
 a good trust in God, my only safeguard. At 
 first, our meetings passed off with nothing but 
 jMr. Frank's promise not to destroy John Now- 
 lan until I should see him again ; but, by de- 
 grees, your bad nephew. Sir, made me under- 
 stand that if I did not consent to sin, he would 
 take his lonti-threatened reventje. Nothing 
 else, he swore, could save us all. I broke away 
 from him again and again, only to run back to 
 him the next evening, and fall on my knees at 
 his feet for mercy. He was not to be moved. 
 And now comes the marriage. Upon the very 
 black evening that John Nowlan left his home,
 
 198 THE NOWLANS. 
 
 and that I was to leave it, for a while, with 
 him, I promised Mr. Frank to give him a last 
 word near the stile on the Dublin road. It 
 was my plan to beg from him a few days grace, 
 until I should return, after leaving my brother 
 at Nenagh : and when, with his promise, John 
 and I were on the road, far away from the near 
 danger of a quarrel with your nephew,' I 
 thought to tell him the whole story, and put 
 him on his guard against the charge that was 
 ready to fall on his head, Avoch, Sir, I knew 
 it was partly true ; but still I hoped he might 
 come to himself, repent, confess his crime to 
 his bishop beforehand with his enemy, and so 
 save himself and me, together. 
 
 " So, Sir, I met Mr. Frank in a lonesome 
 place, while John Nowlan and another were left 
 alone too. I begged my boon ; your nephew 
 would not hear of it. He swore more wickedly 
 than ever, that, if I left him that night as I 
 came, he would not sleep till he saw John's 
 bishop in Limerick town. I cried and wrung 
 my hands, and knelt to him over and over; 
 but I spoke to the heart of stone : he had no 
 pity for me. More, Sir ; he began to talk of 
 destroying me by force as well as terror ; and I
 
 I 
 
 THE NOWLANS. 199 
 
 was still at his feet, crying and beseeching, 
 when my poor lost brother — oh, Mr. Long, 
 Mr. Long ! — I cannot go on. Sir ; this good 
 
 gentleman, Father Shanaghan, will finish it for 
 
 if 
 me. 
 
 The friar readily took up the story, and de- 
 tailed his strange meeting with John by the 
 road-side ; his progress with him to the lone- 
 some field ; their meeting with Maggy, whom 
 the narrator knew ; and finally, the frantic and 
 terrible threat by which, against Peggy's incli- 
 nation repeatedly expressed, he was compelled 
 to celebrate the marriage. 
 
 " We all know," continued the old ecclesias- 
 tic, " the cause for the madness, that, happen- 
 ing just the moment before, made the poor boy 
 ripe for any thing desperate and Avild ; but, as 
 I have since had reason to believe, his temper 
 was turned into the channel for this extra- 
 vagance by certain falsehoods told him by 
 the wretched creature, Maggy Nowlan, who 
 felt jealous of my child here, and, when Mr. 
 Frank's earnestness went too far with Peggy, 
 yielded to a sudden fit of wicked revenge in set- 
 ting John upon them both. And now, Mr. 
 Long, having told out our little story, we again
 
 200 THE NOWLANS. 
 
 turn to you for all the justice, — and it 's but lit- 
 tle, too — you have it in your power to give us. 
 It is true, as my child Peggy says, that your 
 nepliew wants to appeal to the convenient laws 
 of the country, to sanction his disavowal of his 
 marriage, and to give him security in his 
 crimes. As a proof of his intentions, you must 
 know that I am, this moment, a prisoner under 
 your roof, arrested on a warrant from his fa- 
 ther, for having celebrated the marriage — " 
 
 " Good God, Mr. Shanaghan !" interrupted 
 the judge, becoming much agitated, while a 
 clamour through the house seemed additional- 
 ly to alarm him. He attempted to rise and 
 touch the bell-pull, but sank back in his chair 
 faint and trembling. David Shearman sprang 
 to it. A servant, looking frightened, appeared 
 at the door : Mr. Long asked a glass of water ; 
 tasted it, and resumed. 
 
 " Mr. Shanaghan, the justice you ask of me 
 you shall have, to the utmost of my ability to 
 confer it. First, be assured, I shall see you 
 freed from this odious arrest." 
 
 " Don't mind me. Sir," said the friar. 
 
 " Next ; if, by entreaty, threats, or promises, 
 I can prevail on my demoniacal nephew to re-
 
 THE NOWLANS. 201 
 
 marry, according to the provisions of the law, 
 this excellent young woman, whom I have more 
 sorrow than shame in even now calling my niece, 
 her child shall not come into the world legally 
 branded : but, as I before said, this chiefly de- 
 pends on Frank's escape from greater difficul- 
 ties that threaten him close. Hear that ! the 
 noise abroad, which now encreases, concerns the 
 question, and, I fear, tells against us — against 
 us all : — oh God !" as, amid loud talking, the 
 parlour door flew open, " I fear I am to be the 
 most disgraced sufferer, here."" 
 
 As he spoke, Mr. Nevin, Peery Conolly, the 
 servant before noticed as partly in Frank's con- 
 fidence, and a group of Peelers, advanced into 
 the room. 
 
 " Ax his honour's self, I say," cried Peery, 
 now much altered from his usual buffoonery of 
 manner — " My life is concarned in id, an' I must 
 see myself rightified : if he gets time to make 
 away wid the proofs in black an' white agin him, 
 who '11 beheve poor Conolly the Rake, on his own 
 word, face to face wid one o' your gintlemin ? 
 Misther Long, — your reverence, — Peery can't 
 help it ; he held his pace a long while, an', only 
 for two things, 'ud go to his grave, an' the dance 
 
 K 5
 
 202 THE NOWLANS. 
 
 on him, widout a word ; but when Masther 
 Frank wanted to wrong Peggy Nowlan, an' get 
 ray own-self hanged, out-an-out, instead iv his 
 own self, why, plase your honour, the biggest 
 fool couldn't wait to let him." 
 
 " Pardon me my most disagreeable duty, Mr. 
 Long," said Mr. Nevin, " but the facts are 
 these — you know the capital offence with which 
 your nephew stands charged ; we left you to 
 search the house, a second time, for him, or for 
 certain documents against him ; neither have yet 
 been found : — but this young man insists that, 
 in a concealed and barricaded cellar, we shall 
 come at least on the documents : the door he 
 points out is trebly barred and locked ; we sus- 
 pect it to be fastened at the inside also; we 
 have demanded the keys from your servant, he 
 says they are lost ; we believe he misinforms us; 
 but at all events, before we proceed to burst 
 open the door, at which some of my officers 
 remain stationed, we are anxious to consult your 
 wishes." 
 
 " Give up the keys. Sir," said Mr. Long to 
 the servant, after a very agonized pause. 
 
 The man insisted they were lost even before 
 he came to the house, and that the vault had 
 never since been opened or used.
 
 THE NOWLANS. 203 
 
 " The papers are snug in id, for all that," in- 
 sisted Peery Conolly ; " I 'm not likely to be 
 wrong ; one that helped to hide them there, and 
 brought them at the dead (/ night, from the 
 middle o' the wood, where they were left, as 
 soon as they were gutted, — that body, an' it's a 
 woman, tould me so. Sure, from the first hour 
 she spoke to me, an' thought to 'list me for the 
 job, she an' me are as thick as two brothers ; 
 tho' I found manes to stay away that night, an' 
 to throw dust in her eyes, to make her think me 
 loyal to the cause, for all that. Yes, musha, 
 what a fool I am ; and there stands the colleen 
 o' the world," pointing to Peggy, " for whose 
 sake I pretended to listen to Maggy, and lam as 
 much o' the matther as I could, becase I had a 
 bit iv a rason o' my own for thinkin' that the 
 man that wanted her to like him was at the 
 bottom iv id all." 
 
 " I warn you," resumed Mr. Nevin to the 
 servant, who still persisted, however, in his 
 statement. 
 
 "• Then you will excuse us, Mr. Long, our 
 necessary duty : follow me, men ;"" and the ma- 
 gistrate, Peery, the Peelers, and the servant. 
 again left the room.
 
 204 THE NOWLANS. 
 
 In a few moments, heavy, battering sounds 
 were heard. The sisters, the friar, young Da- 
 vid, and Mr. Long, listened some time in breath- 
 less silence. 
 
 " This is wrong," at last said Mr. Long; " I 
 should not sit here : I ought to see the result 
 with my own eyes : pray assist me, Sir ;" stretch- 
 ing out his arm to David Shearman. 
 
 The young man readily gave the help re- 
 quired, and both went out. The friar, with 
 Peggy and Anty clinging to him, soon fol- 
 lowed. 
 
 All passed through the kitchen apartments 
 into a broad area, over which the hall-door 
 steps were supported by an arch. In the side- 
 wall of the area, detached from the house, and 
 under the steps, was a low door, fitting very 
 tight to its jambs, made of thick oak plank, 
 and secured as Mr. Nevin had described. It 
 obviously gave entrance to a vault, excavated 
 under a continuation of the steps that, tier after 
 tier, fell down into the lawn, some distance 
 from the house. Around it were grouped the 
 Peelers, headed by Mr. Nevin, and assisted by 
 Peery, still battering with a sledge, a large 
 stone, and the buts of three carbines, at the
 
 THE NOWLANS. 205 
 
 tough oak, and, to this moment, with little 
 success. 
 
 " Let us never mind the door itself, but try 
 the sledge on this padlock, an' nothing else," 
 said one of the Peelers. The hint seemed 
 good. The strongest man stripped, and by a 
 succession of crashing and well-aimed strokes, 
 broke the padlock into pieces. Two iron bars, 
 which it had kept fixed, were then easily taken 
 away ; still the door was fast, and now it was 
 evident that it was indeed double-locked on the 
 inside. 
 
 All looked at each other when this be- 
 came certain ; and while Peery Conolly, 
 after drawing his breath hard, remarked, 
 " Christ save us ! the bouchal is within, his 
 own-self," Mr. Long was seen to grow dread- 
 fully agitated, and the sisters shrunk back as 
 far as the area allowed them. 
 
 Again the sledge was applied to that part, 
 at the side of the door, where the man supposed 
 the lock to be. At every clash it gave, poor 
 Peggy's heart shrunk, and her ears buzzed 
 with the sound. Still she could not keep her 
 eyes from the door, which, yielding to a tre- 
 mendous stroke, and opening on its hinges into
 
 206 
 
 THE NOWLANS. 
 
 the vault, at last flew open, and, to the surprise 
 if not terror of all, allowed vent to a gush of 
 thick, suffocating smoke, that completely hid a 
 view of the interior. 
 
 " Murther V roared Peery ; " he 's afther 
 burnin' them — thafs the smoke o' the blaze 
 they made."" 
 
 " In, men, in!" exclaimed Mr. Nevin to the 
 Peelers, who, taken by surprise, stepped back 
 as the unexpected volume of smoke rushed into 
 their faces. 
 
 " Suppose we just guard the door well, your 
 honour, till this cloud passes off", an' we can see 
 what we 're doin' .?" answered the corporal. 
 
 Mr. Nevin assented. The men cocked their 
 carbines and formed, at some distance, round 
 the door. Our friends could see between them. 
 In a very short time, the interior of the vault 
 became so far cleared, that all were able to dis- 
 cern a dying flame at its remote end, and the 
 figure of a man stooped over it. After another 
 pause, the features of Frank became visible, 
 haggard, and seemingly stupificd. Kneeling 
 on both knees, he held, as if unconsciously, a 
 torn paper in one hand, and in the other a pis- 
 tol, which more than once he pointed to hi*
 
 THE NOW LANS. 207 
 
 head, but withdrew again, in want of nerve or 
 of self-possession. Mr. Long groaned aloud ; 
 Peggy shrieked and swooned away ; the old 
 friar crossed himself; the Peelers looked pe- 
 trified, and did not stir. 
 
 " Seize him, and save all the papers you 
 can,"" said Mr. Nevin ; the first to awaken to 
 his duty. The men rushed in : Frank dis- 
 charged at random, and without effect, his pis- 
 tol, and then passively submitted to his fate. 
 Mr. Nevin, assisted by others, stamped upon 
 the fire and extinguished it ; collected frag- 
 ments of paper that it had left unconsum- 
 ed, and others that lay nearly whole around 
 the vault, together with several leathern bags, 
 cut open ; they were conveyed into the area, 
 and, after a moment's investigation, no doubt 
 remained that many of the letters and all the 
 mail-bags which, some time before, had been 
 robbed from the night-coach, now lay before 
 Mr. Nevin. 
 
 " This is dreadful, indeed," said that gen- 
 tleman, passing to Mr. Long, taking his arm, 
 and walking him aside. 
 
 " Mr. Nevin," began the miserable uncle, 
 grasping the arm of his friend, but for a time
 
 208 THE KOWLANS. 
 
 he could not eo on. At leno-th he was able to 
 say — " Do you think, Sir, I deserve the appall- 
 ing disgrace this must bring upon me? Oh! 
 Mr. Nevin, do you not pity me .P" 
 
 " In my heart and soul I do, my excellent 
 friend." 
 
 " What, then 't am I to live to witness his 
 shameful end ? If you pity me, indeed — " 
 
 *' Hold, Mr. Long ; you and I cannot have a 
 word on that ; but it is natural you should 
 wish to see hiin alone, and you shall : men, 
 bring the prisoner up-stairs to Mr. Long's li- 
 brary, and while he and his uncle speak some 
 time together, guard the door carefully. I 
 leave the house, Mr. Long.*"* 
 
 Ordering Peggy and her sister to be kindly 
 looked after by the housekeeper, Mr. Long 
 was able to muster sufficient nerve to o-ain 
 his library, followed by Frank, who entered 
 it unguarded after him. The apartment had 
 a double door, both with locks. The mo- 
 ment the uncle and nephew were alone, Frank 
 started from his lethargy; his eye sparkled; 
 he glanced around ; and, as Mr. Long sank into 
 a chair, he softly locked the inside door, and 
 put the key into his pocket.
 
 THE NOWLANS. 209 
 
 11 
 
 5 
 
 " Now, uncle, you must aid me to escape 
 he said in a whisper, advancing. 
 
 " Miserable creature ! it is for that we are 
 here." 
 
 " Quick then, uncle, quick,"" going to a 
 closet door ; " your key, Sir : this little place 
 is fast, but I can drop from the window into 
 the garden ; from it, escape into tlie village ; 
 and if you stand to your promise, by staying 
 here for half an hour, there is a neck-chance 
 yet : — your key. Sir." 
 
 *' On two conditions, I wilJ, perhaps, con- 
 sent to aid your escape from a felon''s death." 
 
 " I fear I have no time to spare for condi- 
 tions ; but say them, uncle." 
 
 " First, you shall transport yourself to Ame- 
 
 rica." 
 
 " What to do there. Sir .'' — Starve ?'' 
 " I will supply you with a competence." 
 " What do you call a competence, uncle }''' 
 " Infamous, hard-hearted man ! at such a 
 time as this can you stop to drive a bargain ?"" 
 " Well, Sir, no matter ; your other condition." 
 " You shall, before you leave this house, 
 submit to be married by a Protestant clergy- 
 man to the woman you have already ruined."
 
 310 THE NOW LANS. 
 
 " Hush, good uncle, don't speak so loud ; 
 that 's all confounded nonsense ; it can't be 
 done." 
 
 " Monster ! dare you deny me i^" 
 
 '• Tut, Sir; there ""s no dare in the case; I 
 only say it is impossible." 
 
 " Then meet your fate." 
 
 " And that 's absurdity, too, uncle ; — stay 
 where you are," pressing him back in his chair, 
 as Mr. Long was about to move out of the 
 room ; " sit quietly, Sir, and let me have your 
 key." 
 
 " So, Frank ; — and if I refuse, you are ready, 
 I suppose, to get it by some such means as oc- 
 curred to you for getting rid of me, when you 
 conjectured, and rightly conjectured, that I 
 was in your closet, beside your counsellor, last 
 night ?" 
 
 Frank started back, and glared on his uncle. 
 
 " You know the worst then : well, it will 
 warn you to fear the worst : — your key, Sir, 
 your key !" 
 
 As he spoke, in a hissing whisper, his hand 
 grasped Mr. Long's throat. Horror, acting 
 upon excessive nervousness, instantly deprived 
 the feeble old gentleman of all sense. When
 
 THE NOWLANS. 211 
 
 he recovered from his swoon, it was in conse- 
 quence of the breaking open of his library door, 
 and the quick entry of the Peelers there sta- 
 tioned ; who, after a considerable lapse of time, 
 became impatient and suspicious, as they 
 knocked without getting any answer, and list- 
 ened without hearing voices. They found Mr. 
 Long alone in the apartment, lying on the 
 floor, and his neck showing marks of some 
 violence. The closet-door was open ; so was the 
 window. Pursuit was raised after the fugitive, 
 which continued several days, but he was never 
 discovered or apprehended by them. Mr. 
 Nevin and Mr. Long stood clear of all suspi- 
 cion of having aided his escape. 
 
 When Peggy Nowlan was conveyed, sense- 
 less, to her father's house, a premature labour 
 came on ; she gave birth to an infant which 
 died almost instantly, and, for many weeks, the 
 mother's life was despaired of.
 
 212 THE KOWLANS. 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 But sorrows wear down ; and when they do, 
 the persons they have most keenly afflicted en- 
 g-aere, according to the law of their nature, in 
 
 OCT' o 
 
 die usual duties of their situation. After some 
 months, Anty Nowlan returned to her nunnery 
 school, leaving Peggy quite re-established in 
 health, and much cheered by the constant 
 visits of the dry humorist, Friar Shanaghan, and 
 of his young, handsome, and ingenuous friend, 
 David Shearman. It was suspected indeed, 
 that, half-recollecting the early childish inti- 
 macy to which we have heard the friar allude, 
 and charmed with Peggy's sufferings, virtue, 
 and (we must not forget) beauty too, David 
 felt a pecuHar attraction in his visits ; while 
 some went so far as to whisper, that if Peggy 
 Nowlan thought herself disengaged from her 
 solemn nuptial vows to a bad husband, she 
 would experience little ill-humour at hearing
 
 THE NOWLAXS. 213 
 
 him explain what that peculiar attraction meant. 
 But, in her present situation, a widow indeed, 
 yet a wife too, Peggy never gave the shghtest 
 proof of such a sentiment ; and David was, on 
 his part, correspondingly cautious and delicate. 
 About a year after Frank's flight, there ap- 
 peared, however, good cause to leave her bosom 
 free, if, indeed, Peggy had any hidden secret 
 to intimate. Mr. Long, still and more than 
 ever an invalid, often called to see her ; and 
 looking in, .as usual, one evening, he asked, 
 with much solemnity of manner, a private in- 
 terview with Peggy. "When they were alone, 
 he took out a letter Avith a black seal, and, 
 warning her to prepare for a shock, put it into 
 her hands. She read the foUowin"; : — 
 
 o 
 
 " To Charles Long, Esq. 
 " My race is ended, and I am at least bound 
 to warn you that it is. An intimation of my 
 being alive, and likely, in any situation, to con- 
 tinue to live, could not interest, and might 
 disturb you ; but the announcement of my 
 coming death, invited by myself, will give you 
 relief. My exit from this world will be dis- 
 graceful ; but the disgrace cannot extend be-
 
 J214 THE NOWLANS. 
 
 yond my own person ; it will not reach even 
 my name, whicli, since I parted you, has 
 been carefully concealed. So, you have but 
 to keep your own secret, and no one will ever 
 ' repi'oach you on my account. Show this letter 
 to Peggy Nowlan, and, when she reads it, tell 
 her it is all that shall remain of 
 
 " Your accursed ncphev/, 
 
 " Frank." 
 
 The letter was dated from London, but from 
 no particular place in London. 
 
 Peggy felt indeed shocked, but horror more 
 than grief overpowered her. She wept too ; 
 but it was in sorrow for the dark death of a 
 bad man, who had injured her and lost his 
 own soul, rather than the tribute of affection to 
 a departed friend. Her solemn assertions, that 
 she had never loved the person whom extra- 
 ordinary circumstances compelled her to accept 
 as a husband, have been recorded, and they 
 will be taken as the perfect truth, for indeed 
 they were so. Hence, she could experience 
 none of the violent grief that comes from our 
 first thought of being left desolate, irreparably 
 desolate, by the loss of a sharer of our heart.
 
 THE NOWLANS. 215 
 
 Nor, after the momentary escape of the pecuhar 
 feelings attributed to her, did Peggy continue 
 to weep, or remain insensible to the natural 
 relief brought to her in the melancholy letter 
 she had read. We wish her to appear above 
 affectation of any kind ; and it was impossi- 
 ble for her heart, yet young, and not wholly 
 forsaken by some of the hopes of youth, to 
 acknowledge as a cause of lengthened regret, 
 the death of a man whose hfe was at once her 
 shame and her bondage ; and who, by a right, 
 that he was not even generous enough to ad- 
 mit to her advantage, doomed her to all the 
 miseries of a lonely and unenjoyed existence. 
 
 In a little time she was composed enouo-h 
 to hint to Mr. Long her anxiety for an explana- 
 tion, according to his judgment, of the letter. 
 
 " What," she asked, " could be meant by « a 
 death invited by himself ?' " and her kind uncle- 
 in-law, who, by the way, often requested her 
 to address him as a relative, answered, that he 
 was not quite certain on that afflicting point. 
 The expression might allude to the wretched 
 Frank's death by his own hand ; (Peggy, who 
 had not thought of this, shuddered) or to 
 his death decreed by the laws of his country.
 
 216 THE NOWLANS. 
 
 and brought on by his own acts. Either was 
 a horrible supposition, and both Mr. Long and 
 Peggy showed, by their silence and their sup- 
 pressed groans, that they felt it was. But Mr. 
 Long at length added his presumption, that 
 the second case supposed was the more likely ; 
 and he pi'oduced to Peggy a London news- 
 paper, containing reports of the trial and ex- 
 ecution for forgery of a young man, who, on 
 account of the coincidence of dates, and the 
 minute description of his age, manner, and con- 
 jectured rank, the miserable uncle had little 
 doubt would, notwithstanding a different name, 
 turn out, upon enquiry, to be his nephew. 
 
 Mr. Long proposed to make enquiries, then ? 
 Peggy again asked ; and he told her that, in a 
 strictly private and cautious way, such was his 
 intention. Indeed, a proof of the terribk 
 event, apart from Frank's own assertions in 
 the letter, became indispensable, in order to 
 arrive at certainty ; and certainty it was his 
 duty, for many reasons, to attain. For Peggy's 
 own sake, he deemed himself baund to make a 
 secret investigation ; and accordingly he would, 
 that day, write to an old and esteemed friend
 
 THE NOWLANS. 217 
 
 in London, every way qualified to take his in- 
 structions, and attain his object. 
 
 He left the house, after cautioning her not 
 yet to communicate the matter to her family ; 
 parting from Peggy with a kindness and re- 
 spect that, since the discoveries and explana- 
 tions at his house, had marked his manner 
 towards her. 
 
 The increased seriousness which attended 
 Peggy's silence before her friends, was seen 
 by all; and her mother, friar Shanaghan, 
 and David Shearman, questioned her about it, 
 but got no answer, except that she could not 
 yet inform them of the cause. Meantime, she 
 awaited with natural anxiety the answer from 
 Mr. Long's London friend ; not that she had 
 any of the sHght doubts started by her amiable 
 adviser; for, to Peggy's mind, the letter did 
 not admit of a question, and was decisive on 
 the main point ; but, in very truth, she wished 
 to watch the effect of the news on one certain 
 person. 
 
 In about three weeks, Mr. Long submitted 
 to her his friend's answer. It left no uncer- 
 tainty on his mind. Although Frank's real 
 
 VOL. II. I'
 
 218 THE NOWLANS. 
 
 name, as his shocking letter premised, remained 
 liidden from every one in London, still the ac- 
 counts supplied by the London officers of the 
 individual executed immediately after the date 
 of the letter, confirmed the presumptions of the 
 newspaper report, and seemed to propose down- 
 right certainty by adding, that this person was a 
 native of Ireland, educated in an English college, 
 and once heir to a considerable Irish property. 
 So Mr. Long now left Frank's letter in Peg- 
 gy's hands, together with that of his correspon- 
 dent, and empowered her to break the news to 
 her family, agreeing with her, however, that, 
 outside her family, Frank's death should mere- 
 ly be stated as an authenticated fact ; the hide- 
 ous manner of it entirely suppressed. 
 
 As she accompanied her good friend to the 
 door, another good friend entered. Friar Sha- 
 nao-han. Peggy was glad to see him at this 
 juncture. In a few moments, with the old man 
 one of her council, she laid her documents be- 
 fore her father and mother. Little was said at 
 any side; but all seemed as much pleased as 
 shocked at the sudden announcement. Mrs. 
 Nowlan could not, indeed, repress some harsh 
 intimations of her thanks to Heaven for the
 
 THE NOWLANS. 219 
 
 liberation of her child ; old Daniel Nowlan wept, 
 and took Peggy in his arms : the Friar, like 
 Macpherson's ghost, " hummed a surly tune," 
 that still told, however, to those who knew him, 
 more content than dissatisfaction ; and then, 
 suddenly recollecting that he had to call at 
 neighbour Shearman's that evening, he undid 
 the grey's bridle from the hasp of the door, 
 slowly deposited himself between his wallets 
 on her back, and she, as slowly, wended with 
 him out of sight. Peggy thought she could 
 guess the Friar's business at neighbour Shear- 
 man's, and she held down her head to hide the 
 alternate blushes and paleness that the guess, 
 its associations, its doubts, hopes, and fears, sent 
 from her heart to her cheeks. 
 
 " David will come to-morrow morning, if he 
 comes at all," thought Peggy, as she laid her 
 head on her pillow, a little disappointed that he 
 had not come that evening. But David did 
 not come the next morning ; nor the next ; nor 
 the next : in fact, a week wore away without a 
 visit from him. Peggy wept plentifully in her 
 chamber, but also rallied her heart into spirit, 
 and framed some hiffh resolutions. " He is 
 shy to ask the love of one like me, one that was 
 
 L 2
 
 220 THE NOWLANS. 
 
 ruined and shamed by a lost creature," she 
 said ; and this first view it was that drowned her 
 in tears ; — " but let him ;" and the tears were 
 now hastily dried up : " if David Shearman 
 takes that part, Peggy Nowlan thinks him 
 more below her, than she is below him; my 
 misfortune is not my fault ; and I was not bad 
 nor sinful, nor, with my free will, even that 
 poor sinner's lawful wife. God pities me, but 
 does not blame me ; and all good men the 
 same: my heart tells me that: so let him, 
 aroon ; he '11 never know I wanted other 
 thoughts from him at any rate." 
 
 It was early in the morning, after the lapse 
 of a week since David's last visit, that Peggy 
 held this little soliloquy in her chamber ; and 
 she had scarce concluded, when David Shear- 
 man rode hastily into the yard, leaped from his 
 horse, and with a flushed cheek, and a brisk 
 steyj, entered the kitchen. She heard him from 
 her room bid the old people good-morrow ; 
 and then the voices of all sank into a low confi- 
 dential tone, and so continued for some time. 
 Peggy's views of things began to change; and 
 when, with a good-humour that for years 
 had been a stranger to the old woman's face and
 
 THE NOWLANS. 221 
 
 manner, her mother entered her chamber to say 
 that Davy was outside, and was asking about 
 her, after a week's absence from home on par- 
 ticular business, the indifferent way in which 
 Peggy said she would be in the kitchen by and 
 by, belied the fluttering of her bosom, and, we 
 fear, did not ensure to Miss Nowlan the flaw- 
 less sincerity we have just been over-zealous to 
 invest her with. 
 
 When she slowly came into the kitchen, with 
 her " shining morning face," (not unattended 
 to, by the way, during the time she had kept 
 David waiting,) and a bunch of flax in her hand, 
 she found it occupied by David alone. This 
 discomposed, a little, the studied serenity of her 
 manner; but her greeting of him was still as 
 quiet as it was mild ; and Peggy proceeded 
 with much care and composure to attach the 
 head of flax to her wheel, seat herself, pass the 
 thread through the flyer, and, finally, begin to 
 spin very hard. 
 
 David was not, by nature, a forward lad 
 upon any occasion : upon the present one, he 
 was shy and embarrassed. He asked her many 
 questions about her occupation ; such as " did the 
 thread often break ? wasn't it very hard to keep
 
 222 THE NOWLANS. 
 
 it always of a thickness? and how in the world 
 did she manage to keep the wheel going round 
 without tiring her foot ?" and to these curious 
 enquiries Peggy gave quiet, intelligible answers, 
 accompanied by quiet, peace-making, yet cau- 
 tious smiles, until, at length, David abruptly 
 broke the real matter in hand. 
 
 "Father Shanaghan had been talking to him, 
 he said, last night, late, just after he came 
 home, and told him all about the two letters 
 Mr. Long received from London ; (Peggy red- 
 dened and spun harder ;) and she knew well," 
 David continued, " how he felt on the subject. 
 To make a long story short, it left them both 
 free, and allowed him, without offence, to ask 
 her " 
 
 David was interrupted by a phenomenon of 
 which he had just been conjecturing the proba- 
 bility, that is to say, the snapping of Peggy's 
 thread on the flyer; and (but we fear it is 
 rather an old phrase) the simultaneous snapping 
 of the thread of his argument was the inevita- 
 ble consequence. Both remained silent until 
 she had repaired the accident ; and then Peggy 
 spun on both threads together. 
 
 " I'm no child to mistake what you mean,
 
 THE XOWLANS. 
 
 223 
 
 David, and no flirt to pretend I do. But, for 
 the present, we can say little more on the head 
 of it. You make me happy, I won't deny; 
 happier than I thought I ever could be." Tears 
 ran down her cheeks as her head remained bent 
 over her spinning. " Yet hear what I have to 
 say: first and foremost, there's your father; 
 he's richer than my father, and, we hear, higher 
 in his notions too," 
 
 " Dear Peggy," interrupted David, " Mr. 
 Shanaghan and I have already spoken to him ; 
 and the knowledge that Mr. Long intends to 
 leave you a handsome fortune, Peggy, entirely 
 reconciles my father to our coming together." 
 
 Peggy at last stopped her whirring wheel, 
 and looking straight in David's face, asked, 
 " Why, then, what 's that you say, Davy 
 Shearman .?" 
 
 Her admirer explained that Friar Shanaghan, 
 to whom Mr. Long had conmmnicated his in- 
 tention, was his authority for what he stated. 
 Peggy, after hstening attentively^ burst out 
 into hearty tears, only interrupted by grateful 
 prayers for her benefactor. 
 
 " But, though that's a great blessing, David, 
 particularly when we didn't expect it," she re-
 
 224 THE NOWLANS. 
 
 sumed after a pause, " still I have something 
 to say. So, hear me out; without stopping me 
 again, I bid you. No matter what you, and 
 Mr. Long, and Father Shanaghan, and all 
 other good people think, there will be some of 
 the neighbours saying that my unfortunate 
 marriage with that poor man is a stain on me, 
 and must be a stain on you, David, and may 
 be on whoever is to come after us — let me go 
 on, I bid you again: and though you think 
 
 very differently now, you may no, I will 
 
 not say you can ever entirely change your mind : 
 but some things that neither of us foresee may 
 help to bias it ; or your father, or some of your 
 family, may take second thoughts. Now, Davy, 
 I'll not run such a chance: no earthly creature 
 must have it to say that I took any one short ; 
 it is my duty to myself to leave no danger in 
 the way of being called a designer, or a shame 
 to the people I'm to go among, or beholding 
 to their pity, or their good-nature, or anything 
 else they may feel for me, at the present time, 
 for notice and love. It shall never be said that 
 Peggy Nowlan was under a favour for the 
 good will of her husband, or her husband's 
 family : and the long and the i-hort is this,
 
 THE NOWLANS. 225 
 
 Davy, — let us all take time to consider with 
 ourselves ; and if your liking can keep as it is 
 for two years " 
 
 " Two years !" interrupted David ; and 
 thereupon he proceeded to urge all the argu- 
 ments and expostulations usual in such cases ; 
 but Peggy remained firm. 
 
 " It is not a thought of the moment, Davy ; 
 and you '11 find me fixed in it. Besides, no 
 matter what kind of a man he was that 's now 
 gone to his long account, he was my husband ; 
 and though the world knows I never loved nor 
 liked him, it 'ill be only decent and proper, 
 and expected from me, not to make a new 
 engagement for some time to come. And there's 
 another reason ; and without offence, or a cold 
 heart to you, the strongest, maybe; at all 
 events, God sees it ought to be the strongest. 
 
 My poor brother John" Peggy melted 
 
 again, and ithe rest of her speech went on in tears 
 
 " Tale or tidings we have never heard of hirii 
 
 since the black day he left his lodgings in Dublin : 
 thinking to get a letter from him, day after day, 
 we made no enquiries since, or nothing like what 
 we ought to make ; so that whether he 's in Ire- 
 land, or gone abroad, or on the earth, or could 
 
 L 5
 
 226 
 
 THE NOWLANS. 
 
 under the earth, or stretched in the bottom o' the 
 sea, none of us can tell, nor any body for us. And 
 all this I have long been thinking about, for I 
 think a good deal, Davy. Before you spoke, it 
 was in my mind to ask a friend to go with me 
 to Dublin, and let us do our best in tracing 
 him out, or knowing his fate, and the fate of 
 the poor young lady that went along with him : 
 and now I tell you, plump and honestly, if 
 there was no other reason for you and me tak- 
 ing our time, I '11 never hear of changing my 
 condition until the poor priest John is found 
 to be hving or dead ; or until two years, at the 
 least, are past and gone without tidings of him ; 
 and more, Davy, I hope and expect, that who- 
 ever has my good opinion at heart will do their 
 endeavours to get us satisfaction in this matter, 
 if it is to be got, or leave no stone unturned to 
 get it, any how." 
 
 Again David pleaded eloquently, but in vain. 
 It will be perceived that Peggy kept rather a 
 high hand with him ; and, indeed, no ladie-love 
 of one of the giant-fighters of old, ever insisted 
 on the probation and services of her ridiculous 
 knight with more sedate peitinacity, than did 
 she on the terms now proposed to David Shear-
 
 THE NOWLANS. 227 
 
 man. Seeing her really in earnest, the young 
 man made a virtue of a necessity, and offered 
 himself, in her place, to accompany to Dublin 
 the friend to whom she had alluded. j\Ir. Ken- 
 nedy, the clergyman, was the individual meant : 
 Peggy and he had before spoken together ; and 
 so, after such signing and sealing of the compact, 
 so long under discussion, as generally ends simi- 
 lar compacts, David Shearman went off that 
 moment to seek Mi. Kennedy. 
 
 In a few weeks both set out for Dublin, and, 
 after a long stay, returned with but vague tid- 
 ings. The result of all the enquiries they were 
 able with much planning and difficulty to make, 
 was, that in all probability, a John Nowlan, 
 whose name appeared entered as a passenger to 
 Newfoundland, about the time in question, 
 might prove to be their John Nowlan. Having 
 taken care to obtain the name of the ship in 
 which he sailed, together with the names of the 
 captain and owners, Mr. Kennedy proposed to 
 Peggy, on his coming home, to write, conjointly 
 with him, to the proper official persons in New- 
 foundland, enclosing letters for the exile, and 
 giving all the necessary details and references ; 
 and accordingly despatches were forwarded, and
 
 228 THE NOWLANS. 
 
 Peggy awaited, in patient anxiety, the expected 
 answers. None came to hand. Six months ; a 
 year ; more than a year elapsed without a line, 
 a word to reheve her suspense ; and the conclu- 
 sion of David's probation drew very near, when, 
 by other means, some news seemed to transpire 
 of the fate of her unfortunate brother. 
 
 Anty, her school accomplishments supposed 
 to be completed, came home at this period, now 
 grown, since last we saw her, into a pretty and 
 interesting girl of seventeen. Upon the even- 
 ing of her arrival, both sisters walked out in 
 the by-road before their father's door, to give 
 and impart the minute and delightful confidence 
 that a separation of some years keeps in store for 
 a final meeting between friends. As they talked 
 over all their little secrets and feelings, Peggy's 
 engagements with David Shearman and their 
 brother's unknown fate forming the principal 
 theme, three or four weather-beaten men, dressed 
 in the rags of sailors' jackets and trowsers, 
 passed the stile on their way to a wretched vil- 
 lage, and stopped and asked for charitable as- 
 sistance. Their ship had been wrecked, they 
 said, during her voyage from Newfoundland to 
 Dublin, upon the northern coast of Kerry, and.
 
 THE NOWLANS. 
 
 229 
 
 while some of their hands walked for other points 
 of the kingdom, they were on their way to the 
 metropolis, hoping to get a re-engagement. The 
 two girls pressed each other's arms, which were 
 closely interwoven, at the mention of Newfound- 
 land, and, in much agitation and some fright, 
 gave the poor men a little money, who immedi- 
 ately left the stile, and proceeded towards the 
 group of dirty cabins called a village. Peggy 
 had it on the tip of her tongue to ask a certain 
 question, in reference to a certain name, but 
 her heart failed her. She was taken by surprise 
 in the first place, and then the men looked so 
 strange and hard-featured, the night fell so fast, 
 and her situation from the house, though at no 
 great distance, was so lonely, that, particvdarly 
 with her young sister to take care of, she could 
 not bring herself to encourage their stay. She was 
 therefore about to turn and walk liome, when 
 another ragged sailor, or else one of the former 
 who had come back, limped wearily to the stile; 
 and leaning his chin on his hands, and his elbows 
 on it, gazed wistfully towards the house. Again 
 the sisters pressed each other's hands, step- 
 ping farther from the stranger, but keeping 
 their eyes on him. A long and deep sigh
 
 230 THE NOWLANS. 
 
 reached their ears; their hearts fluttered, and 
 they looked more earnestly. But that worn 
 and rigidly-marked face, shaded by long stream- 
 ing hair, and but vaguely shown in the in- 
 creasing twilight, gave no certainty, though it 
 aroused wild and poignant anticipation. The sea- 
 buffeted man once more sighed loudly, and began 
 to move ; and darting from their hitherto secret 
 place of observation, they ran, with the panic 
 of lonely women upon them, to the shelter of 
 their father's roof. That night, lying down side 
 by side in the same bed, they did not sleep ; 
 their conjectures and their hopes were too lively, 
 or they blamed themselves for their sudden and 
 unaccountable fright ; or, in every flutter of the 
 door to the light night-breeze, rose up on their 
 elbows to listen for the timid knock of a fallen 
 and repentant brother, craving, after years of 
 exile, trial, and penance, merciful admittance 
 into the paternal liouse. They were wholly dis- 
 appointed, however, in all their little romantic 
 expectations ; — even the morning showed them 
 no tired and sorrowful man, such as they had 
 seen last night, walking up to the threshold ; 
 they went to the village and learned that the 
 poor sailors had rested but a few hours, and
 
 THE NOWLANS. 
 
 231 
 
 then one and all pursued their weary way ; and 
 whether their brother really appeared before 
 them, or that some wave-tossed wretch, in his 
 momentary transit by their peaceful-looking 
 house, had 
 
 " Lean'd o'er its humble gate and thought the while. 
 Oh that for me some home like this would smile !" 
 
 Between these two cases the innocent girls 
 remained in painful doubt, and spent many 
 conjectures. 
 
 But another incident soon made them dwell 
 most on their first supposition. Their uncle, 
 Murrough Nowlan, had been to Dublin in the 
 caravan, no one could tell why, not even him- 
 self; about a week after the little adventure 
 noted, he returned, and stopped to sleep at his 
 brother Daniers ; and at a late period of the 
 nio-ht came out, from time to time, and between 
 stated sups of his punch, with a strange story. 
 As he was about to walk, he said, from the 
 place he slept in Dublin, to the place where the 
 caravan was to set out for the country, he 
 wanted some one or other to carry a trunk for 
 him, while he carried his valise himself. Look- 
 ing about so early in the moi-ning, he could see
 
 232 THE NOW LANS. 
 
 no one at all likely to do the job, when a kind 
 of worndovvn sailor passed him, and begged a 
 penny for God's sake. Murrough agreed to 
 give the ahus for God's sake, provided the sup- 
 plicant could nuinage the trunk ; and no sooner 
 said than done ; they walked off to the caravan, 
 side by side, both laden ; the luggage was 
 stowed ; Murrough in the van, along with ele- 
 ven fellow passengers ; the penny was bestow- 
 ed on the temporary porter ; and as the driver's 
 whip cracked, and just as the curious machine 
 began to lumber off — " The blessing o' poor 
 John Nowlan be with you !" said the mendicant 
 sailor. 
 
 Well ? every body asked : Well, answered 
 Murrough, that was all he knew about it. — 
 What ! did he not stop and get out, and speak 
 to his supposed nephew ? Yes ; he did ask the 
 driver to stop, and he wouldn't. — Then, in 
 truth, he did iiot get out ? No ; how could 
 he ? — Was he even sure of the person who call- 
 ed himself John Nowlan.? He must at once 
 have recollected his face 't He never saw it ; 
 he happened to be looking on the ground (no 
 great accident neither) when the poor fellow 
 stopped ; while they made their bargain, there-
 
 THE NOWLANS. 233 
 
 fore, he saw no more of him than the feet; 
 while they walked to the caravan he never once 
 thought of minding him ; while he got in, his 
 behind was turned to him; and when the words 
 were spoken, he was hid from the speaker, who 
 stood at the side of the vehicle. 
 
 No farther could Murrough go; but even 
 upon this information Daniel Nowlan resolved 
 to start for Dublin the next morning. Peg- 
 gy pleaded hard to accompany her father, 
 but he mildly refused her request, and her 
 mother crossly lifted up her voice against 
 it ; and as David Shearman happened to 
 be in another part of the kingdom, and was 
 not expected home for some time, Peggy, 
 with a sad and ominous heart, saw the old man 
 set out alone on his long journey, in the mid- 
 dle of a hard winter. 
 
 In a week at least, Daniel Nowlan was to 
 come home, or write home to his family ; but 
 the week passed and they had not seen nor ' 
 heard from him ; and while the anxiety of the 
 two girls became excessive, their poor mother, 
 long shaken with the sickness of the heart, and, 
 as Peggy before intimated, half blind with in- 
 cessant weeping, lay in her bed, a victim to
 
 234 
 
 THE NOWLANS. 
 
 peevishness, real distemper, and almost de- 
 spair, at the new misery of the long and unex- 
 plained absence of her husband. Another 
 week wore away in terrible suspense, and the 
 third was coming to a close, when David Shear- 
 man's father rode over to inform Peggy, that a 
 slight acquaintance of his, who stopped a night 
 at his house, on his way from the metropolis to 
 a remote county, brought the sad intelligence 
 of Daniel Nowlan having been left by him ill 
 of typhus fever, a week ago, at the old Brazen 
 Head Inn, in Dublin. It was night when 
 Peggy heard this ; she did not take a moment 
 to consider, but immediately proceeded, assist- 
 ed by her weeping sister, to pack up a few 
 things, and after twelve o'clock she bade that 
 sister adieu, at the stile on the Dublin road 
 before spoken of, where a night coach, for 
 which they had some time been watching, stop- 
 ped at their hail, and afforded Peggy a seat, 
 but, owing to previous occupation, only an out- 
 side one. 
 
 But for the illness of their mother, Anty 
 would not have been prevented from bearing her 
 sister company on the first long and unprotect- 
 ed journey she had ever taken ; and it was with
 
 THE NOWLANS. 
 
 235 
 
 anguish and impatience she now saw herself 
 compelled to remain almost alone in their 
 deserted house, attending the sick pillow of 
 one parent, while another was dying, perhaps 
 dead ; and waiting, from day to day, the 
 arrival from Dublin of tidings that concerned 
 alike the fate of a brother, a father, and a 
 dearly-loved sister. 
 
 Her only companion was the household maid 
 of all-work, Cauth Flannigan ; but from the 
 cast of this girl's mind, good-natured as she 
 might be, Anty could derive little relief; and, 
 in fact, the poor wench's best consolation was 
 her pitying and respectful silence, or her tears. 
 But Anty did not long experience the sameness 
 of grief she had anticipated; for, just as it 
 had set in, it became broken up into a starthng 
 interest. 
 
 Upon the evening after Peggy ""s departure, 
 she walked out to see Cauth a little way on her 
 path to milk the cows : and when, with a slow 
 and heavy step, Anty re-crossed the threshold 
 into the kitchen, a tired soldier was sitting, in 
 the twilight, upon a low stool in the middle of 
 the floor. 
 
 A scream, half suppressed, only because she
 
 236 THE NOWLANS. 
 
 had presence of mind to recollect her sick 
 mother, escaped Anty, and she stepped back in 
 much alarm. 
 
 " You do not know me, Anty," said the 
 soldier, in a low and melancholy tone. 
 
 " I do not indeed. Sir," answered the timid 
 girl. 
 
 " And yet," he resumed, " though I have 
 not seen you these seven years, I know my 
 second sister, Anty Nowlan." 
 
 Again she could scarce keep in a wild shriek. 
 
 " John !" after a moment's pause, stepping 
 into the kitchen. 
 
 "Your unfortunate brother John, Anty;" 
 he held out his arms, and she fell on his 
 neck. 
 
 " I have been some time hiding in the neigh- 
 l)ourhood," he continued, " but, day after day, 
 could not take heart to face ray father and my 
 sister Peggy : at last, I even walked a good 
 distance out of the neighbourhood, to get a 
 friend to come here beforehand for me, until 
 I heard they were both gone to Dublin, to look 
 after me, I believe, and no one at home but 
 you, Anty, and our poor mother, confined to 
 her bed ; then I thought I would try if your 
 heart, Anty, the youngest and, as I always
 
 THE NOWLANS. 237 
 
 said, the tenderest of the family, would first 
 open to give me a forgiveness, a crust, a cup of 
 water, and a night's lodging.'' 
 
 Tears started to his eyes during this address, 
 and Anty also wept as she asked, 
 
 " John, John, could you doubt my heart, or 
 one of our hearts? — Oh, we prayed, morning, 
 noon and night, to see you restored to us." 
 
 '* Then you, at least, forgive me, Anty .^" 
 
 " Can you ask the question, John ? you have 
 suffered as much as you have sinned — oh, how 
 much suffered ! and your God forgives you, 
 because you are punished and a penitent ; and 
 why should not your sister .?" 
 
 "That's cold enough, Anty; I ventured to 
 hope that, without a clause of any kind, without 
 catechising me at all, without stopping to ask 
 whether or no I was sorry for the part I took, 
 or thankful or no to those that drove me from 
 home, friends, and country, for one youthful 
 error — I hoped that without a word or thought 
 of all this, my gentle sister Anty, at least, 
 would give a sister's welcome to her unfortunate 
 brothel'." 
 
 "And I do, dear John, I do— iTiy heart's 
 best welcome, for nothing but joy to see you :" 
 she aeain threw her arms round his neck.
 
 238 THE NOWLANS. 
 
 " Then, that 's like the gentle Anty I always 
 believed you to be ; tlianks, dear, dear sister T 
 He returned her soft embrace, in a way that, 
 to the sensitive convent girl, was, from a brother, 
 strange. She felt some astonishment, disenga- 
 ged herself from him, took a near seat and pro- 
 ceeded to remark : — 
 
 " You say you have been long in the neigh- 
 bourhood, John ; did you come first in that 
 dress ?" 
 
 " Yes ; in no other ; for no other have I : I 
 am on fvu'lough from my regiment, just returned 
 to Ireland out of the Indies." 
 
 " You are a soldier, then, not a sailor ?" 
 " I have never been a sailor." 
 " Then how much we are all mistaken : word 
 came to us, from more than one quarter, that 
 you went, three years ago, as a sailor, to New- 
 foundland, and had lately come back to Dublin, 
 after being wrecked on the coast : indeed, we 
 half believed you had passed our door, some 
 time ago, in a sailor''s dress." 
 
 " I know all that, Anty, and I know that, 
 in the notion of finding me as a wrecked sailor, 
 in Dublin, my father left home near a fort- 
 night ago."
 
 THE NOWLANS. 239 
 
 " And if you knew it, John, why did you let 
 the old man go on such a journey, for nothing ?"" 
 
 " I did not know it till after he had gone, 
 Anty." 
 
 " But, surely, you could then have set us 
 right, and then we could have set him right, if 
 you even sent us a message after he went ; and 
 he would now be at home with us, and poor 
 Peggy, too ; instead of his being sick of the fever 
 in Dublin ?" 
 
 " I was as much afraid of letting Peggy know 
 I was in the country, as of letting my father 
 know ; indeed more ; for her notions of what 's 
 good, and right, and all that, were so rigid, I 
 feared she would never see my face ; but if my 
 poor father is ill on my account, I 'm very sorry, 
 Anty ; very sorry, indeed ; tho'' I couldn't have 
 intended it, you see." 
 
 Anty paused, a little dissatisfied, though she 
 knew not why ; and, as if noticing this, he con- 
 tinued : 
 
 " But I see it 's the cold face is to be shown 
 to me, after all you say, Anty." 
 
 " Did you go into the regiment in your own 
 name?"" she asked, half expressing a sudden 
 thought.
 
 240 THE NOW LANS. 
 
 " Was I a fool, child, to do any such thing? 
 When my name was blackened by the world, and 
 by them that called themselves my friends first 
 of all, do you think I had no reason or wish to 
 hide it ? What was left to me, but to hide it and 
 my disgraced head in any far quarter of the 
 globe that would open to me ? and how could 
 you think that the John Nowlan who gave his 
 name, at full length, for Newfoundland, was the 
 hunted wretch that only wanted to baffle iiis 
 persecutors for ever ? as if, indeed, there was 
 only one John Nowlan in the world." 
 
 " What has become of the poor young lady, 
 John ?" enquired Anty, after another pause. 
 
 '• Letty is dead." 
 
 " God rest her soul in peace !" ejaculated 
 Anty, piously crossing herself, and looking up. 
 
 " She was a Protestant, you know, and you, a 
 good Catholic, must not pray for her," he said, 
 in a scoffing smile and accent; "only I like to 
 see you do or say any thing, Anty, that makes 
 you look so very handsome, child." 
 
 " Fie, fie, John," answered Anty, not no- 
 ticing the hand he had stretched out to her; " to 
 talk in such a light way of her, and to me, in 
 the present circumstances, and after all that has 
 happened."
 
 THE NOWLANS. 241 
 
 " Ay, ay, rebuke and scold me, Anty, and 
 make that the return you promised ; nothing 
 shall ever make me think the less of you, or 
 love you with less of the heart than I now do, 
 and as I ever did ; indeed, Anty, the thought 
 of getting your forgiveness and love, supposing 
 all the rest to cast me off, was the only thought 
 that cheered my banishment and my despair. 
 But hush ! there's my poor mother's voice crying 
 out for you from the lower room ; — and I see 
 Cauth Flannigan, at a distance, coming home 
 with the pail on her head. Dear Anty, for the 
 present you must not tell I am in the house ; 
 the sudden news might kill my poor mother ; 
 and Cauth is a great hullowr, and would blab 
 all about me before the proper time ; so, I '11 
 just step into my old bed-room here, until you 
 leave our mother for the night, and send 
 Cauth to her loft ; and then, Anty, I expect 
 from your pretty hands a candle, and a little 
 refreshment, of which I stand in need; and 
 from your prettier lips, a little more conver- 
 sation.'' 
 
 He arose, and with a jaded step passed into 
 the little chamber often before alluded to, Anty 
 
 VOL. II. M
 
 242 THE NOWLANS. 
 
 assenting readily to the arrangement : and after 
 he had gone in, she heard him lock the door, and 
 take the key out of the lock. 
 
 She hurried to attend her mother, and, 
 after receiving a peevish rebuke for her long 
 absence, and administering some necessary ser- 
 vices and comforts, came back to the kitchen, 
 sat on the low stool, and closely communed with 
 herself. 
 
 " The poor sinner has'come at last ; but, the 
 good God save us ! in what a mind and heart 
 has he come ! — There is no sorrow for his sin 
 upon him; not a bit; he only seems hardened 
 and careless, and enraged with those that did 
 their duty by him, instead of kissing the rod of 
 punishment. Oh ! I wish, I wish he had tried 
 his fate in any way but among the soldiers !— 
 often have I heard how their company and ex- 
 ample, and their wild bad ways, particularly in 
 foreign parts, will corrupt the best, not to talk 
 of a poor creature made to their hands, by his 
 early troubles and passions, and ready for any 
 mad course. They have quite case-hardened 
 him, and quite changed him, every way. 'Tis 
 seven years, to be sure, since I saw him before, 
 and then I was a mere child, and he a young
 
 THE NOWLANS. 243 
 
 boy, with blushes on his cheeks, and peace and 
 lightness in his heart, and it 's hard to tell what 
 changes years, and the hardships of foreign 
 parts alone, may not bring on, without any 
 Other cause ; — yet, little as I recollect of what 
 he was before I went to the convent, I 'm 
 sure he had not then such a bold manner, such 
 a careless air, and such a frightful way of speak- 
 ing. Can I bring John Nowlan's face before 
 my mind at all, as it was at that time? — 
 No; I believe I cannot. Phelim's is quite plain 
 to my memory, because his early death fixed it 
 in one shape ; but all I have heard of John — 
 his terrible actions, his wild passions, his long 
 sufferings, — all come between me and his young 
 features ; every time I think of him in 
 such and such circumstances, his face appears 
 altered and strange ; he is pale, or he frowns, 
 or he grinds his teeth : and there's not a trace 
 left of the boy-priest at nineteen, so mild, so 
 smiling, and so handsome. Even the sound of 
 his voice I forget, or else, as he spoke this even- 
 ing, it is quite changed too Blessed Hea- 
 ven !" interrupting the train of her reverie, as a 
 doubt, before faintly felt, arose in her breast — 
 *' what am I thinking of at all ? who else can 
 
 M 2
 
 244 
 
 THE NOWLANS. 
 
 it be ? why should any one else come here and 
 say he was John Nowlan ? who else could know 
 the house as he does, and all in it, and all about 
 It ? This is mere weakness of me, mere folly ; 
 I will forget it; and the voice he had just now, 
 is not entirely strange to my ear, either ; I have 
 heard it before, though my bad memory says 
 it was not from John Nowlan, at nineteen. 'Tis 
 all great weakness. I must stir myself, and 
 attend to the poor wanderer's comforts. My 
 mother will not call for me again till towards 
 the morning; and I will send Cauth to bed, 
 and soon bring him a meaFs meat, and something 
 to drink." 
 
 Anty accordingly exerted herself; Cauth re- 
 tired for the night ; the refreshments were pre- 
 pared by Anty, and with a timid knock she 
 stood at the door of the little chamber. 
 
 " God bless you, my beautiful child V he said, 
 as he cautiously unlocked the door and let her 
 in ; — " God bless you for coming at last, to feed 
 the hungry, and comfort the sorrowful." 
 
 With few words Anty laid down her light, 
 her food, and her whisky, and sat to see him 
 eat and drink. His soldier's cap was now ta- 
 ken off, and the candle, shining full upon his
 
 THE NOWLANS. 245 
 
 face and forehead, showed features still fine and 
 commanding, though emaciated, and reduced to 
 one pervading sallow hue. 
 
 You 're thinking how much I 'm altered, 
 Anty," he resumed, as he partook of the food. 
 
 " I am, indeed, John. I 'm a'most thinking 
 there 's not a trace of what I try to remember 
 you were.'' 
 
 *' Ah, dear Anty, the heart-break, and many 
 years' toihng under a scorching sun, makes sad 
 work of the boy, during his growth into the 
 
 man." 
 
 "Your hair, itself, was once a different colour, 
 I believe, John." 
 
 " That can be turned, too, Anty. I 've seen 
 a young man's hair change, not merely from 
 one shade to another, like mine, but into the 
 locks of old age, in one night ; into a head of 
 hair as grey as our poor father's, whom Heaven 
 rise up in health and strength, I pray." 
 
 " Amen," said Anty : and, while both re- 
 mained some short time silent, she had another 
 reverie. 
 
 " Poor fellow, poor fellow ! poor priest 
 John ! he has come home hungry to the fa- 
 ther's house. And what it is to sit here and
 
 246 THE NOWLANS. 
 
 look at the man he has come home, and to 
 think of all that brought him to appear so ! 
 Poor outcast ! his case has, indeed, been hard ; 
 may be, too hard ; and may be it 's not much 
 wonder, after all, that he feels a little of 
 the sullenness he does feel. God will soften 
 his heart, and work a change in him ; and our 
 kindness, too, with the help of God : and may 
 be the day 's not far off when he can be brought 
 back to his old nature entirely, and a'most as 
 happy and as good in himself, and before the 
 world, as ever he was. He is our brother, at 
 any rate, and kindness and love are his due. I 
 love him in the heart, and pity and compas- 
 sionate him more than when he was away : 
 though, from my cradle, we always loved one 
 another. Poor priest John!" and her eyes 
 swam in tears as she gazed on him. 
 
 " Come, dear Anty," he resumed, " drink a 
 glass to my welcome home." 
 
 " I seldom taste the liquor, dear John, but 
 my heart can't refuse you." 
 
 He filled her glass, and, with clasped hands, 
 they drank to each other. 
 
 " Ay," looking around him, " there are all 
 my old musty books, with their musty thrash
 
 THE NOWLANS. i247 
 
 in 'em : and there hangs the old watch I left 
 behind me, in my hurry : now, however, it 
 comes back to its owner;" and he stood up, 
 took down the watch, and put it into his fob. 
 Anty knew it was her fatlier's watch, and had 
 never been John's. His last words, and this 
 action, startled her again. Shocked, and sit- 
 ting silent, she found herself compelled to 
 admit to her own mind that her brother had 
 returned a profligate in more than one sense. 
 His speech was blasphemous ; his appropriat- 
 ing the watch, dishonest. As she sat, without a 
 word, her soul sickened towards him : and she 
 remained almost unconscious of his movements, 
 until, sitting close at her side, he passed an 
 arm round her neck, and called on her to drink 
 another bumper to their future love and hap- 
 piness. Then she tried to draw back, as she 
 answered — 
 
 " No, John, I have taken too much already ; 
 and the heart can wish its wish without any 
 help of the kind : keep down your arm, John ; 
 it hurts my neck." 
 
 " Curse on it, then, for its rudeness to the 
 handsomest neck in the world : and, there, Anty, 
 it shall hurt you no longer, only don't you draw
 
 248 THE NOWLANS. 
 
 away entirely. I thought you would drink the 
 toast I offered : but no matter ; your heart, 
 you say, goes with the words, and I believe 
 you. Dear Anty, the more I look at you and 
 listen to you," — drinking rapidly — " the more 
 I m inclined to ask your heart to join mine in 
 another wish." 
 
 " What is it, John r 
 
 " I '11 tell you, my little beauty" — as with a 
 kindled expression his eyes met hers — " a wish 
 that, with your kind feelings towards me, you 
 did not think of me as you do, in another 
 way." 
 
 " Oh, if that 's all, God above knows how 
 sincerely I — But stop, John, I say" — growing 
 more alarmed at his glance — " stop, and recol- 
 lect yourself, or I must leave you." 
 
 " Go away ? Nonsense. Stop t/ou, Anty, 
 and hear me out. You don't understand me. 
 I meant that I had a wish you did not know 
 me for your brother." 
 
 '* And I had the same," she answered, in a 
 low, solemn voice. 
 
 " Then, dearest girl," misconstruing the 
 sense of her reply, you could feel kindly to 
 me, for my own sake, even though I was not
 
 THE NOWLANS. 
 
 249 
 
 your brother John ? Without that accidental 
 tie, from what you have seen of me, you could 
 love me, Anty, even if I was nothing to you ? 
 you own so much ?" 
 
 He drew her closer to him. She started 
 up : very opportunely for her purpose of escape, 
 a loud scream sounded from her mother's cham- 
 ber ; and then another and another. 
 
 •' Whisht, John ! that 's our mother's voice ; 
 something has terrified her; or she is dying, 
 may be ! God forgive my neglect ! let me go : 
 I must run to her ; good night." 
 
 " Surely, Anty," still holding her, as she 
 struggled, " you will come to see me for one 
 moment more, before we say Good night ? — 
 nay, you must promise "" 
 
 " Well, I do ; but let me go now to my 
 poor mother ; she cries out louder and louder : — 
 good-b'ye!"" 
 
 He attempted to salute her, but she avoided 
 him, and hurried off to her mother's chamber. 
 The feeble old woman lay in a state of great 
 alarm. Strange faces, she said, had darkened 
 the window at the foot of her bed ; she could 
 but faintly distinguish them, but still she saw 
 them in the lightsome winter-moon, as, more 
 
 M 5
 
 250 THE NOVVLANS. 
 
 than once, they came close to the glass, and 
 gazed in upon her. Anty, though her own 
 brain was half crazed with contending fears 
 and suspicions, tried to believe that her mother 
 had raved, and told her it was all a dream. 
 The peevish sufferer scolded her for saying so, 
 and commanded her to sit by her bed. Anty 
 did sit down, until the weak voice sank in ex- 
 haustion, which ended in sound sleep ; and then 
 she began to tremble at her loneliness, and at 
 the whole scene from which she had just es- 
 caped. Remembering, though endeavouring to 
 doubt, her mother's story, she looked in terri- 
 fied foreboding on the window; and, whether 
 it was imagination or reahty, strange persons 
 seemed to steal by it. After this, she thought 
 she heard the noise of one going about the 
 house. Her heart beat high in alarm. She re- 
 collected there was no fastening to the door of 
 her mother's chamber, and she arose, half tot- 
 tered to her own, locked herself in, and sat on 
 the side of her bed. 
 
 It is impossible to give a clear account of 
 Anty's thoughts in this situation. In fact, 
 though shaking with a fear of the character, ac- 
 tions, nay, identity of her guest, her thoughts
 
 THE NOWLANS. 251 
 
 could not arrange themselves into order. A 
 great horror of him fell upon her, no matter in 
 what light he presented himself ; and that was 
 all she knew, or could pause to calculate. The 
 sudden event was too much for her simplicity 
 and childish inexperience. 
 
 She did not know how long she had thus sat 
 alone in her chamber, shivering, and start- 
 ing at every sound, when the noise of opening 
 a window, in the direction of John's old room, 
 riveted her attention. With a cautious step 
 she gained her own window, and through a small 
 hole in the musUn curtain peeped out. It was 
 stiU bright moonshine : her position enabled her 
 partially to command the point about which 
 she was interested ; and she saw, indeed, 
 that the lattice was open, and three persons, 
 one of them a woman, stanchng at it, evi- 
 dently conversing with the guest inside. Re- 
 doubled terror seized Anty's heart; yet she 
 continued to look until the people went away, 
 doubling by the corner of the house, and so, 
 rather suddenly, escaping her view. 
 
 She had scarce reseated herself on her bed, 
 when she heard the well-known creak of 
 John's door, and, afterwards, stealing foot-
 
 252 THE NOWLANS. 
 
 steps coming from it. They seemed to pass 
 into every room, staying some time in each ;■ and 
 Anty thought she caught the jinghng of the 
 Uttle stock of plate, kept in a drawer in the 
 kitchen, and then the opening and shutting of 
 other drawers and cupboards. Presently, to 
 add the utmost to her horror, the handle of her 
 door was turned, but, after a few cautious ef- 
 forts, left quiet, and the foot went into her 
 mother's chamber ; returned ; again stole by her 
 door, while a bunch of keys sounded in the 
 passage; and Anty soon heard unlocked a 
 little private desk in which she knew her father 
 kept, now and then, considerable sums of mo- 
 ney. After this, all became silent, for about an 
 hour; but at the end of, perhaps, some such 
 lapse of time, the step again approached her 
 door, and stopped before it : the handle again 
 turned, and a voice spoke in whispers through 
 the key-hole : 
 
 " Anty, dear Anty !"" She was silent, con- 
 trolUng; even her breath. 
 
 There was a knock, and the voice conti- 
 nued : 
 
 '• You are not asleep, Anty, I 'm sure of 
 that ; you cannot sleep so sound after my
 
 THE NOWLANS. 
 
 253 
 
 knock ; open the door, and let me have a word 
 with you." 
 
 She took heart to say, " Dear John, what is 
 the matter ?" 
 
 *' I 'm frightened to death in that old room 
 of mine ; it brings such thoughts and recollec- 
 tions, I cannot close an eye ; let me in, for cha- 
 rity's sake, and I will just throw myself across 
 the foot of your bed, and try for a little rest, 
 which I want badly." 
 
 " You know I have lain down, John, and 
 will not, surely, expect me to rise" 
 
 " I '11 wait till you are ready to open the 
 door, but you nmst open it, dear Anty." 
 
 " Well, I '11 tell you, John ; go back to your 
 own room, and in a few moments you shall see 
 me there, and we can sit up the night together, 
 talking of old times." 
 
 ** You promise this ?"" 
 
 *' Depend on me." 
 
 He retired. She snatched a bonnet ; gently 
 undid her casement ; issued out ; avoiding the 
 other window, gained a by-path leading towards 
 David Shearman's father's, close by the Dublin 
 road ; and after a few cautious steps, ran for- 
 ward in the impulse to call upon her good
 
 254 
 
 THE NOWLANS. 
 
 neighbours for protection for herself and her 
 mother. She had made but httle way, when a 
 soldier appeared closing her by another path 
 from her own house, and at the same moment 
 shots were fired further on, in the country 
 about Long-Hall. Utterly confounded, Anty 
 lost all recollection of a purpose, and only 
 raced more wildly towards the Dublin road, 
 not noticing that, at the report of the shots, her 
 pursuer suddenly slackened his pace. As she 
 gained the high fence that separated her from 
 the road, a strange man and two other soldiers, 
 all armed, started up before her; she shriek- 
 ed aloud, almost wild with terror; the man 
 abruptly asked who had come to her father's 
 house that night ? She answered but with 
 another scream ; he took her arm, and told her 
 that Long-Hall had been attacked by robbers, 
 and that he suspected one of them was then 
 skulking under Daniel Nowlan's roof ; poor 
 Anty did not hear him ; or, if so, could not 
 properly apprehend him ; the quick succession 
 of so many starthng incidents, the shots, the 
 soldiers, the loud talking, all bewildered her ; 
 her catechist and his companions left her, as if 
 in impatience ; she sank nearly senseless on the
 
 THE NOWLANS. 255 
 
 road side ; the horn of the usual night-coach 
 sounded ; she sprang up, and only capable of 
 feeling that, as by such a conveyance Peggy 
 had gone to seek her father in Dublin, she 
 would now go seek protection from Peggy and 
 him, the terrified girl called out to the guard, 
 and in a few seconds, seated inside, was on her 
 way to the metropolis. Her poor mother's 
 helpless situation escaped her thoughts for the 
 moment, though when far upon the road, too 
 far to turn back, her heart sorely smote her, 
 during the remainder of the journey, at a re- 
 collection of the selfishness she could not have 
 controlled.
 
 256 THE NOWLANS. 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 Meantime Peggy Nowlan had her own trials 
 and escapes on the road to Dublin. 
 
 Late in the second morning of her journey, 
 the coach upset within about a stage of the me- 
 tropolis, and she was violently thrown off, and 
 deprived of sense by the shock. When Peggy 
 recovered, she found herself in a smoky-looking 
 room, dimly lighted by a single dipped candle 
 of the smallest size. The walls were partly 
 covered with decayed paper, that hung off, 
 here and there, in tatters. There were a few 
 broken chairs standing in different places, and 
 in the middle of the apartment a table, that 
 had once been of decent mould, but that now 
 bore the appearance of long and hard service, 
 supporting on its drooping leaves a number of 
 drinking glasses, some broken and others cap-
 
 THE KOWLANS. 257 
 
 sized, while their slops of liquor remained 
 fresh around them. 
 
 Peggy was seated with her back to the wall ; 
 she felt her head supported by some one who 
 occasionally bathed her temples with a liquid 
 which, by the odour it sent forth, could be no 
 other than whisky ; and if she had been an 
 amateur, Peggy might have recognised it as 
 pottheen. 
 
 " My God, where am I ?" looking confused- 
 ly around, was her first exclamation. 
 
 " You 're in safe hands, Peggy Nowlan," she 
 was answered in the tones of a woman's voice : 
 " an' I 'm glad to hear you spake, at last." 
 
 Turning her head, she observed the person 
 who had been attending her. The woman was 
 tall and finely-featured, about fifty, and dress- 
 ed pretty much in character with the room 
 and its furniture ; that is, having none of the 
 homely attire of the country upon her, but 
 wearing gay flaunting costume, or rather the 
 remains of such ; and there was about her air 
 and manner a bold confidence, accompanied 
 by an authoritative look from her large black 
 eyes, that told a character in which the mild ti- 
 midity of woman existed not. Yet she smiled
 
 258 THE NOWLANS. 
 
 on Peggy, and her smile was beautiful and 
 fascinating;. 
 
 " How do you know me, good woman ?" 
 again questioned our heroine, for we believe 
 she is such. 
 
 " Oh, jist by chance, afther a manner, miss; 
 onct, when I went down to your counthry to 
 see a gossip o' my own, the neighbours pointed 
 yoti out to me as the comeliest colleen to be 
 seen far an' wide ; an' so, Miss Peggy, fear 
 nothing;" for Peggy, as she looked about her, 
 and at the woman, did show some terror : " an' 
 I 'm glad in the heart to see any one from your 
 part, where there 's some kind people, friends 
 o' mine ; an' for their sakes, an"" the sake o' the 
 ould black hills you cum from, show me the 
 man that daares look crooked at you." 
 
 This speech was accompanied by such soft- 
 ness of manner, that Peggy's nervousness les- 
 sened. She gained confidence from the presence 
 of one of her own sex looking so kindly on her, 
 and, though years had been busy with her fine 
 features, looking so handsome too. Her next 
 question was, naturally, a request to be infor- 
 med how she came into her present situation. 
 
 " You were brought here, jist to save your
 
 THE NOWLANS. 259 
 
 life," answered the woman ; " a son o' mine, 
 coming along the road from Dublin, saw the 
 coach tumble down ; he waited to give it a 
 helping hand up again ; and when it druv 
 away — ^" 
 
 "And has it gone off, and left me behind?" 
 interrupted Peggy, in great distress. 
 
 " Of a thruth, ay has it, my dear." 
 
 " What, then, am I to do ?— " 
 
 " Why, you must only stay where you are 
 widme, until the day; an' you're welcome to the 
 cover o' th' ould roof, an' whatever comfort I 
 can give you ; an' when the day comes we'll look 
 out for you, Miss Peggy, a-roon. But, as I 
 was saying, when the coach dhrew off again, my 
 son was for hurrying home, when he heard 
 some one moaning inside o' the ditch ; an' he 
 went into the field, an' there was a man 
 lying, jist coming to his senses, an' you near 
 him, widout any sense at all ; an' when the 
 man got betther, my son knew him for an ould 
 acquaintance ; and then they minded you, and 
 tuck you up between them ; an' sure here you 
 are to the fore." 
 
 " It is absolutely necessary I should con- 
 tinue my journey to-night," said Peggy.
 
 260 THE NOWLANS. 
 
 "If you'' re for Dublin, child, you can hardly 
 go; it's a thing a friend can't hear of." 
 
 Peggy reflected for a moment. Her usual 
 caution now told her, what her first suspicions 
 had suggested, that, in some way or other, the 
 house was an improper one, and, perhaps, that 
 good-nature had not been the only motive in 
 conveying her to it. The woman's last words 
 seemed to show a particular determination that 
 she should remain. It would be imprudent, 
 then, to express a design to go away ; she might 
 be detained by force. Nor would she suffer her- 
 self to become affected by her fears, lest she 
 might incapacitate herself for escaping by stealth. 
 Prompted by growing suspicion, she stole her 
 hand to her bosom to search for her purse ; 
 it was gone : and Peggy became confirmed in 
 her calculations, though not more apparently 
 shaken by her fears. 
 
 "I had a small hand-basket,'' she said, "con- 
 taining a few little articles, and my money for 
 the road ; it 's lost, of course, and I am left 
 pennyless ; if I go to the spot where the coach 
 fell, maybe I could find it." 
 
 " We can go together," said the woman, 
 *' if you are able to walk so far." 
 
 Peggy had made the proposal, not in hopes
 
 THE NOWLANS. 261 
 
 of recovering any thing, but that she might be 
 afforded a chance of walking away ; if, indeed, 
 the story of the coach having driven on proved 
 to be true. Now, however, she was, in consist- 
 ency, obhged to accept the attention of her 
 officious protector ; and the woman and she 
 walked to the road along a narrow, wild lane, 
 at each side of which a few old decayed trees 
 and bushes shook their leafless branches in 
 the wintry wind, while the footing was broken 
 and miry, and overgrown by weeds and long 
 grass. It seemed to have been a winding avenue 
 to the house she had left, once planted with 
 rows of trees, when the mansion was better 
 tenanted and in better repair, but which had 
 disappeared, from time to time, beneath the 
 axe or the saw of the marauder. 
 
 Arrived at the spot required, she com- 
 menced a seemingly careful search ; but, find- 
 ing nothing, returned at the continued urgency 
 of the woman, who linked her closely, to 
 the house tliey had quitted. Ere Peggy re- 
 entered, she took a survey of the fabric : it 
 was, like every thing around it and within it, 
 a ruin. She could see that it had been a good 
 slated house, two stories high, but that in dif- 
 ferent places the slates were now wanting ; in-
 
 262 THE NOWLANS. 
 
 deed she trod, near the threshold, upon their 
 fragments, mixed with other rubbish. Some 
 of the windows were bricked up, some stuffed 
 through their shattered panes with wisps of 
 straw and old rags ; and of the lower ones, the 
 shutters, which were, however, attached to the 
 wall, outside strong iron bars, hung oflP their 
 hinges, and flapped in the blast. 
 
 Again entering the room in which she had 
 first found herself, two men appeared seated. 
 Peggy, in something like the recurrence of a 
 bad dream, thought she recognized in one of 
 them the air and figure of the person who, 
 on a late and fearful occasion, had stood 
 so near to her in the Foil Dhuiv. But as 
 she did not feel herself entitled to draw any 
 certain deductions from feature, complexion, or 
 even dress, Peggy, after a moment's faltering 
 pause, struggled to assure herself that this mis- 
 giving was but a weakness of her agitated mind, 
 and firmly advanced to the chair she had before 
 occupied. 
 
 The second man was very young, his person 
 slight, and twisted into a peculiar bend and 
 crouch as lie sat; his face pale and sharp, re- 
 sembling that of the woman who called herself
 
 THE NOWLANS. 263 
 
 his mother ; and in the side-long glance of his 
 cold jetty eye there lurked a stealth, an enquiry, 
 and a self-possession, as, in reply to Peggy's 
 curtsey and her look of observance, he, in 
 turn, observed her, and gave, slowly and mea- 
 suredly, his " Sarvent, miss." 
 
 He and his companion sat close to the droop- 
 ing table. Two of the glasses that had been 
 capsized now stood upright, and were fre- 
 quently filled from a bottle of whisky, of — 
 as one might augur by the smell — home ma- 
 nufacture. The person whose first view had 
 startled Peggy, made more free with the beve- 
 rage than the other ; the pale young man visibly 
 avoiding the liquor; but often filling for his 
 friend, and urging him to drink bumpers. 
 
 " Well, Phil, my boy," said the woman, ad- 
 dressing the pale lad, as she entered after 
 Peggy, " did Ned tell you the raison yet, 
 why he was on the top o' the coach to-night, 
 instead of being far off on other business ?'' 
 
 " Oh yes," answered Phil, in a dry, careless 
 tone, " he tould me all how an' about it ;" 
 and a wink, that, from its freedom from hu- 
 mour, was disagreeable, did not escape Peggy. 
 
 " I call that toss we got together a d — d
 
 264 THE NOWLANS. 
 
 hearty 'un my eyes, miss," said the other 
 
 man, addressing Peggy, and offering her some 
 Hquor. 
 
 " Were you the person who lay so near me ?" 
 refusing his politeness. 
 
 " Ay, that I was, to my cost ; and though 
 no great harm might come o" lying so near you, 
 little 'un, at another time, I 'd rather not have 
 such a throw for it, however." 
 
 She shrunk while he spoke, and while his 
 eye of gloomy, stupid excitement, dwelt upon 
 her ; but did not omit an answer. 
 
 " Then I have to thank you, and, I suppose, 
 this other gentleman, for my safety." 
 
 " Oh, that 's all gammon : easy to clear the 
 odds with such a pretty 'un, you know." 
 
 Phil made no observation ; but his glance 
 went from the speaker to Peggy, and then to 
 his mother, with a slow, remarkful, and cheer- 
 less expression ; and again Peggy saw inter- 
 changed, between him and the woman, a wink, 
 followed by a dead glare. 
 
 " Go, Phil, my boy," resumed the old wo- 
 man, " take Ned and yourself up stairs ; an' 
 the bottle wid you ; you must have the hot 
 wather, when it 's ready, and the sugar along
 
 THE KOWLANS. 2&5 
 
 wid it : this young woman and myself '11 stay 
 together." 
 
 Phil arose, taking the bottle and glasses : he 
 was sidling out of the room before his compa- 
 nion, when, at a renewed signal from the v/oman, 
 he hung back, allowed the other to stagger out 
 first, and then he and she paused together, be- 
 yond the threshold of the room, in the passage, 
 wliere Peggy could hear them exchange a few 
 earnest, though cautious whispers. 
 
 " An' now, Peggy Nowlan," resumed the 
 woman, coming back and reseating herself, " as 
 you don"*! seem to like the whisky, you must 
 have whatever the house can give you." 
 " I would like some tey, ma'am." 
 '' Then, sure enough, you '11 get it ; we won't 
 be long lighting the fire, an' biling the wather, 
 an' we '11 take our tey together." 
 
 There were some embers dimly gleaming in 
 the blackened fire-place, to which the woman 
 added wood and chips, that, by blowing with 
 her mouth as she knelt, soon blazed; and, 
 according to her promise, a dish of tea, not 
 badly flavoured, was manufactured, of which,- 
 with much seeming hospitality and kind- 
 ness, the hostess pressed her young guest to 
 
 VOL. II. N
 
 266 
 
 THE KOWLANS. 
 
 partake. Peggy felt thankful, and strove to 
 compel herself to feel at ease also : but, amid 
 the smiles and blandness of her entertainer, 
 there were moments when her thin and blood- 
 less, though handsome lips compressed them- 
 selves to a line so hard and heartless, — mo- 
 ments when a deep shade of abstraction passed 
 over her brow, and when her eyes dulled and 
 shrunk into an expression so disagreeable, that 
 the destitute girl internally shivered to glance 
 upon her. These momentary changes did not, 
 however, seem to concern her. She argued, 
 that they rather intimated an involuntary turn 
 of thought to some other person or subject. 
 The woman never looked on her without a 
 complacent smile ; and it was after her getting 
 up occasionally, and going to the door of the 
 room, as if to catch the sound of voices from 
 above, that her countenance wore any bad cha- 
 racter. But, whatever might have been pass- 
 ing in her mind, Peggy prudently resolved not 
 to allow her hostess to perceive that she ob- 
 served these indications of it. Her glances were, 
 therefore, so well-timed, and so quick, that they 
 could not be noticed ; and her features so well 
 mastered, as always to reflect the easy smile of
 
 THE KOWLANS. 267 
 
 her companion. Her manners, too, she divested 
 of every trait of alarm or doubt ; and even the 
 tones of her voice were tutored by Peggy into 
 an even, pleased cadence ; and the questions 
 she asked, and the topics she started, calculated 
 to lull all suspicion. 
 
 As part of her plan, she would show no un- 
 easiness to retire ; and it was not until the wo- 
 man herself offered to attend her to bed, that 
 Peggy rose from her chair. She was conducted 
 out of the little, half-ruined parlour or kitchen, 
 a few paces along the passage, and then a few 
 steps up a rent and shaking staircase, into a 
 mean sleeping-chamber, of which the door 
 faced the passage : the stairs continuing to wind 
 to the right, to the upper rooms of the house. 
 As they passed into the chamber, it was with 
 difficulty Peggy prevented herself from draw- 
 ing back, when she perceived that the patched 
 door had bolts and a padlock on the outside, 
 but no fastening within. Still, however, she 
 controlled her nerves, and displayed to her at- 
 tendant no symptom of the apprehension that 
 filled her bosom. 
 
 " I 'm sorry the poor house doesn't afford a 
 betther an' a handsomer lodgin' for you, Miss 
 
 n2
 
 268 THE KOWLAXS. 
 
 Peggy," said the woman, as both stumbled 
 about the half-boarded floor of the room : " but 
 you '11 jest take the will for the deed ; an' so, 
 good-b'ye, an' a pleasant night's sleep to you." 
 
 "Can't you oblige me with the candle?" 
 asked Peggy, as her hostess was about to take 
 it away. 
 
 " I would, with a heart an' a half, if it was to 
 spare ; but I '11 have nothing else to light me 
 to bed, an' help me to set things to rights for 
 the morning ; for the matther o' that, the good 
 moon shines so bravely through the window, 
 and I believe through another little place in 
 the loft here, that you'll be well able to say 
 your prayers an' go to bed by it. Miss Peggy ; 
 so, hannocJithdath ;" and she finally took the 
 candle away, securing the door on the outside, 
 and leaving Peggy standing in the middle of 
 the filthy chamber. 
 
 The moon did, indeed, stream in upon the 
 floor as well through the shattered window as, 
 first, through a breach in the slates of the house- 
 roof, and then down the broken boards of the 
 room over head. Peggy looked round for 
 her bed, and saw, in a corner, a miserable 
 substitute for one, composed of straw laid on
 
 THE NOWLANS. 269 
 
 the floor, and covered with two blankets. There 
 was no chair or table, and feeling herself weak, 
 she cautiously picked her steps to the corner, 
 and sat down on this cheerless couch. 
 
 The motive of her conduct hitherto had 
 been to hide her feelings, so as to throw the 
 ])eople of the house off their guard, and 
 eventually create for herself an opportunity to 
 escape to the main road, and thence to the next 
 cabin at hand. In furtherance of her project, 
 she now begged of God to strengthen her heart, 
 and keep her in a steady mind ; and, after her 
 zealous aspiration, Peggy continued to think 
 of the best pnrt to act. At once she resolved 
 not to stir in her chamber, until the woman and 
 the two men should seem to have retired to 
 sleep — if, indeed, it was doomed that they were 
 to do so without disturbing her. In case of a 
 noise at her door, she determined to force her 
 way through the crazy window, and, trusting 
 herself to God, jump from it to the ground, 
 which, she argued, could not be many feet under 
 her, as Peggy had not forgotten to count the 
 steps while she ascended from the earthen pas- 
 sage to her present situation. If, after long 
 watching, she could feel pretty sure that no
 
 270 THE NOWLANS. 
 
 evil was intended to her during the night, still 
 she planned to steal to the window, open it with 
 as little noise as possible, drop from it and try 
 to escape. 
 
 More than an hour might have passed, when 
 she heard a noise, as if of two persons stumbling- 
 through the house; it came nearer, and two 
 men, treading heavily and unevenly, entered 
 a room next to hers, and only divided from 
 her by a wooden partition, which here and 
 there admitted the gleams of a light they 
 bore. "Without any rustling, Peggy applied 
 her eye to one of the chinks, and gained a 
 full view of the scene within. She saw the 
 person she so much dreaded, led by the pale 
 young man towards such a bed as she occupied ; 
 the one overcome by intoxication ; the other 
 cool, collected, and observant. With much 
 grumbling, and many half-growled oaths, the 
 drunken fellow seemed to insist on doing some- 
 thing that the lad would not permit, and at 
 length Peggy heard an allusion to herself. 
 
 "Go to sleep, Ned; youVe fit for nothing 
 else to-night; there's your bed, I tell you," 
 said the young man, forcing him to it. 
 
 " I say, Master Phil, stoopid, I '11 have one
 
 THE NOWLANS. 271 
 
 word with that wench before I close a Avinker," 
 rephed Ned ; " that wench, I say — ^hic ! — what 
 I picked up on the road ; and vv^hy the devil 
 should I bring her here but to chat a bit with 
 her? Your house isn't fit for much better, you 
 know, Master Phil ; and, my eyes but — " 
 
 " Lie down, you foolish baste," interrupted 
 his companion, pushing him down on the straw. 
 
 *' I 11 stand none of that nonsense, neither," 
 continued the ruffian, scrambling about ; " and 
 
 it 's no use talking ; I 11 see her by ; I U 
 
 see the wench, as I brought to this 
 
 house : and don't you go to tell me, now, as 
 hov/ it 's all a hum, and that I brought no such 
 body into it ; I 'm not so cut but I remember 
 it : so fair-play. Master Pliil ; she must be ac- 
 counted for : none of your old mother's tricks 
 
 will do, now. I am not to be done, by « ; 
 
 the wench shan't be served out in that way, 
 
 however ; and I 11 see her, by ; first and 
 
 last, that 's my word : hie ! — I 11 — hie !" and he 
 lay senseless. 
 
 The pale young man watched him like a 
 lynx, until, after some moments, his growling 
 changed into a loud snore, and there was no 
 doubt but he slept soundly. Then he stepped
 
 272 THE NOWLANS. 
 
 softly to him, knelt on one knee, took out of 
 his breast a large pistol, thrust it under his own 
 arm, and finally emptied his pockets of a purse 
 and some crumpled papers. Arising, with conti- 
 nued caution, he glanced over the latter close 
 by the candle, and Peggy saw his features 
 agitated. The next moment he stole out of 
 the room, barred the door outside, and she 
 heard his stealthy step, betrayed by the creak- 
 ing boards, about to pass her chamber. 
 
 At this moment, however, another step,— - 
 Peggy supposed that of the woman, — met his 
 from the lower part of the house, and both 
 stopped just at her frail, though well-secured 
 door. 
 
 " Well i^" questioned the woman, in a sharp 
 whisper ; " you pumped him ? and soaked 
 him ? and touched the lining of his pockets ? 
 Did we guess right ?" 
 
 " We did, by " answered the young 
 
 man ; " the rascal has peached, by the 
 
 ; his very shuffling with me showed it 
 
 at once ; but here "*s the proof : here 's an 
 answer from Mr. Long to his offer to put him 
 on his guard against the swag at Long Hall, 
 this blessed night : and here 's another letter,
 
 THE NOWLANS. 273 
 
 from Lonnon, closing with another offer of his 
 to set the poor private for the Bow-street bull- 
 dogs." 
 
 They had, during these words, been, per- 
 haps, speaking to each other at some little dis- 
 tance ; for their whispers, now that Peggy sup- 
 posed them to have come close together, were 
 lost on her aching ear, tliough she still heard 
 the hissino; sounds in which the conversation 
 was carried on. A considerable time lapsed 
 vv^hile they thus stood motionless outside her 
 door : at length they moved ; seemed about to 
 part ; and, at parting, a few more sentences be- 
 came audible. 
 
 " Go, then," said the woman, " an' let us 
 lose no time : nothing else can be done ; poor 
 Maggy is to be saved from the treachery of the 
 Lonnon sneak, if there was no one else con- 
 carned in the case ; speed, Phil ; make sure o' 
 the horn-hafted Lamprey that you '11 find on 
 the dresser : I '11 meet you at his dour with a 
 light and a vessel. Are you sure he sleeps sound 
 enough ?" 
 
 •' There is only the one sleep more that can 
 be sounder," replied Phil ; and Peggy heard 
 them going off. 
 
 N 5
 
 274 THE. NOWLANS. 
 
 In panting terror she listened for their steps 
 again passing her door : nor had she to listen 
 long. Slowly and stealthily, and with heavy 
 breathings, or a suppressed curse at the creak- 
 ing boards, they separately came by. In a mo- 
 ment after, she heard them undo the fastenings 
 of the inside room, and, fascinated to the com- 
 ing horror, as the bird is to the reptile's glance, 
 her eye was fixed to a chink, ere the light they 
 carried afforded her a renewed view of the 
 victim's chamber. 
 
 The woman first entered, bearing the candle 
 in one hand, and in the other a basin which 
 held a cloth. Her face was now set in the depth 
 of the bad expression Peggy had seen it mo- 
 mentarily wear below stairs ; and she was paler 
 than usual, though not shaking or trembling. 
 The lad followed, taking long and silent strides 
 across the floor, while his knife gleamed in his 
 hand, and his look was ghastly. They made 
 signs to each other. The woman laid down 
 the candle and the basin, and tucked up the 
 sleeves of her gown beyond her elbows. She 
 again took up her basin, laid the cloth on 
 the floor, stole close to the straw couch, knelt 
 by it, and held the vessel near the wretch's
 
 THF, NOWLANS. 275 
 
 head. Her companion followed her, and knelt 
 also. He unknotted and took off, with his left 
 hand, the man's neckcloth. As it was finally 
 snatched rather briskly aAvay, the wearer growled 
 and moved. He never uttered a sound more. 
 
 Peggy kept her eye to the chink during 
 the whole of this scene. She could not with- 
 draw it. She was spell-bound ; and, perhaps, 
 an instinctive notion that if she made the 
 slightest change in her first position, so as to 
 cause the slightest rustle, her own life must be 
 instantly sacrificed — perhaps this tended to hold 
 her perfectly still. She witnessed, therefore, 
 not only the details given, but the conclud- 
 ing details which cannot be given. Even 
 when the murder was done, she durst not remove 
 her eye until the woman and lad had left the 
 chamber ; so that she was compelled to observe 
 the revolting circumstance of washing the blan- 
 kets and the floor, and other things which again 
 must not be noticed. It is certain that mo- 
 ral courage and presence of mind never won a 
 greater victory over the impulses of nature, 
 than was shown in this true situation, by this 
 lonely and simple girl. Often, indeed, there 
 arose in her bosom an almost irresistible incli-
 
 276 
 
 THE NOWLANS. 
 
 nation to cry out — at the moment the neckcloth 
 was removed, when the sleeping man muttered 
 and turned, she was scarcely able to keep in her 
 breath ; yet she did remain silent. Not even 
 a loud breathing escaped her. All was over, 
 and she a spectatress of all, and still she 
 mastered herself; and although, so far as re- 
 garded her, the most home cause for agitation 
 finally occurred as the murderers were about 
 to withdraw, Peggy Mas a heroine to the 
 last. 
 
 " He '11 touch no blood-money now," whis- 
 pered the woman ; " an' we may go to our beds, 
 Phil, for the work is done well ; so, come away 
 — but stop ; high-hanging to me, if I ever 
 
 thought of that young in the next room : 
 
 an', for any thing we know, she may be watch- 
 ing us all this time." 
 
 "If you think so, mother, there's but one 
 help for it," observed the lad. 
 
 " A body could peep through the chinks 
 well enough," resumed the female monster ; — 
 " but, on a second thought, Phil, d'you think 
 it's in the nature of a simple young counthry 
 girl like her to look at what was done, without 
 givin' warning ?"
 
 THE NOWLANS. 277 
 
 " May be not ; come, try if she's asleep any 
 how ; she can't bam us there, mother." 
 " Come." — and they left the chamber. 
 The moment they withdrew, Peggy stretched 
 herself on her couch, threw a blanket over her 
 person, closed her eyes, and breathed as if fast 
 asleep. Yet it was with many doubts of her 
 own ability to go successfully through this test, 
 that she listened for the noise of unbarring her 
 door. The creeping steps approached, and her 
 heart nearly failed her. A bolt was shot, and 
 her brain swam. 
 
 But again the assassins seemed to hesitate, 
 and again she heard their whispers. 
 
 " Stop," said the lad, " she must be sound 
 asleep, as you say ; it 's not to be thought she 
 could look on and stand it." 
 
 " That''s my own notion," replied the woman. 
 " Then if we rouse her, at this time o'nieht, 
 wid those marks about us," meaning the marks 
 on their hands and clothes, " why, it '11 be telJ- 
 in"" our own sacret, when we might hould our 
 tongue." 
 
 " Yes ; an' only makin' more o' the same 
 work for ourselves, when we have done enough 
 of it."
 
 2T8 
 
 THE XOWLANS. 
 
 " Besides ; she '11 be to the fore in the morn- 
 in', and then we can cross-hackle her on 
 the head of it ; an', if she shows any signs of 
 knowin' more than we want her to know, — why, 
 it can be a good job still." 
 
 " You spake rason ; an', sure enough, she '11 
 be to the fore ; because I have a notion o' my 
 ov/n, that we ought to keep her fast till the 
 poor private an' Maggy sees her ; they '11 want 
 to have a word wid her, may be : so, by hook 
 or crook, she 's to pass another day and night 
 in the house." 
 
 " Let us go sleep, then, mother ; an' you must 
 get me a little wather." 
 
 " Yes, a-vich ; but I don't think myself 
 wants much o' the sleep for this night, any 
 how." 
 
 They left Peggy's door, and she was thus 
 saved the test her soul shrank from. In 
 some time after their steps became silent, she 
 lay on her straw, with clasped hands and eyes 
 turned to Heaven, offering the most fervent 
 thanks for her preservation. The winter morn- 
 ing broke ; all seemed quiet in the house ; and 
 she ventured to sit up and think again. Her 
 neighbourhood to the mangled body occurred
 
 THE NOWLANS. 
 
 279 
 
 to her, and delirium began to arise. She had 
 recourse to her prayers for help and strength, 
 and they did not fail her. Hour after hour 
 passed away, still she kept herself employed, 
 either by communions with her God, or by 
 laying out her mind to meet the trials she had 
 yet to encounter. 
 
 They would watch her, they had said, in the 
 morning ; she was able to will and determine 
 that the investigation would be vain : Peggy 
 felt that she could defeat them. They intended 
 to induce or force her to spend the day and 
 night where she was ; against this plan she also 
 attempted to lay a counter-plot. 
 
 It miffht be nine o'clock when she heard them 
 stirring about. But, at the first sound, she lay 
 stretched on her bed ; and this proved a good 
 precaution. One of them walked softly up the 
 stairs ; then into the next room ; and afterwards, 
 close to the partition, by her couch ; and, as 
 Peggy judged by the hard breathing through 
 the chinks, seemed to watch if she slept. She 
 was now able to give every appearance of sleep 
 to the eye of the observer. After a few mo- 
 ments, they were together in the room, and she
 
 280 THE NOWLANS. 
 
 heard their whispers, and then the noise of trail- 
 ing out the body. 
 
 For about another hour, they left her undis- 
 turbed. At length the door was opened, and 
 the woman entered her chamber. Peggy still pre- 
 tended to sleep, showing, however, some signs 
 of the restlessness that attends our being dis- 
 turbed from sleep without our being fully 
 aroused. The hideous visitor stooped down 
 and stirred her. Peggy bore the touch of tliat 
 hand on her shoulder, without wincing in any 
 wav. The woman stirred her ajjain, and slie 
 seemed gradually and naturally to become 
 awakened. 
 
 " Musha, it 's the good sleep that 's on you, 
 a colleen," said the woman, as she sat up. 
 
 " Yes, indeed ; I 'm not used to be without 
 the sleep so long, and I had none before this 
 since I left the mountains,"" answered Peggy. 
 *• Is it very late.f* but I don't care much about 
 that, as there 's no use in my starting from 
 you till the coach comes again to-night, and 
 gives me a seat for Dublin." 
 
 " We "11 tell you all about that by and by : 
 get up now, my woman, an' break your fast ; 
 you ought to be hungry."
 
 THE NOWLANS. 281 
 
 " And I am very hungry, and able to help 
 myself out of any thing you lay before me." 
 
 The woman led her down stairs. A good 
 breakfast was prepared. Peggy seemed to eat 
 with a keen appetite ; but she continued to slip 
 the bread she had cut into her large country 
 pockets. The young man entered : she bade 
 him a smihng good-morrow. He hoped she 
 had passed a good night : she answered 
 promptly and easily. 
 
 " It 's an odd question I 'm for axin'," he 
 continued, "but I thought I heard strange 
 noises in a room next to yours last night— did 
 
 oil 
 
 you t 
 
 With the consciousness that the eyes of both 
 were watching her face for a change of expres- 
 sion, Peggy baffled the enquiry. 
 
 "It's said this ould house is haunted," re- 
 joined the woman, "an' that's the ghost's 
 
 room." 
 
 " My faith isn't strong in ghosts," said Peg- 
 gy, smiling; "but I'm glad you did not tell 
 of it before I went to bed, or I might be kept 
 
 waking." 
 
 A pause ensued, during which she knew that
 
 282 THE NOWLANS. 
 
 her catechists were consulting "each other by 
 looks and nods. 
 
 " Why don't you ax afther your friend, that 
 helped to bring you to us last night ?" pursued 
 the lad. 
 
 " I was thinking of him, but said to myself 
 he was in his bed, maybe ; and as he 's no kith 
 or kin o"" mine, only a stranger met on the road, 
 I didn't believe it would be right for a young, 
 lone woman like me to be asking so closely 
 after him." 
 
 "He's not in his bed," said the lad, fixing 
 his eye. She stood his glance. 
 
 " No," resumed the v/oman ; " but gone the 
 road at the first light this mornin'." 
 
 " Why then I 'm sorry for his going." 
 
 " How's that.'^" asked the lad. 
 
 " Because I 'm left without a farthing in the 
 world, and I thought that, as he looked to be a 
 dacent man, maybe he 'd lend me a few shillings 
 to take me on to Dublin ; and now I don't know 
 what to do under Heaven." 
 
 " Never make yourself uneasy about that," 
 remarked the hostess : " for if you thought he 
 looked so like a dacent body, he thought you 
 looked like a hansome colleen, as you are ; an'
 
 THE NOWLANS; 283 
 
 for a token, hearin' o' your loss by the coach, 
 he left us the very thing you 're talking about, 
 to give you when you 'd get up." 
 
 " Yes, he left this Avid me for you," pursued 
 the other, handing some silver, "and just his 
 word to take care an' have as much ready to 
 pay him in the next place he an' you are to see 
 ach other." 
 
 As he gave the money, and spoke these words 
 very significantly, he again fixed her eye ; but 
 Peggy allowed him no advantage. With many 
 professions of thanks to her chance benefactor, 
 she quietly put up the supposed gift. Per- 
 haps they became fully assured that they had 
 nothing to fear, for they soon stopped ques- 
 tioning her. 
 
 " I '11 pay him, with hearty thanks, sure 
 enough," she continued, recurring to the topic, 
 " and sooner than he thinks, maybe. I have only 
 to get to Dublin, to the Brazen-Head, where 
 my father stops, when I '11 have money enough ; 
 and, after a word there, I 'm to pass your 
 dour, to-morrow, about the night-fall, when I'll 
 be axin' a night's lodgin' from you again ; and I 
 can jest lave the honest man's shillings in your 
 hands, and you'll give 'em to him, the next
 
 284 THE XOWLANS. 
 
 time he calls, in Peggy Nowlan's name, and her 
 best wishes along with 'em." 
 
 The day wore away in common topics, and 
 she showed no anxiety to depart. She said she 
 grew hungry for her dinner ; and, when it came 
 before her, still seemed to make a hearty meal. 
 No living creature came to the house during the 
 day ; but she could understand that the person 
 called Maggy, and who she concluded was her 
 wretched cousin, Maggy Nowlan, and the other 
 person, called " the private," were expected 
 during the night ; as also a number of " the 
 customers," from Dublin. 
 
 Nothing had yet been said to deter her from 
 proceeding to town in the night-coach, which, 
 as usual, was to pass at about three o'clock 
 in the morning. She often alluded to its hour 
 of passing by, and they did not make an 
 observation. This gave her courage ; and, 
 after the night fell — for Peggy, still to avoid 
 a shadow of suspicion, would not motion to 
 stir in the day-light — she said, inadvertently, 
 and yet Avith some natural show of anxiety to 
 proceed in her interrupted journey ; — 
 
 " Maybe I couldn't get a seat in it, an' what 
 should I do, then .'—But maybe I ought to
 
 THE NOWLANS. 285 
 
 take the road some time afore ye expect it to 
 come up, so that, when it overtakes me, if I 
 get the place, well and good ; and if I don't, 
 why I could be so far on my way, and sure of 
 walking the six or seven miles more, to Dublin, 
 by the morning, any how ; for I must be there 
 in the morning : what brings me up is to get a 
 good lot of money from my father, that '11 be 
 wanted at home the day after to-morrow, or the 
 next day, at farthest ; and so, ye see, honest 
 people, I 'm beholding to be soon back and for- 
 ward, and, as I said, sleeping in your house, 
 on my way to the country, by to-morrow night, 
 any how." 
 
 They said little in reply to this ; but Peggy 
 believed they again exchanged some glances 
 and signs, while her head was purposely held 
 down ; and then they retired to whisper at 
 the outward door. Fervently did she pray, 
 although the prayer involved an uncharitable 
 contradiction, that, influenced by the hope of 
 plunder she had held out, their resolves not to 
 let her depart for the night might be changed. 
 And perhaps her plan took effect. 
 
 In a short time they rejoined her ; and after 
 a few ordinary remarks, said, by the way,
 
 286 THE NOWLANS. 
 
 that she might do well to " take a start o' 
 the road, afore the coach, just as she was a 
 saying of it ; and they wished her safe to Dub- 
 lin, any how ; and they hoped she would keep 
 her promise, and come see them on her way 
 home ajjain." 
 
 Without discovering any extraordinary joy 
 at this concession, Peggy bid them a steady 
 and cordial good-b'ye ; engaged her bed for the 
 next night ; and it was not till the very moment 
 she was crossing the murderous threshold that 
 she feared her^face, accent and fluttered step 
 might have given intimation of the smothered 
 emotions tliat battled in her heart. 
 
 But, again befriended by her extraordinary 
 presence of mind, she checked her rising ecstasy, 
 and trod with a sober and way-faring step 
 down the dark, tangled, and miry lane. When 
 fairly launched on the broad road, her breast 
 experienced great relief; yet still she kept her 
 demure pace, neither faltering, nor looking back 
 nor about her, nor yet sure of the policy of 
 rushing into the first cabin she might meet. 
 Her heart whispered that the people of the 
 abominable house might have noticed her part- 
 ing struggle, and, after a little reflection, would
 
 THE NOV/LANs. 287 
 
 perhaps follow her, and put her to another 
 trial. 
 
 To lier left, as she walked along, was 
 some rather high ground, falling down to 
 the road, little cultivated, and crowded with 
 furze and briars. A straggling path ran 
 through it, parallel to the road, but at some 
 distance, and, she believed, led to the lone 
 house in the " bosheen.''' Her eye kept watch- 
 ing this path, every step she took. The moon 
 shone full upon it, so as to enable her to dis- 
 cern any near object. Peggy, her head down, 
 and her regards not visibly occupied, soon 
 caught a figure rapidly striding along the path, 
 through the clumps of furze and briars. As it 
 abruptly turned towards a gap in the road- 
 fence, some yards before her, she could ascer- 
 tain that this individual was closely muffled in 
 the common female Irish mantle, holding, as 
 Irishwomen often do, the ample hood gathered 
 round the face. 
 
 " That \ not a woman's step," thought 
 Peggy ; as the figure issued through the gap : 
 — '^' and now, this will be the sorest trial of all.'' 
 
 And, with her suspicions, well might she say 
 so. The gigantic resolution of her heart, so
 
 288 THE -NTOWLANS. 
 
 long kept up, had just begun to yield to an 
 admitted sense of relief : she had just permitted 
 her mind to turn and sicken on the contempla- 
 tion of the horrors she had witnessed and es- 
 caped ; an opportunity at last seemed created 
 for an indulgence of the revulsion and weakness 
 of her woman's nature ; — and now again to call 
 l>ack her unexcelled philosophy ; again to rally 
 herself; again to arrest and fix the melting 
 resolution ; to steady the pulse-throb, tutor 
 the very breath, prepare the very tones of her 
 voice; this, indeed, was her sorest trial. But 
 it was her greatest too; for Peggy, assisted 
 a little by the shadows of night, came out of 
 it still triumphant. 
 
 " God save you P began the person in the 
 cloak, in a female voice. Peggy gave the usual 
 response with a calm tone. 
 
 " Are you for thravellin"' far, a-roon ?" con- 
 tinued the new-comer. She said she was going 
 to Dublin. 
 
 " I 'm goin' there myself, an' we may 's well 
 be on the road together." 
 
 " With all my heart, then," answered Peggy, 
 and they walked on side by side.
 
 THE NOWLANS. 289 
 
 *' You 're not of these parts, ma-colleen, by 
 your tongue," resumed her companion. Peggy 
 assented. 
 
 " An' how far did you walk to-day, a- 
 chorra .''" 
 
 " Not far ; not a step to-day ; only from a 
 house in a bosheen behind us, a few minutes 
 ago." 
 
 " What house, a good girl ? do you mane 
 the ould slate-house that stands all alone, in 
 the middle o' the lane P" Peggy believed that 
 was the very one. 
 
 *' Lord save us ! what bad loock sent you 
 there .?" 
 
 " None, that I know of; why?" 
 
 " It has a bad name, as I hear among the 
 neighbours, and 'ud be the last place myself \id 
 face to, for the night's rest." 
 
 " Well, aroon ; it 's only a Christian turn to 
 spake of people as we find 'em ; I have nothing 
 at all to say against the house ; an' may be it 
 won't be long till I see it again." 
 
 " That 's bould as well as hearty of a young 
 girl like you. Did you come across the woman 
 o' the house ?" 
 
 VOL. II. o
 
 290 THE NOWLANS. 
 
 '* Yes ; and met good treatment from her ; 
 the good tey ; the good dinner ; every thing of 
 the best." 
 
 " But what kind of a lied did you get from 
 her, a-hager ?'''' continued the catechist, speak- 
 ing very low, sidling to Peggy, and grasping 
 her arm. This threw her off her guard. She 
 shrieked, and broke from her companion, who, 
 as she ran, fast pursued her; and the per- 
 son's real voice at last sounded in her ear. 
 
 " Stop, Peggy Nowlan, or rue it ! I know 
 what you think of the bed you got now !"" 
 
 The road suddenly turned in an angle ; Peg- 
 gy shot round the turn : as her pursuer gain- 
 ed on her, she heard the noise of feet ap- 
 proaching in a quick tramp, and a guard of 
 armed soldiers, headed by two men in civil 
 dress, and followed by a post-chaise, met her 
 eyes at a short distance ; she cried out again, 
 and darted among the soldiers ; one of them 
 caught and held her from falling, and she had 
 only time to say — " Lay hands on the mur- 
 derer !" when nature at last failed, and Peggy's 
 senses left her.
 
 THE NOWLANS. 291 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 She recovered to a sense of rapid motion, 
 and found herself in a post-chaise sitting 
 beside a soldier, whose features, in the yet 
 unbroken darkness of the winter's morninjr, 
 were hidden from her. To her incoherent and 
 timid questions her new companion spoke mild- 
 ly, and in a voice that was very pleasing to her 
 ear. She had nothing to apprehend, he said. 
 A gentleman who followed the military party 
 in the post-chaise, recognised her after she had 
 swooned away ; and as soon as the man, dis- 
 guised in female attire, to whom she directed 
 their notice, had been secured, he prevailed on 
 the Serjeant of the little detachment to allow 
 her an escort to Dublin, and get her forwarded 
 to a hotel in Sackville-street, where he would 
 soon join her. 
 
 Peggy was as much astonished as pleased 
 
 o 2
 
 292 THE XOWr.ANS. 
 
 at this information. Who could her self-elected 
 guardian be ? What right had he, whoever he 
 was, to give orders about her ? and ought she 
 to submit to those orders ? would it seem pro- 
 per for a young woman like her to go pas- 
 sively to the hotel of a gentleman of whom she 
 knew nothing, and there await his return ? 
 
 She asked the civil soldier to tell her the 
 name of this person. The man had never heard 
 it. All he knew of him was that he had called 
 at Richmond Barracks, which place lay on her 
 present way to Dublin, very early that morning, 
 accompanied by a police-officer and a country- 
 looking man, for the purpose of summoning 
 a Serjeant's guard, to aid him in the apprehen- 
 sion of certain people who lived a little way 
 on from the spot where they had found Peggy. 
 
 " That ""s the ould house in the bosheen,"" she 
 thought, " and nothing else it is." 
 
 " But what like gentleman was it that came 
 in the post-chaise ?^'' 
 
 The soldier could not even on this point 
 give her any information. The Serjeant only, 
 of all the party, had spoken with the gentle- 
 man, and had an opportunity of closely observ- 
 ing him. For his own part, he did not know
 
 THE NOWLAMS. 293 
 
 any thing about him. He would not venture 
 to describe even his height or age. 
 
 Still Peggy wondered, and, amid all her trou- 
 bles and exhaustion, taxed herself to think. 
 In a few moments she resolved, if possible, not 
 to go to the hotel whither the gentleman had 
 requested her to be conveyed, and, encouraged 
 by the very soothing manner of her companion, 
 said she had the most pressing business at 
 another inn, the Old Brazen Head, and would 
 thank him to bring her there. The soldier 
 replied that he was not at liberty to conduct 
 her, himself, to one place or the other ; he 
 could not see her even quite into town ; in 
 fact, his orders were to drop her at Richmond 
 Barracks, and there engage some other person to 
 Walk forward with her. while he immediately 
 returned in the post-chaise to the spot on which 
 his services might be required. But he en- 
 gaged to enforce on the person that might take 
 her on into town, the necessity of attending to 
 all her wishes. 
 
 With this promise, they arrived before the 
 entrance sate of Richmond Barracks. The 
 attentive soldier got out ; and " Here, sentinel," 
 he said, addressing the man on guard, as he
 
 294 THE NOWLANS. 
 
 helped Peggy down, " Sergeant Goodge sends 
 orders that you give this young woman in charge 
 to the first man at hand ; she is much terrified, 
 a stranger in town, and quite alone ; let her have 
 a safe guide wherever it is her pleasure to go ; 
 to the Brazen Head, she says : and harkye," in 
 a low tone, *' she ""s a respectable person, and 
 must be treated as such/'' 
 
 " The orders shall be cared for," said the 
 sentinel, a staid man of middle age, who seemed 
 to regard the thing only as a part of his military 
 duty. 
 
 " Then, good-b'ye, young woman," continued 
 her conductor ; " I must be back again in the 
 chaise as fast as the wheels can turn ; and I 
 say, my dear," in a mild, earnest tone, " if your 
 face is pretty, as I suppose it is, just keep it as 
 well hidden, until you get to your quarters, 
 from every other person you may meet, as you 
 have from me ; good-b'ye." 
 
 As he was about to re-enter the chaise, a 
 country-dressed man got down from the driver's 
 seat : and the soldier asked, " Hallo, who are 
 you ?" 
 
 " A boy from the bogs," he was answered, 
 in a voice of mixed shrewdness and carelessness ;
 
 THE NOWLANS. 295 
 
 " a boy from the bogs, just come on the masther's 
 business to town ; sure you seen me maybe wid 
 him, on the road, when the colleen stopt us, Sir." 
 
 " Oh, I half remember you ; do you stay be- 
 hind, now ?" 
 
 " If it 's the same to you, I 'd rather o' the 
 
 tAVO." 
 
 " I have no concern in the matter ; on, driver, 
 as quick as you can :"" and the chaise whirled off 
 at a rapid rate, in the direction it had come. 
 
 " What curosity ye all have in ye," muttered 
 " the boy from the bogs," as it whisked away. 
 
 " Ah, Tims," said the sentinel, addressing a 
 man in a soldier's watch-coat, who that moment 
 came, with a quick step, up to the gate — " is that 
 you, lad ? returned from furlough so soon ?" 
 "Yes; returned this moment." 
 "As you go in, tell Corporal White that 
 here 's a young woman to go under escort to the 
 Brazen Head Inn, by order of Sergeant Goodge." 
 " As I shan't be Avanted in Barracks till pa- 
 rade hour, why I '11 take her in charge myself." 
 " Well, do so ; and be careful of her ; none 
 of your old tricks, mind ; the orders are that 
 she is a respectable young woman, d'ye hear, 
 and to be treated accordingly :— this good fellow
 
 296 THE NOWLANS. 
 
 will see you to your quarters, young woman," 
 he added, addressing Peggy, who had held back 
 during the arrangement, carefully covering her 
 head with a large shawl, to avoid the chill blast, 
 as well as to escape observation ; for we cannot 
 say but that the hypothesis upon which her first 
 conductor had given his parting advice might be 
 partially admitted by Peggy, prim and humble 
 as she was. 
 
 " To the Brazen Head, my girl?"" asked her 
 new guide, offering his arm. 
 
 " Yes, sir,'^ she answered, timidly, and, at 
 his request, still more timidly giving her arm : 
 they moved on together. 
 
 " It's a thing I often hard,**' soliloquized " the 
 boy from the bogs," as he walked in their train, 
 but sufficiently distant to be unseen in the dark- 
 ness, which, notwithstanding that it fast ap- 
 proached to six o'clock, still fully prevailed — 
 " It's a thing I often hard said, that them sod- 
 gers is all born divils ; an' when there 's purty 
 cratures in the way, no such thing as puttin' 
 thrust in 'em ; so, we'll keep lookin' on, by the 
 way we didn't see, though our eyes won't be 
 shet abit." 
 
 Unwillingly, yet cautious of showing distrust.
 
 THE NOWLANS. 
 
 297 
 
 Peggy, without once lifting up her face, had 
 taken her companion's arm. Although feeling 
 a repugnance to so close an intimacy with a 
 strange soldier, her conduct on this occasion 
 was measured, too, by her country standard of 
 behaviour, according to which she might inno- 
 cently give her arm, at a late hour, on a lone- 
 some road, to one of her father's workmen ; no 
 consciousness existing, on either side, of any 
 thing beyond the real service required and af- 
 forded. She further judged, with her usual 
 prudence, that the man was accountable for her 
 safe conduct ; for she had heard delivered the 
 orders respecting her ; and she knew enough of 
 a soldier's duty to conclude that they must be 
 strictly observed. 
 
 But they had proceeded only a short distance 
 on their way, when, in passing by a brilliant 
 lamp, that shone vividly upon them, the sol- 
 dier stopped short, and in a jocular tone said — 
 " Let 's see your face, my woman." At the 
 same time he touched the shawl that Peggy 
 kept folded over her little bonnet, close down 
 to her chin ; and she, not speaking a word, still 
 held it tight, bent her head, and tried to avoid 
 his scrutiny. 
 
 o 5
 
 298 THE NOWLANS. 
 
 " God save ye kindly," said theli' hitherto 
 unseen observer, coming indistinctly into view, 
 Avhile he changed his voice, with much skill, 
 and put on a foolish look. 
 
 " Eh ! what does he say ?"" asked the sol- 
 dier. 
 
 " Nothin' of any harm ; only God save ye.'*' 
 " Well, and what do you want, Master Pat .?'" 
 " Jack, i' you plase ; Jack Lanigan, Sir, is 
 the name o' me." 
 
 " But have you any business with us ? '"' 
 " It isn't a grate dale, Sir," dropping his jaw 
 much lower, as with (to use his own word) " a 
 moryah* humility" he took the front part of the 
 leaf of his hat between his finger and thumb, in 
 manner of salute, and so held it while he spoke ; 
 " maybe, fur a good-will you 'd have towards 
 me, you 'd tell us where one Molly Houlihan 
 stops; she's wid a misthrcss Taffy : a snug wo- 
 man I hear ; an' Molly is all-in-all 'wid her." 
 
 There really was such a woman as Molly 
 Houlihan, a "gossip" to the speaker; but he 
 chose to bring in ;her name here, only, in a cer- 
 tain strain, to support a character. Molly had 
 once been his neighbour, the wife of a small 
 
 * Pretended humility.
 
 THE NOWLANS. 
 
 299 
 
 farmer ; his god-mother, too ; had become 
 "broke, horse an' foot,"— literally understood 
 to mean " ruined, in every shape and way ;" had 
 gone to England with her son, to reap and 
 bind ; on their return, when the son got mar- 
 ried, had settled in Dublin, and was now " a 
 basket," a basket-woman, or a porter to a re- 
 spectable stall-vender of fish, in Pill-lane, the 
 Dublin Billingsgate. 
 
 The soldier laughed at the man's request. 
 
 " Avoch, you 're welcome to your laugh ; 
 only if you war could an' hungry, an' a poor 
 sthray man, goin' the road among the hills this 
 mornin', an' axin me, Jack Lanigan, where 's 
 the place my gossip lives, Jack Lanigan 'ud 
 make you laugh, to rise your heart, sooner nor 
 put the laugh on you, any how." 
 
 " As you seem to say you 're hungry, there 's 
 a trifle for you;" throwing a penny in the 
 direction where, without being iiiore than half 
 visible, his new acquaintance stood : " further, 
 I do not well understand you." 
 
 He went to pick up the largess, and the 
 soldier again addressed Peggy, pleading to see 
 lier face. While searching about, the man 
 continued to keep his eye upon them. Peggy
 
 300 THE XOWLANS. 
 
 still resisted her guide's importunity ; the con- 
 test arose to sometiiing like a struggle ; and her 
 shawl and bonnet at last fell off, leaving her 
 features fully exposed in the light of the 
 lamp. Peggy could now only cast down her 
 eyes ; the soldier peered close ; but, instead of 
 seeming pleased with the view of the very 
 comely face thus presented, he started back, as 
 if he had seen a spectre. 
 
 The countryman had picked up the shawl 
 and bonnet; and now, as the soldier stept back, 
 he stept closer with them to Peggy : affecting, 
 all the while, with his head bent, and his hat 
 pulled over his eyes, to rub the dirt from them. 
 We may, without any breach of the confidence 
 existing between this person and ourselves, tell 
 the reader that all his manoeuvring of a closer 
 advance, and a little delay, arose from a wish 
 to look into the soldier's face without showing 
 his own ; and this curiosity again arose out of a 
 suspicion, just come into his mind, that, not- 
 withstanding the disguise of the high standing 
 collar of his watch-coat, the individual might be 
 a certain person with whom he was formerly 
 acquainted. Acting in furtherance of his view, 
 he accordingly kept rubbing and blowing at the
 
 THE NOWLANS. 801 
 
 shawl and bonnet, as Peggy stood uncovered, 
 and stretched out her hand for them ; and 
 glancing stealthily, now and then, towards her 
 guide as he said — " Have a little patience, 
 a-lanna ; " I ""ll put the worth iv his penny upon 
 them, in a cleanin"' ; we war never a boy, though 
 we cum from the bogs themselves, that 'ud beg 
 or take a thing widout givin' something for 
 it ;" and, as the soldier still drew back into 
 the shade of the wall, he moved sideways 
 after him. 
 
 It was in consequence of this wilful delay, that 
 Peggy yet stood uncovered and undisguised, 
 under the strong glare of the lamp, as a night- 
 coach rattled up, from the country, on its way 
 to the post-office. A young woman was leanmg 
 from the window, either in vague hopes of 
 recognising some friend at every moment, or 
 impelled by curiosity to observe as much of the 
 metropolis as could be seen by lamp-liglit. She 
 screamed to the coachman to stop ; and while 
 the soldier, attracted by her scream, started at 
 her appearance, in another moment Anty 
 Nowlan was in her sister's arms. 
 
 " Is our eye-sighth good ?"" queried " the boy 
 from the bogs ;" " wait — it 's the other, sure
 
 302 THE NO\VLA>{S. 
 
 enough. AVhat the duoul — God forgive me ! 
 — brings 'em botli here? For the matther 
 o' that, what 's the raison the one or the 
 t'other 'ud be runnin' from their quiet home, 
 where there 's pace an' plenty of all sorts ? 
 Well, I '11 have a purty job on my hands ; 
 lookin" afther one wasn't enough, but there 
 must be a couple to keep out o' harm's way." 
 
 They were yet clinging to each other when 
 the guard cried out that the time was passing, 
 and he must start. They did not hear him ; 
 he sounded his despotic horn. Anty, shaken 
 by her journey, and now by her emotion, be- 
 came ill. He questioned Peggy as to her sister's 
 ability to get in : Peggy did not know what to 
 do or say ; but even if Anty was lifted into the 
 coach, it struck her as a better resource than 
 remaining under the protection of the soldier : 
 she had, however, to put on her own bonnet and 
 shav/1, which her unknown squire yet held ; 
 and as, in iier confusion and distress, she did 
 not reply to the guard's last question, tlye 
 door was clapped to ; the man of capes and 
 handkerchiefs began to climb up to his seat : 
 she heard him cry "All right;" the impetu- 
 ous vehicle rattled away ; she screamed after
 
 THE NOWLANS. 903 
 
 it ; was not heard or heeded ; and she and 
 her young sister were left together, in the dark 
 winter's morning, upon the immediate thorough- 
 fare into a great city, not knowing where to 
 turn, but luckily ignorant, at the same time, of 
 the full extent of the danger and impropriety of 
 such a situation. And could she have witnessed 
 the conversation that immediately ensued in the 
 coach, Peggy would not have been cheered by 
 hearing a good lady tell a felloAv-traveller that, 
 " all along, she had no good opinion of the 
 young jade that just left them ; that it was a 
 mighty umproper sort of thing to take up such 
 runners-by-night, when a dacent person couldn't 
 guess who was coming : and you see, honey," 
 she added, in a tone of great good-nature and 
 compassion, " the sort she must be of, when 
 she darts out, in the dark, to make hail-fellow- 
 well-met with a common sthreet-walker, for- 
 nent Richmond Barracks'" — all the while that, 
 as she spoke, the young lady to whom she ad- 
 dressed herself might, if it was lightsome enough, 
 have discerned the arm of this charitable per- 
 son closely circumscribing the waist of her next 
 neighbour, a burly and gallant country mer- 
 chant, going up to purchase goods.
 
 304 THE NOWLANS. 
 
 11 
 
 " Excuse ray awkwardness, young woman 
 resumed the soldier, after the coach had driven 
 off, advancing from the shade, more closely 
 muffled than before, while Peggy drew back 
 from him in resentment and apprehension : " ex- 
 cuse my awkwardness ; it was a soldier's little 
 freedom, nothing more. I 'm sorry for it, now ; 
 and promise, on the word of a soldier, I '11 not 
 repeat it, but conduct you and your sister to the 
 place you seek, and which I know very well." 
 
 " Thank you, Sir ; but we '11 try to find it 
 without assistance : come, Anty," taking her 
 hand. 
 
 " You 'U never be able to get on ; be sure of 
 that ; and, at such an hour, the streets are par- 
 ticularly dangerous, and full of bad people." 
 
 " Indeed, and I fear so," hesitated Peggy. 
 
 " Besides, young woman, I must give an ac- 
 count of you to my superiors; I have you in 
 charge, and can't part you till you are safe." 
 
 " God, of his mercy, direct us for the best !" 
 said Peggy ; " for," she continued, turning to 
 him, while tears ran down her cheeks, " we are 
 quite strangers in Dublin; come up after our 
 father, who is ill — dying, I believe — at the
 
 THE NOWLANS. 305 
 
 Brazen Head ; so, Heaven be your reward, and 
 bring us to him." 
 
 "Never fear me,"" he answered, "you shall 
 soon see your father ;" and again he softly drew 
 Peggy's arm within his, and would have done 
 the same by Anty, but, although she entirely 
 committed herself to Peggy's arrangement, the 
 sensitive girl shrank, trembling, from him, and 
 took her way and kept her place by her sister's 
 side. 
 
 " I 'm a duoul's fool, to be sure, again soli- 
 loquized " the boy from the bogs," as he again 
 cautiously followed in their wake: " they say 
 so, in the counthry, any how ; an' God help 
 me, when the dance cums on me, I believe I 'm 
 as like a fool as any one I ever seen ; but that 
 makes no maxim. I 'd lay a bet, fool as I am, 
 the sodger doesn't mane what 's right ; and if / 
 have a raison for spakin', at the present time, 
 wid a voice that's not the same God ga' me, 
 it 's not so by him, barrin' he wasn't upon a 
 bad schame ; so here goes to keep him within 
 tl;ie lenth o' th' poor stick, wid a little run to 
 help it." 
 
 A good distance from the Barracks, the sol-
 
 306 THE NOWLANS. 
 
 dier led the girls up a street to the right, and 
 stopped with them before a mean-looking house, 
 into which, as was evident to the persevering 
 spy, the sisters were unfiling to enter. Yield- 
 ing to the soldier's arguments, they at last did 
 so, however. 
 
 " Murther," continued their guardian with- 
 out, "bud that's a place I don't much like, 
 one way or other ; I '11 step in, an' see wid 
 my own eyes : — stop" — and at his own word 
 of command, he did stop in his advance. 
 " That's like the noise iv a scrimmage within — 
 mostha, nothin' else it is ;" and he gave a yell 
 and a jump sideways to the half-open door. 
 The girls met him on the threshold, as they 
 rwshed out, screaming, and wild with terror. 
 He returned their cry, in a compassionate key, 
 but nothing subdued for its good feeling ; they 
 shrank from him too, and 
 
 *' Have mercy on us, honest man !" appealed 
 Peggy, while Anty clung to her — " take pity 
 on the young crature — do not force her to go 
 in — it's a wicked house, I'm sure of it — an' 
 they wanted to take her from me !" 
 
 " Then, may the duoul his own self, or else 
 the duoul's mad bull, toss me on his horns.
 
 THE NOWLANS. 307 
 
 widin an inch o' the shky, if I do any sich 
 thing, a-lanna !" answered the champion, flou- 
 rishing his cudgel, as he grasped it at the pro- 
 per point for battle. — We felt some disinclina- 
 tion to record his oath ; it seemed to us (adopt- 
 ing a phrase that has not at all grown into 
 cant) verging on "bad taste;" and we ponder- 
 ed, and sought for neater words to express the 
 speaker's energy ; but, with a due recollection 
 of our trust as faithful delineators of character, 
 our caution and our search were vain ; so that 
 we even wrote down the very terms he used, 
 and we beg of the reader not to mistake us, or 
 be shocked with us for our veracity. 
 
 " If you are in arnest, save us then from this 
 strange, deceitful man," continued Peggy, as 
 the soldier re-appeared in the street — " save my 
 little sister, at least : I fear most on her account, 
 from what I heard and saw." 
 
 " Come here, my darlins — jest stand for 
 yoursefs at the back o' me : and now let us see 
 him foment us:— sarvent,misther sodger;"" with 
 great coolness erecting his person in somewhat 
 of the same way any heroic champion of the 
 fs^r sex might be supposed to do it, if conscious 
 that he stood as a bulwark between one or
 
 308 THE NOWLANS. 
 
 more of them, and their deadly foe, man or 
 dragon. 
 
 " Why do you interrupt the young women, 
 fellow ?"" demanded the soldier angrily ; " get 
 out of the way, they are nothing to you." 
 
 " Arn't they ? why then divil take the liars 
 in his big paw ; maybe you 'd say they 're not 
 sisther's childer o' my own, that I have as good 
 a riglit to, to fight for, as if they war Lanigans 
 all over .'*" 
 
 " Come, Jack ; none of your Irish gibberish ; 
 fall back, and let me speak to my cousins." 
 
 " Not a one step, then, to plase you ; an' we 
 calls that plain English in Munster, my chap 
 iv a sodger." 
 
 " You won't, won't you ?''* 
 
 " By the stick in my hand I won't ; an' that's 
 as good as if I tuck an oath on the head of id." 
 
 " Then you must — that 's all." 
 
 He quickly approached, with intent to dis- 
 lodge his opponent, who, as if in sport, made 
 one or two agile movements round him, and the 
 soldier came to the ground, heels uppermost, 
 merely by the dexterity of the toe, without aid 
 of bludgeon : and " Take care, now, or you '11 be
 
 THE NOWLANS. 309 
 
 fallin'," said his antagonist, dancing back to his 
 charge. 
 
 " Scoundrel !" cried the soldier, losing all 
 temper, as he sprang up and drew his bayonet ; 
 " I know you, now ! and must I, a second time, 
 meet such treatment at your hands ?" 
 
 "If it*'s a thing you don't like," answered 
 the other, his face settling in determination, 
 say ' God be wid you, boy !' an' jest run while 
 you have the use o' the two legs. Whoo, bother,"" 
 as his armed foe still advanced, " here we are 
 agin, then, like a May-boy." 
 
 He resolutely darted forward, flourishing his 
 cudgel about his head and before his person, 
 with such dexterous rapidity as to make its cir- 
 cular motion resemble that of a chariot-wheel, 
 in full speed. The bayonet flew some yards 
 from the soldier's hand. 
 
 " Down on your cursed marrow bones, now," 
 pursued the victor, collaring him, " what you 
 didn't do these thousand years — down on your 
 hunkers, I say ! or, by the soul o' man, I '11 whip 
 the head o' your showldhers as clane as ever I 
 cut a hanful o' barly : kneel down, I bid you !" 
 forcing him to his knees, " put up your two
 
 310 THK NOWLANS. 
 
 hands, and ax their pardon ; spake !" drawing 
 the hooked blade of a large country couteat/, 
 within a hair's breadth of his throat. 
 
 " Well, I do ask their pardon."" 
 
 " An' God's pardon ?"" making another move- 
 ment of the blade. 
 
 " Yes;"" grumbled the half-choked man. 
 
 " An' mine .?" 
 
 " And vours."'"' 
 
 "Very well: get up, now;" giving him a 
 shove that set him sprawling — " get up, now, 
 an' go practice at your tar-gate." 
 
 "Just let me have my bayonet;" walking 
 towards it. 
 
 " Call to-morrow, a-vich," snatching it up : — 
 " make off wid yoursef — go to the duoul, where 
 you're thravellin"* day an"" night — run out of 
 the one road wid me — cut your stick — mania"' to 
 say, take yoursef out o' my sighth !"''' During 
 these separate exhortations, the conqueror, 
 holding the bayonet in his left hand, and in- 
 cessantly flourishing the good cudgel with his 
 right, gradually worked himself into a mad 
 caper round and round the soldier ; and — 
 "whoo;"" he continued, intentry watching the 
 wonders of his own feet — " whoo ! you say you
 
 THE NOW LANS. 311 
 
 have a knowledge o"* me — an' so you have — 
 (duoul thank you) — to your cost — whoo ! here's 
 the boy that 's not ashamed o' what they christen- 
 ed him — " and thereupon he yielded his usual 
 stave, only varying one word, by way of pre- 
 sent compliment — 
 
 " My name it 's ConoUy the rake, 
 I don't care a sthraw for any man ; 
 I dhrinks good whishkey an' ale. 
 An' I'd bate out the brains of a sodger-man — 
 
 Whoo !" 
 
 The battle between Peery and his antagonist 
 had continued but a very short period, during 
 which the sisters looked on in trembling anxiety, 
 fearful to risk further peril, by a flight they knew 
 not whither; now, their recognition of Peery, 
 as he threw off his feigned voice and character, 
 and most convincingly proclaimed his own name, 
 gave them, in the first instance, great relief; 
 and with a " Thank God !" they pressed each 
 other's hands, and awaited his leisure to return 
 to them. 
 
 " Scoundrel, I '11 reckon with you for all 
 this," muttered the soldier, about to withdraw. 
 
 " Aha !" cried Peery, suddenly stopping his 
 buffoonery, and changing into a wild yet stern
 
 312 THE NOWLANS. 
 
 vigour, as he again darted at the man's throat — 
 " an' I a'most forgot to make my eye-sighth sure 
 o' you — show us your face, a-bouchal — " in a 
 voice sufficiently low to be lost to the sisters — 
 " yes — it 's your ownsef — but I won't be the 
 man to hould you here : — we know where you're 
 to be had for the axin'. I '11 jest lave you to 
 them that gets their bread by ketchin' rogues o' 
 your sort — only be off, I say, out o' sighth an' 
 hearin' of her that one look from you 'ud kill an' 
 murther ! — there — go your ways — " And the 
 soldier ran down a lane, and disappeared. 
 
 "An' come now, my poor sowls o' girls; 
 come wid me ; an' let us go the wide world, 
 wherever we like, our ownsefs." 
 
 " Are you hurt, Peery, my poor boy ?" 
 asked Peggy, kindly. 
 
 '* Sorrow as much as a scratch, Miss Peggy, 
 an', for a rason I know, that you won't tell any 
 body that 'ud be axin you— maybe it 's not the 
 first time we made a fool o' the bagnet. Wait 
 abit, an' let us put it up ; there, now ;" sling- 
 ing it with a piece of cord at his back, in the 
 way his compatriots sling their sickles, or, as they 
 call them, " rapiin'-hooks," when they issue 
 forth, over land and sea, in quest of harvest.
 
 THE NOWLANS. 313 
 
 work — " that 's snug ; an"* when a handy smith 
 bates it out a little, an' makes it crooked, an"" 
 puts teeth into its head, it 'ill save the price iv 
 a hook for the next sa&on, I'm thinkin' ; — so, 
 come : sure I know where you want to go, 
 my pets." 
 
 " Then you know the way to the Brazen- 
 Head ?" asked Peggy. 
 
 " Know the way ? to be sure I stop ; now 
 
 that I think of it, bad manners to me if I do. 
 But sure I know what you want there ; poor 
 Daniel, the father, is sick, an' ye can't make 
 him off ; so here 's to set out on the road, 
 any how : though, what wa}^," in a low tone to 
 himself, '' Peery Conolly no more knows, nor 
 if he war a gor^oon o' two months ould." 
 
 While he thus half soliloquizetl, (a habit to 
 which he was much addicted, and which gave 
 one of the reasons why he was regarded, " in 
 his own part o' the counthry,'' as " not right in 
 his mind," it being a prevalent opinion that all 
 deranged persons talked as much to themselves 
 as to others) — while thus employed, he was, in 
 turn, closely observed by an individual, who, if 
 dress and personal conformation did not de- 
 ceive, might have been half masculine, half femi- 
 
 VOI,. II. p
 
 314 THE NOWLAXS. 
 
 nine. She, however, laid claim to the honour 
 of being one of the softer sex. She was broad 
 l>uilt as a Dublin coal-heaver : slie wore a man's 
 coat, buttoned close to the chin, a man's hat, 
 pressed flat in the crown, and forced over a 
 mob-cap, for she would assert female attire ; and 
 from the knees downward, a clumsily gathered 
 linsey-woolsey petticoat more decidedly intimat- 
 ed her pretensions. Under the hat and cap 
 appeared a red, weather-beaten, rough-featured 
 face. A flat, shallow basket was tucked under 
 her arm ; and about an inch of a black pipe 
 was held between her teeth. 
 
 " Whisht,"" said this questionable person to 
 herself, as she came to a dead stop ; " isn't that 
 Peery Conolly from Tipperary ? My sowl to 
 glory but it 's very like him in the back." 
 
 " Then you do not know the way, Peery .''" re- 
 sumed Peggy, in evident distress, and perhaps 
 giving some scope to a dread even of lier de- 
 fender, as old recollections came to her mind, and 
 she found herself completely in his power. 
 
 " I jist know as much about it, as if we dhrop- 
 ped from the clouds, out, this moment : but if 
 we could come on the road to Molly Houlli- 
 han, that stops wid a Misthress Taffy, a gnug
 
 THE NOWLANS. 315 
 
 woman, in Pill Lane, she 'd biing us to it, no 
 doubt." 
 
 " It 's his ownsef," resumed the person al- 
 luded to, now much nearer to him than he 
 thought of; " an' he 's talkin"* o"* me, the poor 
 boy." 
 
 " But never mind id, Miss Peggy an' Miss 
 Anty, a-lanna ; the mornin'' 'ill soon be shinin' 
 out, as well as it can, in this place, an' for the 
 time o' the year that 's in id ; an' sure we have 
 tongues in our heads : don't be a bit afeard ; 
 there 's neither hurt nor liarum, shame nor 
 shkandle, 'ill come next or near ye, while Peery's 
 four bones hould together." 
 
 " Wait now," continued Molly, " until I 
 take a shtart out iv him." 
 
 She hastily put up her black pipe-stump ; 
 wiped her mouth with the sleeve of her man's 
 coat ; caught her flat basket with both hands ; 
 raised it aloft ; and having stept softly after 
 Peery, as he turned his back and talked on, 
 complimented his shoulders with such a crash 
 of the wickerwork as made him shout aloud — 
 thus greeting him, during her salute — " Musha, 
 bad end to you, for one Peery ConoUy ; an' is 
 id there you are, this mornin' ?''"' 
 
 p 2
 
 316 THE NOWLANS. 
 
 " Where 's the sprong ?" cried Peery, un- 
 slinging the bayonet, and wheehng round ; but 
 looking closer, he soon changed his manner ; 
 and contenting himself with an open-handed, 
 long drawn " dowce," across the side of her 
 head, affectionately piped out — " Arragh, 
 Molly, how ""s every inch o' you ?" 
 
 " Brave an' hearty, gossip; — an' so, here I 
 find you ?" 
 
 " INIy mother's son ;"" and the minor love- 
 salutes took place. 
 
 " Who 's them by the side o' you, Peery ?" 
 glancing suspiciously, with the air of a woman 
 of untainted virtue, at the two girls, who shrank 
 back from her in some terror. 
 
 " Whisht, it ""s a shame for you, Molly, so it 
 is; I 11 tell you who they are ; an"* you 're jist in 
 time to lend a helpin' hand.'*" 
 
 " ^Vhy, what concarn would I have wid sich 
 as them, why ?"* 
 
 " Bother, ]Molly, I "U show^ you the ups an' 
 downs iv id." 
 
 Every thing now created suspicion in the 
 breasts of the two poor girls. It appeared to 
 Anty that some further mischief was intended, 
 she became again ill, and sank suddenly in 
 Peggy's arms.
 
 THE NOWLANS. 317 
 
 " Is that id ?' resumed Molly, interrupting 
 and breaking away from Peery's story, and gal- 
 loping to them ; " musha, musha, my poor 
 childher — och, murther, here 's one o' them, all 
 as one as stone-dead !"" 
 
 " Molly, a sthore," whined Peery, " jist put 
 an arum round her, I "m shy to do id.'" 
 
 " Oh, If you have Christian hearts, help us !" 
 cried Peggy, '' we are strangers here, without 
 money or friends ; our father is dying or dead, 
 in Dublin, we don't know where, and we can't 
 find him ; give my little sister a help, and God 
 will reward you." 
 
 " I '11 tell you what, a-vourneen," answered 
 Molly, " I lives hard by in a dacent cellar ; jist 
 come home wid us, you an' your darlin' little 
 sisther, stop till the broad day wid poor Molly 
 Houlihan, an' if she war to pop the last o' the 
 duds on her back" (no great promise, however) 
 " ye must have the good bed an' somethin' to rise 
 your hearts, an' all wid the cead mille phaltea, 
 as we used to say among tlie poor hills — " 
 
 " Yes, a-graw," urged Peery, " an' sor- 
 row 's the sowl but Molly 'ill come foment you—" 
 
 " Yes, an' whin the christhens are all up an' 
 kickin', an' when the little girl is as well as
 
 318 THE NOWLANS. 
 
 ever, sure we'll make off the ould daddy for 
 you, dead or alive, if he 's to be had in Dublin 
 town ; come, a-chorra-ma-chree ;" seizing Anty. 
 
 " Well," said Peggy, still hesitating, " I '11 
 take your kind offer, but, for the love of God, 
 do not deceive us ! If you are not a proper 
 woman, if you do not mean us well — listen to 
 me : there 's no wish in my heart to vex you, 
 I 'm sorry if I have ; but 'tis all the terror ! 
 We have already suffered so much and by such 
 people ! Good, blessed woman, take pity on 
 us ! do not bring; us to harm ! on mv two bare 
 knees I pray to you — let us lie down here in the 
 streets, any where, any thing, sooner than that 
 — for we are honest people's children, and we 
 abhor a sin." 
 
 " The short an' the long is, a-vourneen, I 
 see somebody very like the sodger comin' back, 
 wid his faction to help him, so make the best 
 o' your way at once wid INIolly," said Peery, 
 as, looking down the street, he fastened the 
 bayonet on the stick. 
 
 Peggy started up from her knees and called 
 to Molly to come away : " I trust you, I do 
 indeed," she added, " I put Anty into your 
 hands ; come, I 'Jl help you to bear her off."
 
 THE NOWLANS. 319 
 
 " Come then, my darlins ; decaive you ?" 
 
 "Whisht, Molly, that's all bother, you 
 know," remonstrated Peery ; " if there 's a 
 human crature can look on them^ an' mane them 
 wrong at the same time, my curse, an' the curse 
 o' Saint Pathrick, an' their own mother's curse 
 on their heads, that 's all. Run, my darlins, 
 they see us !" 
 
 " Quick, quick !" cried Peggy ; but she 
 stopped an instant to say — " Woman ! God 
 so do to you and yours, as you do to us !" 
 
 " Wid all my heart !" answered Molly, and 
 between them they hurried away with Anty, 
 leaving Peery to brave the rallied anger of the 
 person he had treated so unceremoniously a 
 few minutes before, and who now came back, 
 indeed, as he suspected, attended by a group of 
 ruffianly fellows in ordinary costume.
 
 320 THE NOWLANS. 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 Early upon the morning after Anty's sudden 
 departure from home, David Shearman, having 
 returned to his father's sooner than he expected, 
 walked over to visit Peggy. He found Cauth 
 Flannigan in a state of the greatest terror and 
 consternation. Her story was that the house 
 had been broken into during the night, and rob- 
 bed of all the money in it, and of her "young 
 misthress, Miss Anty," too ; for, unaware of 
 the previous presence of the guest whom Anty 
 had secreted, the poor girl could suppose no- 
 thing else, when, getting up at her usual hour, 
 she found the desk open, and Anty gone. 
 To his repeated questions, David Shearman 
 then, for the first time, learned that Peggy was 
 also from home, and Daniel Nowlan before her ; 
 and the young man stood stupified with horror 
 and alarm, not knowing what to do, when Mr.
 
 THE NOWLANS. 321 
 
 Long's confidential steward entered the house, 
 and stunned him by telling another strange 
 story. 
 
 Some days before, the man said, his master 
 had received, from a person who formed one of 
 the gang, private information that Long Hall 
 w^as to be plundered on a particular night, and 
 its proprietor deprived of life. The informer 
 wrote his letter first in the hopes of reward, 
 next with a clause for self-preservation. He 
 stipulated that, if Mr. Long would pledge his 
 honour to give him a thousand pounds and a 
 promise of pardon, he Avould enable him to 
 save property and hfe, and to detect the plot- 
 ters. Mr. Long acceded by letter to his terms, 
 and the man, no longer disguising his name, 
 which was Studs, wrote back another line, ap- 
 pointing a meeting with Mr Long, in Dublin, 
 from the neighbourhood of which city, he said, 
 the gang were to go down to the country. 
 
 Mr. Long accordingly went to Dublin in 
 great privacy, arranging to write back to his 
 steward the necessary advices ; and that con- 
 fidential servant soon got from him a notice of 
 the niolit when the house Avas to be attacked, 
 with other particulars. The gang were to con- 
 
 V 5
 
 322 THE XOWLAN'S. 
 
 sist of four ; one a woman of the name of Mag- 
 gy Nowlan, whom Mr. Long and the steward 
 knew; two men from Dubhn, whom Studs also 
 named ; and a fourth man, a soldier, whom he 
 would not further describe, but, he added, whom 
 Mr. Long would recognize when they met face to 
 face. After the receipt of this letter, the stew- 
 ard set about taking the measures previously 
 agreed on between him and the writer, and 
 which it again enforced. With the utmost se- 
 crecy, a party of military were obtained from 
 Nenagh, and concealed in the house ; and a man 
 who, before Mr. Long left the country, had, the 
 steward believed, intimated some further know- 
 ledge of the plot, and particulai'ly of the iden- 
 tity of the soldier whom Studs declined to 
 name, went off to join Mr. Long in Dublin. 
 This person young Mr. Shearman well knew ; 
 Peery Conolly. And now came the end of the 
 story. The appointed night arrived. Some of 
 the soldiers were stationed in the house ; some 
 out of sight, around it. The lights were extin- 
 guished ; and when every thing gave signs of 
 repose, the robbers were punctually heard mak- 
 ino; wav throu<?h a lower window. LTavinfj been 
 allowed to gain the inside of the house, and to
 
 THE NOWLANS, 
 
 323 
 
 commence their plundering, little exertion was 
 necessary in apprehending them. But the wo- 
 man and the two DubKn thieves alone appeared. 
 The mysterious soldier had not at all come in 
 view. When closely questioned about him, the 
 prisoners would give no answer, except that 
 he had spent part of the night in Daniel Now- 
 lan's house ; and it was this hint that sent over 
 the steward the night before, when he met 
 Anty on the road, and that also caused the pre- 
 sent meeting between him and David Shearman. 
 
 When apphed to on the subject, then and 
 now, poor Cauth warmly resisted, of course, 
 such a base insinuation ; and the sole new infor- 
 mation she could supply only served farther to 
 perplex the zealous steward. What was best 
 to be done none of them could conjecture ; what 
 steps the steward was to take for securing this 
 unknown person, or David to discover his 
 Peggy and her sister, or Cauth to get every 
 body back, and to keep the life in " her poor 
 ould misthress of all," who lay at death's door, 
 stunned and terrified by what she heard, and 
 only able to scream aloud or scold her at- 
 tendant. 
 
 At length, guided by Cauth's mentioning
 
 324 THE NOWLANS. 
 
 the Brazen Head, in Dublin, as the place to 
 ■which, no doubt, I'eggy had gone after her 
 father, David formed his resolution. He ran 
 home for his best liorse. As he got into the sad- 
 dle, his fathers information, previously supplied 
 to Peggy, but which he had not before re- 
 ceived, made him sure that all would be right ; 
 and hastily shaking hands with his amazed pa- 
 rent, he galloped off along the Dublin road, 
 determined to take fresh horses whenever he 
 could find them, and not stop, night or day, 
 until he should reach the metropolis. And 
 accordingly, some hours before the sisters en- 
 tered Dublin, David had gained it. He knew 
 the old Brazen Head in Bridge-street very well ; 
 it was a great resort for honest country-folk, 
 from every part of Ireland: and he had once or 
 twice before experienced its quiet, old-fashioned 
 accommodation. In a short time, therefore, he 
 was thundering at its massive door ; nor had he 
 to thunder long. "Boots" was up, as in duty- 
 bound, to welcome such travellers as might 
 arrive by the six o'clock coaches from country 
 parts, and who, at such an hour, in the depths 
 of winter, could scarce expect the homage of 
 a more sprightly attendant of the other sex.
 
 THE NOWLANS. 325 
 
 " Was there a Mr. Nowlan in the house ?" 
 David asked, as soon as the half-ahve, pallid 
 creature appeared, with an inch of candle in his 
 hand. " Yes, there was." '' An old gentle- 
 man ?"' " Yes." " From the country ?" " Yes, 
 indeed." " Had he been ill?" " He had, but 
 was better, and walking about now." " Was 
 there a young lady with him — his daughter .f^" 
 " No.'' " No .?" '' No, in troth ; not a living 
 soul belonging to him, man, woman, or child." 
 David wrung his hands and stamped about. 
 Peggy ought to have been in Dublin since that 
 hour the previous morning. What had become 
 of her ? He asked the number of Daniel Now- 
 lan's room ; rushed up stairs ; awoke the old 
 man ; and, with little precaution, told him of 
 Peggy's departure to seek him, two nights be- 
 fore, and of the sudden and unaccountable 
 disappearance of Anty on the night following. 
 
 Daniel Nowlan, Aveak and exhausted as he 
 was, fainted at the tidings. When restored 
 to his senses, his grief was so childish, that 
 it reminded David of the necessity to master 
 his own passion, and summon up his strength 
 of mind. He feared the old man's relapse 
 into the sickness from which he had just
 
 326 
 
 THE NOWLANS. 
 
 1-ecovered ; and to send for medical assist- 
 ance was his first proceeding. But when the 
 physician arrived, his fears became removed; 
 and after Daniel Nowlan took some quieting 
 medicine, his young friend prevailed on him to 
 have hope, and bend his thoughts to consider 
 what was best to be attempted. 
 
 Before they proceeded to the urgent matter 
 in hand, however, David ascertained that all 
 attempts to find out the sailor who had called 
 himself John Nowlan, had hitherto proved 
 abortive. Then they partook of a hasty and 
 scarce needful breakfast ; and when it was 
 broad daylight, got into a hackney coach, and 
 drove to the office of the Limerick mail, in 
 Dawson-street. 
 
 Immediate, though still torturing information 
 here awaited them. They learned that the 
 coach in which Peggy had come up, had broken 
 down near Dublin ; that she had been over- 
 looked in the confusion, and not since heard of; 
 and the guard of the other coach, which had con- 
 veyed Anty from the country, further supplied 
 an account of the meeting between the sisters, 
 near Richmond Barracks, and of their having 
 been left, seemingly under the protection of a
 
 THE NOWLANS. 327 
 
 soldier, before the gate. To Richmond Bar- 
 racks David and Daniel next repaired. The 
 sentinel who had been on duty at the time in 
 question, confirmed the account of the guard, 
 adding that they had walked on into town 
 with the soldier spoken of, and whose name 
 was Tims. 
 
 Upon this, David proposed that he and the 
 old man should part, and go separately into 
 every public house on their way towards town, 
 and afterwards meet at a police office, of which 
 he inquired the situation and address, and gave 
 both to Daniel. His advice seemed good ; it 
 was acceded to by the father, and they parted. 
 
 With a flushed cheek, parched lips, streaming 
 eyes, and his white hair flying neglected from 
 under his broad-brimmed, country-farmer hat, 
 Daniel Nowlan went into many public houses, 
 asking vague and abrupt questions about his 
 children, which some answered with concern, 
 some with indifference, some with ridicule, and 
 all without satisfaction to hira. Wherever he 
 met a soldier in the street, to him he particular- 
 ly and most earnestly directed his enquiries ; 
 still uselessly, however : until, after walking a 
 good way down Thomas street, two others.
 
 328 THE NOWLAXS. 
 
 whonij as they stood talking on the flag-way, he 
 suddenly addressed, seemed peculiarly moved 
 by his questions. 
 
 But as we now turn upon the pivot of our 
 history, it will be needful, with the reader's in- 
 dulgence, to preface the interview between Da- 
 niel Nowlan and these two soldiers, with some 
 conversation that passed between themselves be- 
 fore he came vip. 
 
 They had accidentally met, in mutual agita- 
 tion, though of different kinds. One, who was 
 unarmed, almost ran along the street, his face 
 inflamed by half-suppressed rage, and his eyes 
 often cast behind, as if to note whether or no 
 he was pursued. The other also moved, in an 
 opposite direction, at a very quick pace, and 
 his features were also disturbed, but it would 
 seem rather with anxiety and terror tlian with 
 anger. So much were both absorbed, and so 
 rapid their motion, that they liad nearly jostled 
 against each other ere a recognition took place. 
 Then they stared for some seconds in silence, 
 like old friends met to enter upon a business 
 that must break their friendship for ever. 
 
 " I was looking for you, Frank," began the
 
 THE NOWLANS. 329 
 
 soldier whose feelings appeared to be those of 
 great anxiety. 
 
 " Hush r he was answered in a whisper, 
 " how often have you promised to sink that 
 name ?" 
 
 " Tell me in one word,*" continued his com- 
 rade, gasping — " what have you done with the 
 young woman given into your care at the Bar- 
 rack-gate this morning ? That you are the man 
 I have been informed, by the sentinel in whose 
 charge I left her."" 
 
 " Brought her where she wanted to go, to be 
 sure ; you '11 find her at the Brazen Head : 
 good-bye. I have some business in hand." 
 
 " Stop, Sir ; I don't believe your story." 
 
 " Indeed ? and why so ?" recovering his ha- 
 bitual self-possession. 
 
 " Did you know who she was ?" demanded 
 the other slowly, as he fixed a look on Frank. 
 
 " No ; how the devil could I ? — 'twas pitch- 
 dark, and her head so muffled up ; and I in no 
 humour for a frolic ; I know nothing at all 
 about her." 
 
 " I don""! believe you again, Sir." 
 
 *' You don't, don't you ? let me pass, I say."
 
 330 THE NOWLANS. 
 
 " A word first, listen well to me. When, 
 after nearly two years of suffering and sorrow, 
 I met you in the Indies, the very day you 
 took the king's bounty and entered the same 
 regiment with me, you told me this of home. 
 You said your uncle had turned you out for 
 marrying Peggy Nowlan ; that your father 
 would not receive you ; that Peggy herself 
 was unkind and ungrateful to you ; that you 
 had no means of earning a shilling for her or 
 yourself; that, in fact, you were starving ; that, 
 forced to the last resource, you enibaiked for 
 the chances of the patriotic struggle in South 
 America ; and failing in that, worked your way 
 to where I met you, and were then glad to en- 
 list as a private soldier." 
 
 " Ay ; well .?" 
 
 " Listen, I say. After leaving the young 
 woman at the Barrack-gate this morning, only 
 a few hours ago, do you know where I went, 
 and on what kind of duty .?" 
 
 " No; I had but just walked up to the gate, 
 returning from furlough, — was not in the bar- 
 racks when you were first called out, and, until 
 I went into town with the girl, heard nothing of 
 the matter."
 
 THE NOWLANS. 
 
 381 
 
 " Well ; so far I trust you. Did you see 
 your uncle on furlough, Frank, and throw your- 
 self on your knees to him, as you said you 
 would ? But, no matter for your answer. 
 Hear me on. Hear on Avhat duty I went out 
 of Dublin, with the Serjeant's guard, this morn- 
 ing. We went, led by a peace-officer, and that 
 very uncle, Frank." 
 
 " Damnation !" interrupted the hearer, 
 thrown off his guard, and starting back. 
 
 " By that very uncle, to take into custody 
 two old friends of yours, in the lone house, 
 about fifteen miles from town." 
 
 " Whom do you mean ? Did you take 
 
 them ?" 
 
 " They are now in Kilmalnham jail, charg- 
 ed as accomplices before the fact in a rob- 
 bery at Long Hall, the night before the last ; 
 so that, while Maggy hes in Nenagh prison, 
 along with her two companions, on the spot, we 
 have here secured her wretched mother and 
 brother — ^" 
 
 " I thought as much, by ! I knew 
 
 when that scoundrel turned back, almost at 
 the first stage, it was to peach! — it's all out 
 now ! no use of bamming you any longer — help
 
 332 THE NOWLANS, 
 
 me to cut off, that 's all ; I 'in in your hands. 
 Tell me — has Studs blabbed of me to my 
 uncle ?" 
 
 " No. He declined at first to mention your 
 name, and this morning it was out of his power 
 to do so. Carey and her son had murdered 
 him." 
 
 " Say you so ? the best of their good deeds, 
 by ! They found out the villain's trea- 
 chery of course. AVhere did it happen .?" 
 
 " We found the body in a coal-hole in their 
 house." 
 
 " Well, good-b'ye, there 's but a run for it : 
 will my uncle prosecute me ?" 
 
 " Stop, I charge you again, but not on that 
 account. In the horror and revulsion of my 
 heart I leave you to your God for that : and 
 fear nothing from your uncle, he does not yet 
 know who the soldier is that Studs refused to 
 name. I alone, Frank, exclusive of your in- 
 fernal accomplices, guess you to be the man, 
 because I know you w^ent on furlough to the 
 country. And that brings me to my own 
 point — "" 
 
 " How did you hear all about the swag at 
 Long-Hall .?"
 
 THE NowLANS. 333 
 
 " From your uncle himself. When I went 
 back to my party, a few hours ago, I knew him 
 the moment I looked upon him ; and, having 
 taken an opportunity to say who I was, he told 
 me all the facts I have told you. He told me 
 more, Frank. He told me the real causes of 
 your sudden flight from Ireland, and about the 
 deceptive and shocking letter too, yet unex- 
 plained to him, which you wrote from London." 
 " There was no deception in that letter. I 
 wrote it a few days before the appointed day 
 when, according to the black-cap, I was to 
 swing; and, without my expecting it, — indeed, 
 without my caring, — a change of the sentence 
 into transportation for life, which they called a 
 merciful pardon, came to hand." 
 
 '* And — heavenly Judge of hearts !" exclaim- 
 ed his companion, much agitated, " from that 
 eventual sentence, which was indeed merciful, 
 you escaped, I suppose, to the place where I 
 met you abroad .''" 
 
 " The good preacher is shocked," sneered 
 Frank ; " why. Sir, having a wit to do it, would 
 you have me remain the wretch 1 was ?' 
 
 " Horrible !" clasping his hands, as he step- 
 ped back, " all this is more dreadful even than
 
 334 THE NOWLANS. 
 
 I had heard or thought. I had hoped that 
 letter was only a falsehood. I had hoped the 
 husband of Peggy Nowlan— " 
 
 " Pshaw, Sir, let me pass on, I say, or keep 
 me here if you like or dare ; for her sake, keep 
 me here : you see I have not a moment to lose ; 
 between Maggy, her mother, and brother, and 
 the two other bunglers, my name and identity 
 cannot remain unknown from my uncle and 
 the world, and, considering this, act as you 
 please." 
 
 " Even supposing your accomplices to be 
 silent, there is one man, who, the moment he sees 
 your uncle, from whom he is now separated by 
 chance, will make the discovery : he saw you 
 lurking about Long Hall for some days before 
 the attempted robbery." 
 
 " I guess the man ; his name is Conolly." 
 
 " It is. But I wish not, for all we have talk- 
 ed about, to be the person to ensure your fate 
 to you. I bid you stay only to satisfy me on 
 the first question I asked, and out of which our 
 talk has grown. When I told you I did not 
 believe your assertion of the young woman 
 you had in charge being unknown to you, I was 
 bound to show you why, by showing you that
 
 THE KOWLANS. 335 
 
 your uncle's account of your flight from Ireland 
 was different from your own, and that, by your 
 denberate falsehoods you had forfeited all claims 
 to my belief: additional reasons now appear 
 why I should doubt you. Yes, Frank ; you 
 knew who she was, although / sat by her side 
 in the post-chaise for an hour without guessing 
 the fact. You are not the man, supposing the 
 very halter round your neck, to walk side by 
 side with an innocent country girl, and not 
 gloat your vicious curiosity by a view of her 
 features, at the least. I beheve, that while na- 
 ture or habit has cursed you with a heart fit for 
 any act of crime, your loose love of women is, 
 perhaps, your master-passion. You knew her, 
 I say ; what have you done with her "i Recollect- 
 ing all the past, and my newly acquired know- 
 ledge of the things you can do, there is room, 
 Frank, for dreadful suspicions of the way in 
 which you may have disposed of her. Come 
 with me to the place where you say you left her." 
 
 " That I cannot do." 
 
 " You had better. The only, or the strongest 
 reason why I do not hold you here till the civil 
 officers come up, is on her account ; but on her 
 account also, — and, oh God ! perhaps in a more
 
 336 
 
 THE NOWLANS. 
 
 serious sense ! I must detain you until — Eternal 
 Providence P' — the speaker interrupted himself, 
 and catching Frank"'s arm, stared up the street, 
 as if a spectre approached him. 
 
 " What's the matter now ? why do you turn 
 white and shake so ? Let go my arm." 
 
 " Look look, Frank Adams — my father!" 
 
 Daniel Nowlan, indeed, at that moment came 
 up. 
 
 " Let us pass him, or turn off — come — I was 
 not prepared for this, so soon — I cannot face the 
 old man now ; turn back with me." 
 
 But the afflicted father did not allow them 
 time to walk awa}'. 
 
 " I ask pardon, gentlemen," he said, in a 
 hoarse, exhausted voice, " a thousand pardons," 
 getting before them and confronting them, 
 " but I am looking for my child." 
 
 " Sir ?" interrupted John Nowlan, meaning 
 to affect a tone of indifference, while his pale 
 features, and particularly his m.outh, worked 
 with a cljoking emotion. 
 
 " I meant no offence, gentlemen, and I'm 
 
 sorry ," pulling off, in the weakness of his 
 
 mind and bod}^, his broad-brimmed hat. 
 
 " Put it on, Sir ! put it on ! it is not to us,
 
 THE XOWLANS. 337 
 
 or such as us, your grey hairs should be expos- 
 ed," again interrupted John. 
 
 '* Thanks, Sir," bowing repeatedly, " many, 
 many thanks : I see you pity me, and, God 
 knows, I want it ; for the ould heart in my 
 body within is a'most broke, at last ; — oh, gen- 
 tlemen, you're sodgers, and you ought to have 
 a mind to help the wake an' the disthressed : an' 
 indeed, indeed, I'm wake an' disthressed." 
 
 " How 's that. Sir ? Is it poverty ? you do 
 not seem a poor man." 
 
 " Of this world's wealth I have enough ; of 
 its joys, too, God blessed me with an arly store ; 
 but as arly — welcome be the will o' the Lord — 
 began to take from it. I had a son, Sir, an 
 
 only son but no rnatther, that's not it; an' 
 
 I 'm botherin' you, as I see by your looks. My 
 present business in Dublin is this : — I came here 
 to look afther that son, now not seen this many 
 a long day : I tuck the sickness ; it a'most 
 brought me to death's dour : my family knew 
 nothing of it till a few days agone ; then, Sir, 
 my daughther Peggy left home to see afther 
 me, but is now in Dublin, an' never came next 
 or near me, an' we can't make her off. It's said 
 she was last seen wid a sodger. Sir, an' that 's 
 
 VOL. II. Q,
 
 338 THE XOWLAKS. 
 
 why I make bould to come foment you ; an' 
 more, agin " 
 
 " Has she not yet called at the place you 
 stopped, Su' ?" interrupted John. 
 
 " Avoch, Sir, no ; never a call."''' 
 
 " You see, Frank,"" speaking aside to him, 
 " here is proof of m^^ suspicion ; so now, at 
 least, account to me for my sister." 
 
 " Don't, gentlemen, don't lave me yet," 
 resumed the old man, following them ; " I was 
 a-goln'' to tell you more o' my th rials ; — an' here 
 they are. The night after Peggy left the poor 
 cabin, sure it was robbed an' spoiled of all the 
 money in it; an'—och, sad is my heart to say 
 it ! — robbed of my other poor child, at the 
 same time " 
 
 " God of heaven ! — what 's that you say, 
 Sir r 
 
 " Kind gentleman," continued Daniel Nowlan, 
 while he clasped his hands, cried like a child, 
 and shook all over — "it's the thruth I'm tellin' 
 you — the man that took my goold took my 
 darlin' Anty, too : an' some that are as bad as 
 he, an' that went down to the poor counthry 
 vnd him on another robbery, it seems, — why, 
 them people say that he was dhressed like one
 
 THE NOWLANS. 339 
 
 o' ye, gentlemen, a sodger like — but I mane no 
 offence again — an' I ax pardon again ; for it 's 
 sure I am he was no sodger, nor no tlirue man 
 neither to do what he done." 
 
 After a moment's pause, during which he 
 made a great effort to keep in his rising passion, 
 John Nowlan again took Frank aside. " I al- 
 ways hoped, Frank," he began, in a conciliating 
 tone, " and I try to hope still, that you were 
 and are a fair fellow on some points: I think, 
 at least, that you will not continue the misery 
 you see before you, and of which you have been 
 the cause:— where are my sisters .^ where, in 
 particular, is poor little Anty .?" 
 
 " By Heaven, I know nothing of either." 
 " Don't outface me, Frank. This is a des- 
 perate case. Don't make me as desperate." 
 
 " Gentlemen,"" resumed Daniel Nowlan, a 
 second time breaking in on their private dis- 
 course, " maybe, it 's talkin' about it to thry 
 an' help me ye are ; an' so I ought to tell ye a 
 word more. Afther Anty left home, she was 
 seen along wid Peggy, however they came to- 
 gether, near the gate of Richmond barracks, 
 an' they say the two girls went off, arm in arm, 
 wid the sodger I first spoke to ye about."
 
 340 THE XOWLAXS. 
 
 " Well,'' resumed John, in a whisper, " I do 
 not pretend to understand all jour ways, or all 
 that has happened, Frank ; but, by this last 
 account, botli my sisters are traced into your 
 hands : what have you done with them ? Come, 
 man, I do not believe you are so bad as to turn 
 the deaf ear to my question : we have been 
 comrades, Frank, in toil and danger — we have 
 been friends, brothers — " wringing his hand 
 hard, while his voice failed and the tears flow- 
 ed — " where are they ?*" 
 
 " I will answer you truly, on my life and 
 soul. When I brought them into a house — " 
 
 " A house r — but go on.'"" 
 
 " A ruffianly country fellow forced them from 
 me, and I have not heard of them since." 
 
 " Take care, Frank, I say again. In this 
 matter you see, if shame or ruin in any shape 
 has come upon them, I am a party to it. So 
 come, where are they ?''"' 
 
 " I have already answered.'' 
 
 " jVIonster ! where are they .?" collaring him, 
 and speaking in the loudest tone, while old 
 Daniel Nowlan now began to look on John in 
 some misgiving : " where is your first victim, 
 poor Peggy ? and where is the other innocent
 
 THE NOWLANS. 341 
 
 girl ? where are my sisters ? tell me now, man I 
 the truth in one word !" 
 
 " Wiio calls them his sisters ?" asked Daniel, 
 as he stood trembling with clasped hands, and 
 gazing, through tears, into John's face ; " the 
 Lord be praised for all his wondhers and bles- 
 sins'! praise be to God ! Is it their brother and 
 my poor lost boy, John Nowlan ?"" 
 
 " Father, it is !" turning to him, as he still 
 held Frank — " the wretched outcast, John Now- 
 lan, who is at last punished in a ten-fold curse 
 for all his doings ! I dare not kneel down to 
 you yet, father, — though I will, — I dare not yet 
 ask you to forgive me; something is to go 
 before that—" 
 
 The old man, rendered almost insensible by 
 his weakness and many sudden emotions, took 
 off his hat, dropped, half stupified, on his knees 
 in the street, and with extended arms and pallid 
 lips, continued to mutter, " Praise be to God ! 
 the Lord be praised for all things !" A crowd 
 began to stop and gather round. 
 
 " Deceitful, treacherous, and lying villain !" 
 pursued John to Frank, " keep me no longer 
 in this doubt ! give me up this old man's 
 daughters ! Do they yet live for his grey hairs.
 
 342 THE NOWLAXS. 
 
 or live worthy of them ? Answer me ! Dare not 
 repeat a word of your lying story ! this moment 
 lead me to them ! this moment ! or if you do 
 not, or if they are not forthcoming, or if tliere 
 has fallen upon that innocent child one spot, 
 one stain, though no more than the touch of 
 one vile finger, by Plim that is to judge between 
 us, I will wrench you limb from limb, joint 
 from joint !" 
 
 " Let me go ! I say, I have answered you." 
 " Liar and ruffian !" drawing his bayonet. 
 " John ! John Nowlan, a-vich !" here cried 
 his father, moving on his knees, and encircling 
 those of his son with his arms : " John, ma- 
 bouchal, never mind him a-while, but turn to 
 the poor father ; give me your two hands, and 
 let me kiss your lips, John Nowdan, my son, 
 my own an' only boy !" 
 
 He clasped John's knees close. The sinner 
 uttered a heart-rending cry, and only pausing 
 to dart his bayonet into' its sheath, and to say 
 to the by-standers " Secure him ! he is a rob- 
 ber ! a murderer ! all that is bad V disengaged 
 his father's arms, lifted him up, received his 
 embrace, and then flung himself lowly and in 
 great agony at his feet.
 
 THE NOWLANS. 343 
 
 In turn, the old man instantly strove to raise 
 him ; some of the spectators assisted him, for 
 he was badly able himself; and again they were 
 locked in each other's arms. 
 
 " Don't cry, a-cuishla, don't, don't, it '11 all 
 pass by, an' we '11 live to see it ; we '11 buy you 
 out from among the sodgers, an' the Father in 
 heaven 'ill forgive you as I do, for my sake 
 an' my prayers, an' for all our sakes ; an' when 
 Peggy an' Anty is found, an' brought home 
 again — " 
 
 John's attention was here diverted by Frank's 
 voice, and his struggles to escape. He darted 
 upon him like a tiger. 
 
 " Keep him fast !" he cried. 
 
 " You needn't tell us to do that," said a man 
 in a strong English accent ; " he is now my 
 prisoner ; I have been looking him up some 
 time, and have just arrested him on a warrant 
 from a London office, for getting tired of Van's 
 Land before his time ; but, whatever is your 
 concern with the youth, you can attend him to 
 the next of your own police-offices at hand." 
 
 " Yes, that is the only way left ; and now 
 the loss of a second's time is a sin against 
 Heaven. Come, man, no resisting ! one struggle.
 
 344 THE NOWLANS. 
 
 one word, and I '11 stab you to the heart ! come 
 and show mc that, through you, I have not 
 shamed, hideously shamed, or murdered my 
 own sisters, the children of my own motlier ! 
 and that the curse of father, mother, and sisters 
 — of man and nature — is not, along with every 
 thing else, fallen upon my head ! — Come, Sir,'' 
 turning to his father, while he held Frank hard ; 
 and Daniel Nowlan, and a commiserating or 
 wondering crowd, accordingly followed him, 
 Frank, and the London officer.
 
 THE NOWLAKS. 345 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 In the kind of place to which they has- 
 tened, we are induced to anticipate their pro- 
 bable arrival, by raising the curtain of our 
 last act upon other individuals of our history, 
 about whom, we respectfully hope, our kind 
 readers are, conjointly with them and us, much 
 intei'ested. 
 
 The scene is, indeed, a police-office, to be 
 found on a certain quay of that city of quays, 
 Dublin. Upon the bench, or rather behind the 
 counter, is seated, or rather stands, a learned, 
 amiable, but somewhat deaf old gentleman, 
 whose early profession of barrister was not so 
 all-engrossing as to hinder him, about the me- 
 ridian of life, from accepting the at least cer- 
 tain and most useful appointment of police 
 magistrate. By his side are his clerk, and 
 occasionally one or two confidential officers. 
 
 Q 5
 
 346 THE NOWLANS. 
 
 Before him a crowd of watchmen, " constables 
 of the watch,"" and the jumbled and curious 
 street-sweepings of the last night, all awaiting 
 either to make charges or to meet them as they 
 can ; but immediately at the side of the coun- 
 ter, fronting the worthy magistrate, we recog- 
 nize two acquaintances, Peery Conolly and 
 Molly Houlihan, and by their sides, Anty Now- 
 lan, sitting in a very weak state upon a chair 
 kindly provided for her, and Peggy Nowlan, 
 standing over her and holding her hand. 
 
 At the moment when we look in, Peery and 
 Molly are, with great energy, alternately ad- 
 dressing the bench. 
 
 "Yes, your reverance,"" says Peery. 
 
 " Whisht, Peery, he's no reverance ; he axes 
 pardon, my lard ; he 's a gawk from the coun- 
 thry ; yes, my lard." 
 
 " Yes, to what ?" demanded the magistrate, 
 who, by holding his hand scoop-wise to his 
 ear, required no interpreter to hear the loud 
 tones in which he was addressed : " yes, to 
 what, good people ? Pray listen a moment." 
 
 "Oh, by all manes, your honour," assented 
 Peery.
 
 THE XOWLANS. " 347 
 
 " Spake your mind out, my lard/' added 
 Molly, both in a patronizing tone. 
 
 " Thank you. I wish, then, to see if I com- 
 prehend you. You were at last conveying the 
 young woman to your lodgings, you say, 
 and—" 
 
 " Yes, plase your lardship," taking up 
 Molly's version of the title, " an' that's what riz 
 the whole o' the last scrimmage on us,"" inter- 
 rupted Peery. 
 
 " The what r 
 
 ''He's only a simple-tongued gor^oon, just 
 cum up, my lard; he manes the 'ruction, like." 
 
 " And what does the 'ruction mean .?" 
 
 " Lard save us, sure every christhen-sowl on 
 Ireland's ground knows that — the fight, my 
 lard." 
 
 " Yes — that's it ; — yes, your honour," pleaded 
 Peery; " Molly wasjist for gittin' 'em down the 
 steps o' the cellar, when, up comes Misther 
 Sodger again wid his faction, — ' An' now, you 
 baste,' says he to myself, ' I 'U have your Irish 
 life, so I will.' — ' Will you ?' says I— an' I up 
 to him wid the sprong to the end o' the stick." 
 
 " What do you call the sprong ?"
 
 348 THE NOWLAKS. 
 
 " Hould your whisht, I tell you, Peery, an'' 
 let me discoorse his lardship ; — ^jist on the 
 turn o' the stairs, my lard — " 
 
 " No, Molly, you're wrong all over ; you war 
 on the flure, when it happened — " 
 
 " Musha, Peery, no — ; see, my lard — " 
 " I hear a great many strange words, but I 
 can see nothing : stand back ; and you, my 
 good girl — the elder girl, I mean— pray relate 
 this last part of the case, as briefly as possible.'' 
 " I will tell you. Sir, if I am able." 
 " Take time ; do not distress yourself." 
 " Thank 'ee, Sir. Before we got to this good 
 woman's place, we saw Peery Conolly running 
 towards us, and the soldier and his friends 
 following him. Hurrying down the cellar, she 
 and me, with my little sister between us, I 
 heard angry words above, where Peery stood to 
 bear the brunt, and a noise of such things as 
 that," pointing to Peery's bayonet, which, 
 mounted upon his cudgel, he stoutly shoulder- 
 ed—" I knew they were pressing him too hard ; 
 I screamed and ran up ; other good people came 
 by, and the soldier and his faction ran away." 
 
 "Every word of id, jist as id turned out," 
 said the hero of the tale.
 
 THE NOWLAXS. 349 
 
 " As pat as A. B. C." assented Molly, slap- 
 ping one palm upon the other. 
 
 " Silence !" cried the magistrate, who, though 
 deaf, was inconvenienced by the smack :— " did 
 you then remain in her lodging ?" 
 
 " May all good be multiplied ten-fold to her 
 and hers, Sir ! — I did ; at first, to tell the truth, 
 in doubts of her, the place was so poor and 
 mean ; but she undeceived me well, by the 
 comfort she afforded to my sister and me."" 
 
 " An' Peery, over head, in the sthreet, wid 
 the bagnet on liis shouldher, your lardship," 
 added Molly. 
 
 " Your business here, then, is to prosecute 
 the persons who have insulted you ?"' 
 
 " No, Sir ; we forgive them, and hope they 
 may be forgiven.'' 
 
 "No, my lard," said Peery; "the meeioch' 
 'ill come on 'em soon enough, widout our help- 
 in' id ; maybe we'd do a thing to 'em wid- our 
 sticks," throwing himself into position, gently 
 flourishing the cudgel, and smiling confidently 
 on the magistrate — " when thrashin' 'ud be good 
 for 'em ; but that 's no raison we 'd turn infor- 
 mers; they shan't have that to throw in our 
 teeth, when we get home to Tipperary." And
 
 350 THE XOWLANS. 
 
 Peery drew up, full of indignation that it 
 should be supposed he would put his greatest 
 foe into the fangs of the law. 
 
 " It has been mentioned to me that you came 
 to Dublin to seek your father — perhaps you 
 wish this office to assist you ?" 
 
 " Oh, Sir V — Peggy could get no farther. 
 
 " Avoch, no, Sir ; too late for that," said Peery. 
 
 " Then what do you all want .'*" 
 
 " I ask your pardon. Sir," resumed Peggy, 
 trying to check her tears ; — " I 'II try to tell 
 you about it. This poor faithful boy went at my 
 request to seek my father at the place where 
 we knew he slept, and came back with word that 
 a few moments before he had gone away in a 
 carriage with another person, we didn't know- 
 where ; home, we think and hope ; and so, Sir, 
 as I lost all my money on the road, and my sis- 
 ter lost all her's in that wicked house — and as 
 we are quite strangers in Dublin, we came 
 here — indeed this charitable woman brought us 
 here — to ask— oh, Anty, Anty !"' — interrupting 
 herself, and overcome by a sense of her forlorn 
 situation, she fell on her sister''s neck. 
 
 " Arrah, look at 'em," blubbered Peery, " an' 
 your lardship sees how it is wid the-cratures ;
 
 THE NOWLANS. 351 
 
 that's the up an' down iv id ; they have nothin' 
 more to do in Dubhn town ; an' we want to 
 send 'em home again, safe an' sound. The Httle 
 Molly an' I had was at their sarvice, only they 
 wouldn't hear of that ; and there's a great gin- 
 tleman, a friend o' m}^ own, in the town, or 
 nigh-hand to it, that 'ud give them or me a 
 help, only myself doesn't know where to face 
 to look for him, now that we 're onct asundher ; 
 so here we up and we come to beg a bit for 'era ; 
 an' if your reverance 'ud jist bid the dhriver 
 give 'em a lift on the sate, for nothing but out 
 iv love or pity, like " 
 
 " Do, my lard, an' may you have a long life, 
 a good death, an' a favourable judgment !" in- 
 terrupted Molly, while tears ran down her harsh 
 man's face. 
 
 " 'Tis a sad story enough ; yet there are so 
 many impositions — in fact, if the young women 
 can get any one to give them a character " 
 
 " Och, I '11 go bail for 'em," cried Molly. 
 
 " And who are you, pray ?''"' 
 
 " I 'm a basket, my lard," dropping a curtsey. 
 
 " A basket !" 
 
 " Yes, my lard ; to a Misthess Taffey." 
 
 " She manes that she stops wid a Misthess
 
 352 
 
 THE NOWLANS. 
 
 TafFey, your lardship, a snug woman, in Pill- 
 lane ; and Molly is a gossip o' my own ; an' 
 I '11 go bail for her, and for them too, along wid 
 her." 
 
 " And who are you, too ?" 
 
 " Peery Conoliy, my lard," judiciously inter- 
 rupted Molly, as Peery 's stick, bayonet and all, 
 began to describe some flourishes round his head, 
 and his nether limbs to shuffle ; both movements 
 ominous of the usual rhyming answer, in his 
 usual way — " Peery Conoliy, a dacent father's 
 and mother's child, though I say it." 
 
 " Deserted from Captain Rock, I presume." 
 
 " No, in throth, then, your honour," replied 
 Peery, at once changing into a dry, simple sub- 
 tlety of voice, face and manner; — ''I'll never 
 deny there was a thrifle o' that same goin' on in 
 the place ; but myself never loved nor liked 
 their night- walkin', from a boy up ; and sure 
 they war for swarin' me ; an' when I wouldn't, 
 an' for fear they'd be angry, faith I cums away 
 from them all to where's there's pace an' quiet- 
 ness; so there's the holy and blessed thruth, 
 your honour, since your honour put us on 
 sayin' id." 
 
 " Well, we shall not question your loyalty.
 
 THE NOWLANS. 353 
 
 though we may take that freedom with your sim- 
 phcity ; and, on reflection, your respectable 
 bail will do. Here," to an officer, " hold this 
 money, and see the poor girls safe out of town." 
 " Glory to you I" screamed Molly. 
 " Long may you reign !" chimed Peery ; ''an' 
 come now, a-vourneens ; we '11 have you safe 
 back, any how — Murther ! — an interruption," as 
 he glanced to the door, " murther in Irish ! 
 stand out o' the way, there ! hurroo !"" 
 
 With one of his hop-step-and-jumps, Peery 
 hurled himself through the people between him 
 and the door, and instantly re-entered, prancing 
 and capering rovmd Daniel Nowlan, and making 
 the peaceful office ring to his egotistical song, 
 which the officers in vain tried to quell. 
 
 " Do you know who brought you a bit of the 
 road in the shay, this morning, Peggy, a corra- 
 ma-chree ?'"" asked the old man, smiling through 
 his tears, after long embraces had been inter- 
 changed between him and his daughters. 
 
 She was about to answer, when another bound 
 and another cry from Peery, and the question 
 of — " What brings any thievin"' sodger here .?'' 
 again diverted her attention to tlie door ; and', 
 looking up, John Nowlan appeared leaning
 
 354 THE NOWLANS. 
 
 against the jamb, pale, trembling, and, his 
 eyes fixed on his sisters, gasping with smothered 
 emotion. At first they did not know him ; and 
 there was a pause, during which Peery added, 
 "Where's the sprong ?" and approached the sup- 
 posed intruder. 
 
 " Softly, man, softly," whispered John, beck- 
 oning him ; " come here, let me hold you ; I can 
 hardly stand ; I am their brother, John Nowlan.**' 
 " Och, mille murthers ! here, lane your best 
 on me, poor boy ! poor priest John !" 
 
 " They will not know me — do you think they 
 will ?" 
 
 Peggy had been slowly advancing, her eyes 
 distended and fixed on him ; her face set ; he 
 breathed hard ; his surprise and agony were 
 declared in broken and wheezing sounds that 
 " stuck i"* the throat :" she came nearer; he ex- 
 tended his arms ; she fell in them with a joyful 
 scream. 
 
 " That's your brother John, Anty," resumed 
 old Daniel, as Anty looked and wondered. 
 
 "That man. Sir! oh, it must be true, for Peggy 
 clings close to him, and you know him too. Sir; 
 but, dear father, you do not know the great re-
 
 THE NOWLAKS. 355 
 
 lief this gives me ; another time you shall. Now 
 must not I, also, embrace my poor brother ?" 
 
 The father led her to his arms. Another 
 yell burst from Peery : " Where 's the sprong 
 now, in arnest ?"" he cried out. In wonder, ter- 
 ror, and, from different reasons, common abhor- 
 rence, the two sisters clung to their brother, as 
 the miserable Frank passed to the counter, his 
 face haggard, his eyes staring, and his step 
 uneven. 
 
 John Nowlan, with permission of the magis- 
 trate, removed his father and sisters to a private 
 room, by which precaution they were saved from 
 witnessing the horrors that ensued. 
 
 The officer, in whose custody Frank had en- 
 tered, was about to lay his charges before the 
 magistrate, when the appearance of a third 
 party interrupted him; namely, Mr. Long, 
 and his civil authorities, with Maggy Nov.lan's 
 mother, Mrs. Carey, and her son Phil. When 
 Mr. Long beheld his nephew, horror seemed 
 to fix him to the spot ; nor did the poor 
 wretch himself remain unmoved. Peei'y Conol- 
 ly had sidled towards him, and addressed him 
 in a confidential whisper.
 
 856 THE NOWLANS. 
 
 " Why thin, tundcr-an'-turf ! what sort iv 
 an ownshuck was you, at-all-at-all, to walk in 
 here, of all places in the world wide ? I 
 didn't let out the laste word about you ; an"* if 
 you have as much gumption in your head as a 
 suckln' calf, you ""11 bid good-b'ye to 'em all 
 round, or not w^ait for that same, but run for 
 your life — The Lord o' Heaven save us!*" — sud- 
 deiily interrupting himself, and stepping back, 
 terrified at the expression of face with which 
 his advice was received. 
 
 The culprit first fixed his eyes on those of 
 the speaker with a deep, steady despair : his 
 manacled hands slightly moved under his watch- 
 coat ; and then his eye contracted ; every mus- 
 cle of his face and body winced, and he drew 
 in and bit his under lip, as if from a sud- 
 den sensitiveness of acute pain. Tiie next mo- 
 ment, his features again relaxed ; his eye began 
 to grow fixed and glassy ; he sw^ayed from side 
 to side, and would have fallen, but for the sup- 
 port of those near him. 
 
 As all looked on agliast, something dropped 
 at his feet. The officer stooped, and took it 
 up. It was a large clasp-knife, smeared with 
 blood ; and blood also trickled to the floor, as
 
 THE NOWLAKS. 357 
 
 his person bent forward. Disguising his mo- 
 tions, beneath the loose watch-coat, he had, 
 while staring into Peery Conolly's face, stab- 
 bed himself to the core of the heart. 
 
 After a moment, he raised his drooping head, 
 and glared vacantly around, until his dulled 
 eye rested on his trembling uncle : " All I 
 could do for you, Sir," he gasped out, smiling 
 hideously, " was this — it saves me from the 
 hangman's hands." 
 
 He again fell forward. He was borne out ; 
 but, before he reached a neighbouring hosjn- 
 tal, was a corpse. 
 
 When the confusion occasioned by this sud- 
 den catastrophe had somewhat subsided, Mr. 
 Long, though shaken in his very soul, was ob- 
 liged to proceed in his charges against Mrs. 
 Carey and her son. The young murderer 
 shivered with despair under the anticipation of 
 his fate ; but liis mother showed no emotion. 
 Her clothes torn, and her hair dishevelled, she 
 stood, with folded arms, upright and passive as 
 a statue ; and her large and once beautiful 
 black eye, full of the hyena character, that for 
 many years had belonged to it, was fixed, un- 
 winkingly, now on her accusers, now on the
 
 358 THE NOWLANS. 
 
 magistrate. She did not frown, but her calm, 
 savage glare was appalling 
 
 " Wretched woman," said the magistrate, 
 '' do you not tremble ?" 
 
 " Find that out by your larnin'," folding her 
 arms harder; "or, here" — suddenly catching 
 the hand of a near officer, and pressing his fin- 
 gers upon her pulse ; " does yours bate fuller 
 or evener ?"" And when the man turned away 
 in disgust, he related that the throb was steady 
 and regular as that of innocence at rest. 
 
 Mr. Long, his sad and stern task over, 
 sought the room whither John Nowlan had 
 conveyed the old man and his sisters. David 
 Shearman was now added to their circle. All 
 left Dublin together. 
 
 " Dear Barnes, 
 " It was about a month after this day that, 
 in my wanderings among the black Tipperary 
 hills, I became acquainted with the Nowlans, 
 and learned their history. John Nowlan was 
 then suffering under the relapse of a fever, 
 which, accompanied by racking pains in his 
 Ijones, had seized him the day he crossed his 
 father's threshold. When, about nine months 
 after, I paid the family another visit, I found
 
 THE NOV/LANS. 359 
 
 him restored to health, and, in a degree, to his 
 peace of mind ; once more engaged in studious 
 pursuits, and once more habited in black. His 
 misfortunes and experience had thrown a quiet 
 sadness over him : and the humility of sin ac- 
 knowledged and repented, stamped every fea- 
 ture of his face, and characterized his every 
 look, tone, and motion. He told me he en- 
 tertained hopes that he would soon be able to 
 soothe his recollections of early crime and sorrow 
 by the discharge of the duties of that sacred 
 profession, to which, under the direction of Mr. 
 Kennedy and his bishop, he was again permit- 
 ted to look forward. 
 
 " Before I left Daniel Nowlan"'s truly hospita- 
 ble roof, on this, my second visit, I had the plea- 
 sure of being bridesman to David Shearman, 
 upon the auspicious night of his marriage with 
 my gentle favourite, Peggy. She was married by 
 Mr. Kennedy : Friar Shanaghan, after an ex- 
 cellent day's ' cjuest,'' handing round the bride- 
 cake for his secular brother ; and Mr. Long, 
 at his own anxious request, gave her away. 
 It was as merry a night as ever I pass- 
 ed. What with good cheer, dancing, and 
 unlimited mirth on every hand, I was in such 
 riotous spirits, that I whispered at Anty's ear
 
 360 THE NOWLANS. 
 
 my liope of a speedy opportunity of dancing 
 at her wedding, also. The little rogue told 
 me, archly enough, ' it was a great shame, 
 so it was, to be putting such quare things into 
 a child's head T but, when, by some pleasant 
 reasoning, I had led her to believe the contrary, 
 she engaged me at once to look out for her ; 
 adding, ' that if I didn"'t bring her one that 
 was too little, or one that was too big, or one 
 that was too old, or one that was too ugly, I 
 would not find her very hard to be pleased.' 
 We proceeded in much question and answer, 
 as to the precise kind of man she might really 
 prefer, and I found her, as yet, undetermined. 
 She did, indeed, with more of archness than I 
 suspected her for, give myself some hard knocks, 
 by way of jocular hints: in fact, Barnes, I will 
 talk with you upon this subject, as I consider 
 you a person of more experience in such mat- 
 ters than I am. 
 
 " A. OIL" 
 
 KND OF VOL. II. 
 
 LONDON : 
 I'HINTEU BY S. AND R. BtNTLLV, DOSSET-SI R££T.
 
 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA, LOS ANGELES 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY LIBRARY 
 
 This book is DUE on the last date stamped below 
 
 MAR id? 1^53 
 
 6& 
 
 |i^R\8W'^ 
 
 Form L-0 
 
 23m -10. "14(2401) 
 
 THE L1I5RAJIY 
 
 UNlVERSii V Of CALIFORNIA! 
 
 IjOS ANGELES
 
 UC SOUTHERN REGIONAL LIBRARY FACILITY 
 
 AA 000 364 765 8
 
 I',.-',